The land of plenty and those who are displaced where there is no justice

On July 12th, Ndungo with Choose Life, Dick with HEAL Africa US side, Likofata our new Public Health Director, Loren and Loran, two physical therapists, and I headed into Masisi territory, an area that has been closed off for so many months. Due to the war and ethnic imbalances, we were forced to terminate a child sponsorship program in the region after having no knowledge of the status for over four months of the families that fled. At this time, however, they have returned despite the continued instability. We made this trip to discuss future steps with the Masisi Nehemiah Committee. HEAL Africa Nehemiah Committees are groups of local leaders elected to represent the community through various churches that collectively represent the population in each region.
Masisi is a highly coveted region- the land of plenty, however, the question blatantly demanding an answer is: who is benefitting from it? Rich in agriculture, this fertile land that feeds milking cows that have displaced people for General Nkunda’s fattening herds, coltan mined by children and profited by foreigners and every one of us who has a cell phone; gold… these resources that have been stolen from the people have become their biggest threats. They should rightly own the land and profit from its wealth; however it has been rudely and violently ripped away from them. Nkunda may say he is endeavoring to protect Rwandan Tutsis, however, all has been done at the expense of those who have lost their livelihoods, their land and their cows to his hostile takeover of Masisi.
Governmental statistics say the population totals to 360,000. Local refugee camps count 15,000 households surviving there, even as they have taken over any available space in the town, all separation between homes and refugee tents being lost. Each household averages at least 6 members, which multiplies to at least 90,000 refugees with no place to call their own. Each family exists in the space about the size of a few coffins stacked on top of each other, walls of sticks and leaves and a meager Unicef orange or blue tarp strapped on top of the roof in hopes to keep away some of the region’s torrential rains. The World Food Program still has not realized that the local tribes do not usually eat sorgum, and their supplemental food has caused serious problems with diarrhea. Malnutrition, desperation and the lack of peace is evident in all the people’s faces. Just like the dust of the road clings to our every pore, so does the heaviness that settles on your heart if you are willing to see with your eyes and hear with your ears.
We arrived with a layer of dirt on us that would imply a 10 hour drive, even though it was only 3 hours long. Throats parched, eyes stinging from the earth, and breakfast already long digested since 8 that morning, we met with the Nehemiah Committee in a dim room well until 3 or 4 in the afternoon. The lack of water and food that day and my brain reeling with trying to follow and participate in the conversation in Swahili took every ounce of my energy and attention, as we listened to their evaluation of the results and challenges of the sponsorship program. All 65 children were back and safe, none of them had continued with their schooling since the war due to lack of funds and all the families had lost all the fruits of their income generating activities. The responsibility we have towards helping these children and the families caring for them is clear, yet the options challenging. Exhausted, we decided to reconvene the next morning to discuss sustainable solutions to helping this vulnerable population.
As we waited for our vehicle on the steep mountainside, children ran up to us, eyeing us curiously. As tired as I was, I cannot seem to resist cute children, especially when they are not asking for biscuits, candy or money. We played with their soccer ball (made of rolled up plastic bags and twine) and sang together, including their collective repertoire of their national hymn at the top of their lungs, and ending with my “cho cho cho… cho” cheer that had them squealing with laughter.
Our hotel rooms were conveniently located directly above a huge refugee camp. I was grateful to find a clean bed in the bare wooden room. We sat in the flickering light of kerosene lamps in the dirt patio next to the outhouse, waiting for our food to finally arrive. When it finally did around 8 pm, we shoved food into our mouths before passing out for the night. Promptly at 4:30 am the buzz of a waking refugee camp met our ears, growing louder by the minute as families lined up for water and food distributions, the sound of drums and music melding with the clamor of innumerable voices. A couple of hours later I finally hiked down the hill, having found an opening in our bamboo fence, and found myself greeted by friendly faces looking at me emerge from the mountain. They were happy I spoke some Swahili, but could not understand why I did not speak Kihunde or Kinyrwandan, the local dialects. I suddenly found myself at the edge of the refugee camp, their huts overtaking the plots of regular houses. Off to our right was a large field where some displaced youth were already off to a serious soccer game while the women and children fetched the daily rations.
Has it really been less than 24 hours since I left Goma? We are off to meetings with the UN and the Nehemiah Committee before heading back to Goma.