The Light and Dark of Congo - Part II

In the mud hut all day.

We listen to testimony of survivors. Amy interviews, one of the staff members translates, and when I get permission from the interviewee I film and shoot stills. Most of the interviews are palpable. Since the survivors rarely show emotion you do not want to be the one to grimace or cry. No matter the story or my emotion, I have to contain it. The older women’s stories are sad, but somehow less desperate. Most of them are already married and have children. They are traumatized and need help, but they have a level of emotional maturity from the hard life here that helps them seems to help them move on. The testimony that gets me is the young girls. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Not only are they traumatized; many of the hopes for the future have been devastated. They are now stigmatized. ‘Used goods’. They are not eligible for marriage. As an angry 13-year-old put it, “What man would want me?”. In this society marriage does not only mean a life partner (hopefully), it means economic stability, social standing, the ability to buy/sell land, and some level of protection. Women cannot do many things socially and legally without their husband’s permission. Without a husband to serve as the intermediary with society, women have no place, no rights, and no future.

I try not to feel their despair and hold the space for a brighter future, but then my anger seeps in. One careless soldier trying to regain an ounce of his misplaced masculinity in this fractured society just effected the entire course of this young girls future. I want to hug the girls. Tell them it is not their fault and that we will try to catch the man who did this to them. We know the soldiers name and his commander, but I know he will never be caught. The commander will just deny it, even if he was there. He is the supreme authority in the area. Even if the soldier is caught, he won’t get in trouble. And the girls will have to deal with this mostly on their own for the rest of their life. And then I wonder what am I really doing here? It is not like I can give her anything tangible beyond food or take them to the free clinic. What is the point of acting as a voyeur into someone else’s pain?

Always more girls/women waiting to meet us than we have time for, Mama Marie usually walks into an interview and tells us it is time it is time to go because it is getting late or because soldiers are near. Racing against the dark of night. It is usually raining on the way back to Butembo. Sometimes we listen to hip hop music as we bump along the road. Wyclef. Acon. Backstreet Boys. N’sync. We have heard the same tape about 100 times. When we have the energy, I ask questions about observations I have made that always seem to stir a great debate. Kinande , French, and an occasional English translation spewing across the car on the way to Butembo. Everyone has a different opinion as to why all this is happening. Since we cannot stop the war on our own, arm all the women, or get rid of all the soldiers, the only solution that we can immediately come up with is we need more money. How can money help? To send the kids to school to school, give girl mothers vocational training so they do not have to become prostitutes, so the families can buy seeds to cultivate, so they can eat, and replace what the soldiers have looted. Everything seems equally important. On Maslow’s hierarchy of needs we work daily just to try to meet the bottom rungs. Most of the time we aren’t even able to address those. The thought of being able to work with the survivors’ emotions and personal enlightenment seems an ever evasive glass ceiling.

Once in Butembo we hop on motorbikes and race against the darkness. If we have time we stop at the only “Expatriate” mini-mart in town. Look for something edible and recognizable is my general plan. An apple, a can of tuna, some peanut butter, or a Guinness. As we drive past fruit stands we hunt for a tomato, avocado, or an egg. We pass the soldier barriers before nightfall. Making it home in the nick of time or a little too late…

At the Crossiers we search for cold leftovers white rice, maybe cabbage, and if I am lucky beans, if not some mystery meat. If there is electricity I rush to check my email and connect with another reality before it turns off.

The evenings are precious because it is our only time to try to relax and decompress. If we have the energy, we spend time discussing the traumas of the day.

One fifteen year old just told us today that there are other girls who were captured by soldiers and taken to the bush. She was there for a week and escaped. Right now as you read this the girls are still trapped at the soldiers camp in the bush. Even though we know where they are we can’t get a hold of the UN to report the situation. Even if we can get a hold of the UN, there is no guarantee they will or can go there. Usually full of ideas, I am at a bit of a loss as to a plan that would actually rescue the girls and not put us into serious danger.

We usually end up drinking a beer and singing/playing some music. Voice therapy releases our emotion and lightens our spirits. You have to be able to joke and relax. Being serious about everything would kill you here. It is yet another contradiction of the Congo, laugh in the face of fear.

I fall into bed at night. Waking up intermittently in the night to download and transfer files so my gear will be ready the next morning.

As the day breaks my alarm clock is a mother goat bleating for here babies. Her call sounds like a human woman in the midst of an excruciating birth. Finally the babies answer back. She stops. I check my watch. It is anywhere from 6-7am. I open my cabin window over looking the taro patch. I gaze out on the forest of green trees enveloped in mist as the warm morning light filters past. I take a deep breath inhaling the beauty of the Congo.

It’s time to do it all again. I hope today we can really help.

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part I

The Light and Dark of Congo

For the last few weeks I have been struggling to keep up with all that goes into working and living here. And at the same time, I wrestle on a daily basis with how I can sum the vast light and dark of the DR Congo. Unsure how to capture with words or images all that exists here, I have sat in silence taking it in, hoping it would come to me. In life I guess we would not know good if we did not know bad. It is just that here it exists in the extremes. At times I feel I can make a world of difference here and at others I feel I am contributing nothing.

