Soldiers and policemen … can we blame them?

It seems that the “peace talks,” which everyone had hoped so highly for in early January and most, if not all parties exited about a month ago, have made no positive difference towards peace. In fact, quite the contrary could be argued.
When you hear of soldiers looting villages, murdering people, committing unthinkable crimes, instinct leans towards condemning them. A few nights ago, as I was continually awakened by the most terrifying thunder and lightning in the craziest storm I’ve experienced here so far, all I could think of was all my poor neighbors- who cannot sleep during storms because of their vulnerability to anyone forcing entry into their home and doing as they want, cries for help gone unheard and washed away by the torrential rains. The poor don’t sleep all night when it rains for fear of this possibility, their defenselessness as exposed as their front doors. I hurt for them and pray for them, thankful for my own safety, yet somewhat guilt-ridden that I have this privilege. I am also angered by those who would prey upon such weakness and poverty. However, while I am by no means condoning their despicable behavior, in the short weeks I have been here, I have been challenged to view reality from a different perspective.
A few weeks ago, we visited the military hospital in Goma in order to have a better idea of the status of the surrounding hospitals in our region. On the steep, bumpy drive there, we passed by a commune made up of sticks, tarps and tin- I was sure it was a refugee camp or the poorest slum in Goma. When I asked our coworker about it, his eyes pierced mine as he answered dryly that this was where the government’s soldiers live. He explained that they are usually never paid or occasionally, about $15 a month. They have no water, little or no food and are able to provide their family with no dignity to speak of. Stunned, and feeling quite naïve, I asked why anyone would remain a soldier in such conditions, or even seek such employment. He matter-of-factly stated that there simply are no other jobs available to them, and in this way, they at least have a weapon to protect themselves and their families with, in addition to the hospital’s services being available to them. Soldier compounds have the highest risk of cholera outbreaks, AIDs and other epidemics. You can hardly tell one abode from the next, and women cannot defend themselves or their children during the times when their husbands are gone. My heart was sorrowful as I contemplated what my life would be like if those were my options- no job and no means of protection, or a bad job with protection- a gun and army façades - and some basic healthcare.
The hospital itself was a few, long buildings, all spread out on a single level like HEAL Africa’s. Our coworker had apparently worked there in the past, as he eased our way through many guards and barriers to talk to the head administrator. After several questions, and some disapproving looks in response to the fact that I did not yet speak Swahili or French well enough to understand what was going on, the chief brushed his hand in a wave, giving us the go-ahead for the tour. Another soldier walked us around, showing us the dark rooms packed with patients, reeking of nothing associated with the word “hope.” We peered into the black hole called the operating room, where he stressed that they had not had electricity for days and it looked unlikely that they would get enough anytime soon. Patients wait for weeks at a time until conditions allow for surgeries to happen; this is the “basic healthcare” soldiers’ families are offered. A new job, anyone?