Obama and Congo’s Jail: Proud to be Free... But are We really Free when Others Aren’t?

This was the first time in my life I have ever worn red, white and blue on purpose. Last Tuesday I sat in a room full of Americans and internationals. Crowded around a TV, we eagerly watched Obama’s inauguration. We groaned in exasperation when the electricity shut down on us. The generator started up. Ups and downs, goose bumps and hope marked the charged feelings that emanated through the screen from the crowd listening to Obama, all the way to our little living room in DR Congo. For one moment, the world seemed united as we all held our breaths listening to Obama’s speech, his words painting a picture of hope and reconciliation, of facing difficulties and persevering as one to overcome them.
One statement stuck out to me and still goes around in my head: “Let it be known to those leaders, that they will not be known for what they destroy but for what they build.” (not verbatim)
Not destruction, but the building up of people and nations, including our own.
What are we building?
With these thoughts still running around in my head, I entered the Goma Central Prison early the following morning. I can’t count anymore how many times I’ve been here, but it doesn’t feel weird to be here. Only when I really think about it, it hits me that maybe it isn’t so common after all to have two young, blonde women interacting regularly with prisoners in an overcrowded jail. In one of the most lawless countries today. Through HEALing Arts, we have already been working with the women, teaching them to make banana leaf products. We have sat and talked and joked and prayed together.
Today, I feel comfortable sitting in the empty little room that was burned during November’s recent war. The bare bench and plastic chairs suffice for our project.
We begin receiving all the minors, young boys from ages 11 to 17, who have been tossed carelessly into jail. In a country where you are guilty until proven innocent. Where none of these children have ever had a trial. Some have been here 3 weeks, some close to a year. HEAL Africa’s Choisir La Vie (Choose Life AIDs program) staff, Mama Noella and Pastor Olivier begin the interviews.
Truth be told, a problem that has become so apparent in Goma is the vast numbers of Child Headed Households (CHH). Many families, orphaned by AIDS, fall under the responsibility of the oldest child, whether he may be 17 or she may be 15. All their younger siblings, or their nieces or nephews, must be cared for. During our interviews, some told of living with a disabled grandmother who had no income. Some have no one, no shoes and tattered shorts. We continue down the list of children, hearing their painfully searing stories of abandonment, desperate survival, and unjust introductions into prison. Fear clouds their eyes, deep scars on their faces tell of stories not mentioned, fungus destroys their toe nails. Most have never studied enough to read or write.
We sit next to them and hear their stories and tell them of friends in Australia willing to support them by paying their $50 fees to leave the prison. Of friends in Mexico and Minnesota willing to invest in them by giving them small income generation grants so that they may be able to provide for themselves in honest, sustainable ways, as simple as they may be. Most say they have already participated in small activities like selling shoes, bread or gas on the street. They would be happy to have an opportunity to leave with hope and a fresh start. Most have no “home” to return to. No one but themselves cares about their survival.
Leaving the jail already exhausted, we drive around Goma, visiting other Child Headed Households. We ease our way among the sewer-muddied alleys of Birere neighborhood, trying not to gag at the sights and smells. Trying to not cry when I see the 4 year old boy rinsing the cut on his ankle with sewer water, his little friend trying to fill up a crushed bottle with the same trickle of “water.” We see brave young men of ages 19 and 21, who are each taking care of 4 children through selling things. We drive towards the volcano and tread over loose, sharp rock to other homes. Bleating goats, soldiers, police, dirty children, all of it becomes part of the scenery. We see the joy and hope of the young children that are able to go to school due to the hard work of their older sibling or caretaker uncle.
By the time we arrive home 10 hours after the start of our day, our feet are black with grime, our brains are mush.
However, I can’t help but think. A lot; thoughts seeking resolution, questions demanding answers. I’m struck again by the reality that we are one world. One humanity. Your problems are my problems and my problems are yours. This economic downfall has affected everyone in the world, not only the US. Since December, the local currency has already devalued from 500 Fc per dollar to 650 Fc. These orphans, not given opportunities, could end up becoming young criminals from desperation to satisfy their bellies. Given opportunities, they might be able to give their own children a hope and a future. They themselves could be agents of change in their country.
The bottom line that bothers me is that somehow, I am more “free” than they are because I have a passport and a background and support from others that allow me ‘out’ when things are bad. They don’t.
Am I really free if my brother or my sister is not?
Can our pride for our freedom drive us to fight for another’s liberty as well?

