The Other Side

Despite the terrors encountered in this country in 1994, Rwanda is a model of post-genocide reconstruction. The country is gearing up for an election, public health and education infrastructure are universally strong, and anti-corruption/pro-finance campaigns are heavily promoted by the Kagame government. Even though there are many critics of President Paul Kagame’s limits on “free speech” and “free press” the reality is that the policies he has instituted during his first term have made Rwanda an incredibly stable place with a bright future.

The terrible and wonderful thing about living in a resource-limited setting is that it doesn’t take much to remember how fortunate you truly are. Walking down the street you encounter constant reminders that your levels of hunger, fatigue, and stress are relative compared to others walking by your side. For Rwanda, and its western neighbor, the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), this distinction between “haves” and “have nots” is magnified on a geographic scale.

This weekend hopped in the car and returned to Gisenyi, the town to the north of Kigali bordering Lake Kivu, for a beach party featuring local artists as a part of FESPAD, an African music and dance festival. We had the pleasure of staying at our same lakeside bungalow and enjoying the same stunning views as the fishermen returned from a night of catching sambasa on the lake. Our primary objective for this trip, however, was in stark contrast to the rest and relaxation of getaways of weekends past.

We were joined by our friends from Kigali who work as UN Security here in Rwanda. They were making a run across the border to the PX at the UN military base in Goma DRC. Though the thought of duty-free creature comforts from home was appealing, the chance to see a UN base and travel safely to the war-torn Congo was an opportunity I felt I could not miss. So, after the beach party on Friday evening we woke up early Saturday morning and left our lakeside paradise to drive the 2 km to the other side of Lake Kivu.

After crossing the no man’s land between Rwanda and the DRC and standing in the queue at the border for our visas, the Congo was apparently similar to Rwanda. The view of the lake was still stunning and the women were still trying to sell you the produce they were balancing on their heads while successfully pacifying the babies they have tied onto their back. Shortly after leaving the customs area with our unofficial UN escort, I realized that there was a huge distinction between these neighboring countries.

The countries comprised of the former Zaire—the Democratic Republic of Congo and the Republic of Congo—have a long and sorted political past. The blood diamonds of these countries cause a great deal of political unrest throughout the areas around Kinshasa and Brassiville. However, the eastern regions of the DRC, including Goma, are subject to different pressures. The DRC was a major base for Tutsi rebels in exile who crossed into Rwanda to attack the then-Hutu dominated government during the mid-twentieth century. When the 1994 genocide happened many more Rwandans fled to the DRC as refugees, only to be attacked by the Interhamwe who had taken a strong hold in the Eastern Congo. And even as Rwandans return to their homeland from exile in the DRC, the Interhamwe military presence remains strong in the DRC and orchestrates many ethnically motivated killings, rapes, and village burnings on a regular basis.

This complicated past and unstable present are what forces the United Nations presence to be so strong here in Goma. The base we came to visit in Goma is actually the largest UN base in the world—a reflection of the level of conflict that plagues the people of the nation. As we entered into the country the majority of cars we saw were Land Rover Defenders marked with large UN letters on the side to indicate the diplomatic status of the passengers. The massive UN base ran through the middle of town and was lined with razor wire with armed guards in posts at 50 meter intervals. It was clear within a few kilometers that we were not in Rwanda any more.

We were shortly escorted through the heavily guarded gates to the other side of the razor wire where the setting seemed similar to what we were accustomed, but still remarkably grim. The UN military base is situated along the edge of Lake Kivu, at a point where we could actually see Gisenyi and the location of our lakeside bungalow from the night before. Looking out over the lake it was hard to imagine that I was staring at the same body of water as the razor wire that sits on the lava rock obstructed my view towards the horizon. The base was filled with tanks, heavy-duty land vehicles, and tents for the soldiers—quite different to the lakeside hotels that are on the Rwandan side of Lake Kivu. Though the setting was other-worldly to me, the soldiers on the base seemed accustomed to their surroundings. They were friendly, welcoming, and eager to answer our questions about their role as peace keepers in this war-torn land.

As I stood their with the lake in front of me and the tanks to my back I questioned whether or not this experience could get more surreal. And in typical Africa style, the DRC shocked me once again. Walking into the site of our original mission objective (the PX) I was taken aback by all of the muzungu comforts lining the walls with reasonable prices in American dollars. There was cereal for less than $20 a box, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, and the treat of them all—cold Dr. Pepper. I used as much self-control as possible in purchasing my loot but I could not resist my favorite sugar-filled treat from home. After I checked out at the PX and put my bags in the car, I cracked open the cold beverage and stood there in the middle of the UN base, in the middle of the war-torn Congo, looking at the boats in the middle of methane-filled Lake Kivu drinking a Dr. Pepper.

With the sugary aftertaste of the delicious drinkable delight on my breath, we left the base for lunch at a nearby hotel. We enjoyed the usual lunchtime spread of fish and chips to which he had grown accustomed in Rwanda, with the usual suspects that populate our mealtime tables. However, on the other side of the border, the conversation interrupted at fifteen-minute intervals by the sound of helicopters or jets taking off from the landing strip down the road. The UN Security guards fit in with the locals who didn’t flinch as the aircrafts buzzed the restaurant, but for those of us on other side for only a day, it was quite the shocking event.

After lunch we set off to fill our other objective for the day—to see the lava field. Aside from the political unrest that plagues Goma, in 2002 it was subject to a devastating natural disaster courtesy of the Mount Nyarigongo. This active volcano that dominates the skyline of Goma has the fastest flowing lava in the world, and in 2002 it directed its rage at the town of Goma. The volcanic eruption covered streets, burned houses, buried vehicles, and killed hundreds of citizens destroying an already devastated country and leaving Goma as a wasteland of lava. Despite the fact that this event was nearly 8 years ago, the natural disaster worked synergistically with the already unstable political climate to damage the city to a degree from which it has yet to recover.

Though we knew that Goma had faced its challenges part of me hoped that its proximity to the Rwandan resort town would leave it with some relief relative to the rest of its fellow war-torn provinces. As we set off to see the lava flow site I quickly realized that this thought was only a desperate attempt at wishful thinking. The city is shrouded in a dismal gray and even the brightly-colored gitenge fabric of the women was made dark by a thick layer of ashy dust. The main road was made gravel by the solid lava and as we drove across it the only thing we could see was volcanic rock. Some of the rock had been quarried in an attempt to re-build the torched houses that lined the streets. Most of the rock, however, was littered with trash or served as a seat for local children. The activities were the same—people carrying supplies on bicycles, mothers balancing baskets on their heads, and children sitting by the side of the road. But the gray backdrop overshadowed everything leaving a sense of sadness and hopelessness I have seldom encountered in Rwanda and never experienced on such grand scale.

Though the distance between Rwanda and her neighbor is short, the disparity between my African home and the DRC serves as a giant abyss dividing the two nations. As I crossed back into the other side I was filled with conflicting emotions of immense sadness and extreme gratitude. It is devastating to see people in such poverty with such little hope for relief in their lifetime. At the same time, knowing the similarly conflicted history of Rwanda, I am incredibly grateful for the progress and the stability that the country in which I now live enjoys. On the ride home we drove past one of the UN camps that homes mainly refugees from the Congo. The UN tarp against the beautiful landscape was a juxtaposition of the emotions I had felt all day when comparing the DRC to my Rwandan home. In this moment, again characterized by sadness and gratitude, I promised myself not to care if the shower at home was cold, or the power was out, when we arrived. Instead, I vowed to be continually vigilant about being grateful for all I have here in Rwanda out of respect for those Congolese men and women and UN soldiers on the other side.