A bit of catch up

I don’t suppose I need to say how difficult it has been for me to blog. Internet connection is part of the problem, but the real rub of the matter is lack of time. Lest you think I’m exaggerating, let me state for the record that I probably average a total of half an hour in front of my computer all day. That may seem hard to believe since I’ve already said that I’m putting in 12-13 hour days, but it’s the truth. I’m at the office by 8 am, and I usually leave somewhere between 8:30 and 9 pm. By the time dinner is done it’s already bed time. So what am I doing with all those hours in between?

Meetings.

Meetings, meetings, meetings. Back-to-back, over drinks, over meals. By the time I get back to my hotel room, I’m in a rush to wash and brush my teeth so I can get to sleep before midnight. Don’t get me wrong – they’re interesting meetings, the subjects of which are literally life and death. The decisions we take in the course of these discussions can be the difference between people receiving humanitarian assistance or not. (And yes, there are times when we decide not. But I’ll broach that subject another time.) But still, it’s hard to produce any actual work – let alone write material for the blog – with a schedule like that.

That’s how it comes to be nearly a week before I manage to jot down a few thoughts about the field visit we made last Saturday. It was a full day of visits, which involved a number of what we call spontaneous IDP sites. A spontaneous IDP site occurs when people flee their villages, becoming Internally Displaced Persons, and congregate (whether expressly or by coincidence) in another village or site. These sites are different from organized camps, where a humanitarian actor (usually UNHCR, the UN High Commissioner for Refugees) plans out a settlement in collaboration with the local authorities. Both spontaneous and planned camps are the exception here; about 85% of IDPs reside with host families in their homes. But in North Kivu province (which is where I am), 15% means about 120,000 are living out in the open, the great majority in spontaneous sites.

The drive out to the sites almost lulls you into a sense of complacency. The countryside around Goma is quite possibly the most beautiful I’ve ever seen – spectacularly beautiful. Rolling green hills punctuated with volcanic peaks that jut violently up into a moody sky strewn with thunderheads. Against this backdrop, the Congolese till the rich volcanic soil and grow bounteous crops, their fields carved out of the hillsides like terraced landscaping. The climate is ideal – like Hawaii in winter. Warm to hot during the days, cool and fresh at night. There is never too much sun. And there is fresh water everywhere, rivers and streams shimmering down from the mountains to meet the glassy expanse of Lake Kivu. Life should be easy here. Life should be, as our driver sadly observes, “paradise.”

The tragedy of the camps, then, is a blow to the gut. Cast out of paradise for sins that were not theirs, the IDPs live in conditions that I just can’t describe here. To call these places “hell” seems almost trite. The IDPs construct huts for themselves out of bamboo poles and banana leaves, resulting in huddled structures that look remarkably like hay bales. If the people are lucky and have received assistance from my agency or another organization, the huts will be covered with a piece of tarpaulin, offering additional protection from the rain (which is tremendously important when you’re living in the Congo). This is the best these IDPs can expect in terms of shelter. The huts are built so close together that you cannot pass between most of them. Where you can, the paths are troughs of mud that turn into torrents whenever it rains. Measles, cholera and respiratory infections are everywhere. The children are filthy and crusty, and they stink. Some have the distended bellies and tinted hair of kwashiorkor, others the clouded eyes of Vitamin A deficiency. The smell of the latrines – if any have been built for them – is overwhelming. It is, in a word, horrible.

We’re doing what we can. We distribute non-food items (NFIs) – pots and pans, clothes and soap and tarpaulin. We dig latrines and build showers, but they are few – about 500 people per installation. We chlorinate wells and build hand washing points, and erect “emergency schools” made of wooden beams, benches and tarpaulin. Others provide food and medicine. But it’s not enough.

We could do more, in theory, but we’re between a rock and a hard place. The IDPs often settle in areas that are just as insecure, if not more so, than the areas they fled from. To build permanent structures and develop infrastructure would encourage them to stay and thus potentially endanger them further. Armed men are everywhere, whether official or what the peacekeepers euphemistically term “negative forces.” IDPs and villagers are forced to accompany soldiers out to the fields to harvest food for the armed group, where they are often raped for their troubles. The military and the rebels extort food, NFIs, and whatever else they can get their hands on. Providing the IDPs with more only invites further pillaging, which is often accompanied by beatings, executions, and rape. So we provide the bare minimum to help them survive, and do our best to “sensitize” the armed groups to minimize the rape, pillaging, and recruitment of child soldiers. All of these efforts yield results, even the advocacy with armed groups. But it’s not enough.

The peace conference of February has got the peacekeepers (MONUC) feeling optimistic. They’re talking about “returns” – people going back to their villages. We’ll see. In the meantime, the struggle continues. But for the first time, I’m not just observing it – I’m in the thick of it, and I have to say it feels good.

That, and soul-crushingly depressing.