The Goma International Film Festival—war zone vogue

If someone were to tell you that a city was the worst in the world you could either be horrified or fascinated by it. Some people spend time compiling such lists—generally as part of a corporate HR exercise to determine living costs and hardship posts for executives abroad. I used to pay attention to these lists because it seemed I often ended up traveling to those places. They were never as bad as they sounded and I still think of them as great cities where I met remarkable people, their edginess even a drug in itself. No matter where you are life will go on, there will be creativity and beauty, people will aspire to and enjoy all the same touch points of the human experience, will have most of the same reference points and be linked-in with what is happening in the rest of the world, be it music, politics or movies. The Congolese demonstrate this point, being far more sophisticated and resourceful than the chaos of the country implies. That is apparent here in Goma, the provincial capital of a zone of conflict, the epicentre of a 16 year war without end.

That sounds pretty dramatic—a war without end. And there can be no doubt of the hardships people have had to endure: blood diamonds and conflict minerals, corruption, misrule and state collapse, violence and instability, armed groups, banditry and pillage, sexual violence against women—a plague here on a scale that makes it the rape capital of the world—genocide and attempted genocide, murders and mutilation, 5m deaths, greatest conflict since WWII. It goes on. Those are spectacular headlines, their mind boggling dimension seeming to diminish them in the human imagination. Stalin said—famously, and characteristically—”the death of one man is a tragedy. The death of a million is a statistic”.

Behind these headlines lives continue, the human spirit is an indomitable thing and the conflict is back ground, something to be endured. Locals are not indifferent to this news but they do not stop their lives and live in despair either. The Congolese are a remarkable people, almost fortified by adversity—perhaps like many that have forged identity and found common spirit in time of conflict, from Londoners during the Blitz to the French Revolution.

There is far more joy than suffering apparent in Goma and no shortage of intelligent well informed people, even pockets of urban funkiness and sophistication.

I am reminded of this while in the offices of the Goma International Film Festival. I am sitting opposite a young woman, a producer, wearing a cool t-shirt. Confident and capable, this is someone who would not be out of place on a film shoot in Toronto or Paris. The film festival is an annual event and was born under fire—its inaugural season took place three years ago while Goma was under threat of being over-run by a rebel general and his army, Laurent Nkunda, a blood drenched war lord if there ever was one. The organisers refused to cancel and carried on. The festival has grown since then, even become the kind of big event its organisers hoped and imagined.

Yole Africa! Is the name of the offices where I am sitting—sort of a cultural centre in Goma that is a focus for a small community of film makers and students, that teaches film classes, hosts pop concerts, makes films and does outreach work with local street kids, brings film students here from the US and elsewhere. Yole! Is the brain child of two Congolese brothers, Sekombi and Petna who have made films, worked locally and abroad—have been on the international film festival circuit, but still come home to Goma, the city that never says die.

Returning from the Yole! office through a deserted back street in Goma I’m interrupted from this positive reverie by a shout. I’m walking past a building site and a young man is running toward me with a raised machete.

“Hey muzungu! I could rob you right now and no one could do anything! Ha!”

I feel dumb-founded more than frightened by this and turn around and walk toward him. He’s still holding the raised machete, but I see a smile, and a few workers watching, which indicates this is more bravado and joke than threat.

I smile, tell him we are brothers and there is no need to rob or kill me, and when this produces no noticeable effect and he’s still holding the raised machete, I offer something else I am sure will.

“And Kibomango is my boxing teacher!”