The Joy of the Hope of Success!

Quite a title, I know, but it was the best way I could capture that feeling!
Saturday, we helped our first group of women who have “graduated” from HEALing Arts’ sewing class to form their own association. Twelve women, all of whom have suffered incredible things, are now standing together and have decided to work jointly for their success and that of their families. From the woman who was raped and now has a beautiful 10 month old baby, to the young woman who shook in fear for hours in a dark ditch in the forest with a compound fracture, hiding from the soldiers who were rampaging her village, to the widowed and abandoned, to the woman who has finally received solid crutches so that she may move around with agility, despite the loss of function of her legs from polio.
All I could think was, “and I get to sit in the same room as these women?” HEAL Africa has treated every woman in this room, and now they are all healthy physically, emotionally and spiritually. One of the spiritual counselors, Mama Ciza, accompanied me in the car and could not help but exclaim over and over again in joy, “That one,” she would point, “she was so, so traumatized. And now look at her! She’s healed! She’s so strong! And that one, she was so, so devastated. And now see, she’s joyful, she’s so, so happy!” The crowd of 12 women and their babies, Mama Ciza, Annifa (manager of HEALing Arts) and I crammed into two vans. All of them, the sewing machines they had received as income generation grants from HEALing Arts, stools and baskets.
Loudly, we weaved our way in the hot sun, shining dust and endless streams of cars, motos and people, patiently sweating our way through the terrible planning of road construction: no alternate route. However, no one could put a damper on the energy and happiness in the cars!
HEALing Arts loaned these women money to help secure their first lease. There is no banking for the vast majority of Congolese, so they are obligated to pay 6 months up front in order to gain a lease, which renders most of them incapable of overcoming this first step. Together, they could pool together one month, but lacked $300 for the remaining 5, which they have received as a loan from HEALing Arts.
“Stop, we’re here!” Annifa’s voice took me out of my musings about a system that makes the poor suffer even more. A tiny red door in a long line of small businesses, right next to the market in the Katindo neighborhood. The women’s eyes welled with excitement, butterflies dancing in their stomachs. This would be their livelihood, the crib of their growth as independent, healed women who have formed a cooperative together, despite all odds. They have proved it! They have overcome yet again!
A squat lady with a large mole on her lip and a loud voice identified herself as the landlord and informed us that she had lost the key. Our driver, Theo, loudly banged on the padlock that bound the red metal door with a hammer until he was able to pry it off. Already our eclectic group of people had attracted an immense crowd of people and school children ogling the entrance of something brand-new into their commercial district. The red door screeched open with a puff of dust. Sparkling in the hot sun, dirt encased everything inside this little room with no windows that would now be 12 women’s work space. The men moved a fake wall, removed old, rotting furniture and broken tiles. As a previous landlord myself, I couldn’t help but laugh at how American renters would have treated me had I ever delivered an office to them in such a manner!
A fierce match was on for the final negotiations of the lease. “You promised to put in electricity, we don’t see it anywhere!” demanded Mama Ciza, Annifa and the interim association’s president, the woman in crutches. “I told you, we will put a cable in soon!” the thickset woman hunkered back. Latrine privileges, privacy, why we had to pay 300 francs for water to clean out the place.
Finally, Mama Ciza, the spiritual counselor, led us all in a time of prayer. All our voices could be heard together, thanking God for blessings and asking for protection and success in their new business. For strength to work well and be good mothers. For faithful clients. For many years to come and much work to be had. Loud singing and clapping followed. By the end of the afternoon, sweat pouring down and smiles bigger than the sky, the women had found the first home for their new venture. An undertaking which promises to bring many more adventures in the next months!