Miserable Eyes In the Democratic Republic of Congo: Please Read This, Congressman Murtha

There is reward in the sight of a few bushbuck, baboons, warthog, and later on, twelve elephants (there should be at least 300 in this area). This could be attributed to the proximity of the guard post. Some of the animals have learned to adapt. Things fall apart about two km from our goal. Our ICCN ranger guard shouts for the driver to stop. He has spotted three figures running toward us, and steps in front of our vehicle, rifle ready. What I see are three terrified guys carrying hoes, not guns. “Guard,” as I call him, remained restrained and questioned the men. They are shouting. What? There are a few very distant rifle shots. The Mai Mai are in a gun battle in the fishing village, probably with FARDC forces. There is no way to be certain, but I hope that they are shooting at the twenty-five remaining hippos and not villagers.

The Congolese driver, and to a certain extent, my “conservationist” guide went into flight and fright mode. The ICCN guard remained calm. The driver was in total panic mode, spinning the vehicle into reverse and almost crushing one of the villagers in the process. “Guard” jumps in next to me. I am shouting “pole pole”—“slowly slowly”—but the driver does not hear a word I am saying. I do not feel particularly naïve or stupid since I have heard more than my share of gunfire a lot closer to home during Minnesota’s hunting season. My mind is running the math that the shots are 2km away, and we can se clearly across the grassy plain in all directions. The Mai Mai are on foot. They cannot possibly outrun the land rover. I suggest that we give the terrified villagers a lift until they calm down. I am over-ruled—the rationale being that “we don’t know who they are.” Well, I am thinking we have a fully automatic weapon and they have hoes, but since I am a dumb Minnesota farm girl I have no say. Not even a vote. My suggestion is carried away on the downdraft of mountain winds that are a precursor to the storm clouds gathering overhead and within our group. The driver floors it and almost tips us in the process. I decide I am more afraid of him that I am of the Mai Mai. My last view of the villagers was terrified eyes in the dust. We have committed our own little atrocity and I was powerless to stop it.

I chide the “conservationist”: What are the Mai Mai going to do, shoot the Muzunga and eat her?” I don’t receive the answer I am expecting.

“They are cannibals.”

Great, the myth of the Mai Mai grows. “Do you have proof of this?”

“Oh there is proof all right, up in Ituru. The farmers have proof.”

I never get a clear answer about this “proof,” but alleged cannibalism is definitely NOT on my agenda, so I let it drop. Inside, I am seething. We had an opportunity that was squandered. These villagers were probably hungry and as a result, probably involved in poaching. To get a lift from the environmental ranger (our ICCN guard) would have gone a long way towards building a tiny bridge into the village. These are his people. I sensed Guard was willing, but his British Muzungu boss said no to the ride. This encounter was a microcosm of the great societal rift in DRC.

Some environmentalists are fighting for wildlife, while ignoring the humanitarian crisis that is the real cannibal–swallowing what is left of human decency. Add to this to a lawless society loosely run by an under trained, underpaid, competing alphabet soup of militia groups and local police. Whoever has the biggest gun wins. Simple. The Mai Mai stay in business because men cover their fear by making the “enemy” larger than life. Myths of cannibalism and child soldiers protected by witchcraft are powerful fears. Meanwhile, the women tend to the fields and the animals, while the men and boys, rape, kill, burn, poach and pillage.

I am not ignoring the hard truth that 4 million have died in Africa’s World War. The roots go back to colonialism, but it is time for everyone—that means US, USA– to step out of the past and determine the future. When humanity runs down the road towards us, will we spin our wheels and run the other way—leaving them with eyes wide open and staring as we leave them in the dust? Will we dig ourselves into an even deeper rut with fraudulent foreign aid programs that show our “humanity” while we are responsible for hundreds of thousands dead and dying in the oil fields of the Middle East? The cost of the Iraq war, properly applied, could rebuild this Africa, and the money squandered could fix out veterans hospital programs here at home.

Leaving stories of conservation-funded militias behind, the next mess is the disposition of USAID funding for "landscape" projects.

The litany present on my pilfered video record was given to U.S. authorities upon my return. It was reconstructed from still photos that were overlooked. The ten hours of video would be unimpeachable evidence of what the Congolese had to say about our programs. The following is a list of what was observed and what was said on the tapes. What was most interesting was that the "university" is located a days walk from Lubero, literally in the middle of nowhere, instead of near a population center. Upper class Congolese view this “university” as the laughing stock of the community. “You Americans come over here and throw away money like it is paper,” one Congolese told me.

"What will you do to help us?" the Congolese pleaded. All I could do was promise that I would get the videotapes to my elected officials--an empty promise.

The situation at the "American University" confirmed stories of fiscal irresponsibility and more. Teachers have been working without pay for the last five months. One professor said that his children, who live in another village, have not been able to go to school and that his family was running out of resources because there was no income. When asked why he wanted to stay, he said that he "had hope" that the school would get funding again. Responding to a follow-up question about his living conditions, he said it gets very cold at night, but that he "was getting used to it." A visit to the teacher's living quarters is recorded in still photos. It is no wonder he was cold at night, since there was no ceiling or decking and the wind could enter his tiny room from either end of the building. In addition, the academic director lives in a green tent made of tarp. When asked why he stayed, he replied that he "had no choice." Hope was not part of the equation for this highly educated scientist.


Professor's Sleeping Area

Buildings are unfinished; piles of bricks made by the "orphans" and villagers have weeds covering them. The villagers signed over their land with the hope that they would have an infrastructure, a real community center. What remains is the ruins of their hope. Piles of stones that villagers brought to the site were covered in mud that had washed down the rainy slopes.

A visit to the girl's dormitory was heartbreaking. The halls reek from poorly constructed latrines, the corridor is black as night in midday, the roof leaks, and it costs $110 a year ($98 a year is the average income) for the "privilege" of living in a slum. Covered with inches of dust, uninstalled toilets are piled next to latrines that overflow into the hallway.

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