My morning begins with a forty-five min motor cross ride to town. Then a two-hour drive to whatever village we are visiting that day. Sometimes the ride is fine. Other times, as my rear hits the seat with a “thud” my spine compresses and I crack my head on the top of the 4 Runner I want to yell. There are miles of breathtaking mountains and valleys as far as the eye can see. When you turn the bend in the road the forest that has been slashed and burned for farmland. Around the next bend, a young green eucalyptus forest sprouting from the once clear cut land. In the background, vast lush hillsides that look as if no one has ever set foot on them. On the roadside we meet a kind loving man holding his newborn son. This man is the exception; he stayed with his family even after his wife was raped. He also, stayed through the war even though he has been unable to support them “like a man should”. Driving up the road we hear tales of other men who have abandoned their wives and 12 children. They have taken another wife in hopes of starting a better life. We make appointments to assist their abandoned families who now with no property or rights in society, they fight for themselves. Further down the road we meet a girl mother impregnated by rape who would have taken the morning after pill had she known about it, but greatly love their child. Her beautiful daughter who will never know her rapist father is like a beam of sunshine. With a smile on her glowingly innocent face she proudly tells us she dreams of becoming nurses so they can help others.

The Bush

We have visited several villages in the bush. Never knowing who we will meet along the way or what the situation really is until we get there (or sometimes how we will get there), it is always an adventure.

We have gone to one village 3 or 4 times now. It is called Isalie. It is an enchanted place built on the steep hillsides. Most of the homes are $5 mud brick shacks with million dollar views. With a pristine landscape, red mud that has been patted completely flat, and children’s laughter echo's off the terraced hillsides. Many times I have to pinch myself to make sure the idyllic setting it is real. Well until we see the soldiers’ camp that is. You see the FRDC (Congolese government troops) have moved onto the tallest hillside overlooking the village and “Garbin” (the valley) below. From a vista as close as I dare to go, I can see one main brick compound in the middle of the green rolling hill with makeshift A-frame tents big enough for two people dotted across the hillside. The troops are here to keep other rebel factions out of the area, but in the meantime they are raping women, looting the market, beating the husbands when they take everything the family has, and recruiting young boys to fight. The soldiers foot path off the mountain runs right behind some of the COPERMA member’s huts.

Shocked by the proximity these members have daily with the soldiers; I could not help, but remember a line from a bible verse I learned at Lutheran school. “Ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….”. It goes on to say, “Thy staff and thy rod comfort thee”. The only problem is that these girls literally live in the shadow of rape and death, but when I meet the 13 year old survivor I see that even God is not able to protect them. They have to go each day to the “source” to get water, to the forest to collect firewood, and walk to their land miles away to cultivate crops always running into soldiers along the way.

We finally made it to the new village only when one of the COPERMA staff takes a personal loan from a friend. More shocking than any village we have visited. The soldiers have been though five times and taken everything. The crops, the firewood, the women, the clothes, and the dignity. As we wait in the most private room we can find, the interviewees come in one after another. It seems each time another walks in the door they are younger and younger. Some able to smile and look at us. Some completely shattered. So angry, embarrassed, or vacant from the experience they physically turn away from us and look at the wall during the interview.

One girl knows the name of the soldier. He kidnapped her back to his camp and made her his “wife”, in his mind this forced marriage is a lesser evil than rape. Two soldiers took turns on her for a week. Another girl in the group was not taken as a wife and raped by 10 soldiers for the week. After about eight days the girls were sent to the market to buy food, but they ran away instead. The soldier that took her, his name is “Justin” (she heard other people talking to him). Some of the other girls and women who were captured that day were still there when she fled and she has not seen them since. We are worried they are still there. Even with the name of the commander, the soldier, and the location we can’t go get the women/girls who are there. Our only hope is to call Amy’s friend at the UN, but we cannot get a hold of him. Even if we could the UN here is so overwhelmed I am not sure they have the willpower to deal with this. I think of the last time we visit the UN headquarters in Lubero and how all the troops were in gym clothes playing volleyball. Everyone needs R&R and the entire Congo is too big for any one organization to police, but I really hope when they hear about something like this they can move through the bureaucracy and act.

Before we leave the village we dine on white rice and some very tasty salty cabbage doused in palm oil. Luckily, it is not a repeat of last time white rice and goat intestines. It is hard to complain when you see that these people have nothing and you cannot refuse a meal, but they really do not have the means to be feeding all of us.

Always racing against the setting sun, while I want to be here these extreme events have become so normal (interviews with survivors, dirt bike rides, meeting demobilized child soldiers, starving children, and families who have nothing) it has almost become monotonous. Or maybe is my soul trying to numb my conscious mind so I will not become completely overwhelmed. Just about the time I feel ready to check out of the Congo, an adorable child’s eyes will light up at the sight of me. His lips move and I hear a barely audible “Muzungu”. He stands reverently on the side of the road. His face look as if has just seen the last golden unicorn on Earth and he is in awe of what he has witnessed. The local women will blush and laugh as I return local greetings. As we pass the market where we buy our fruit, the entire market, all 200-300 vendors, raise their hands and shout greetings as we zoom past on the dirt bike.

With all the hardship and human evil that exists, it is the heart of the Congo’s people that keep drawing me extend my stay here.

Back at the Crossiers Amy, Alanna, and I hang out on the porch. Amy has a cigarette in one hand and a beer in another. Alana is strumming her ukulele and drinking tea. I am downloading files on my computer and having a glass of wine. It is the night before the full moon, the air is damp and misty and we all have on jackets. We talk about how intense the last few days of interviews have been. Amy says she has never head of this before…women who have escaped and knowing the location of the others. She tried to call her friend at the UN again, but to no avail.

Tonight we go to bed knowing there are still some women somewhere out there in the bush that have been captured and serving as concubines for soldiers and there is nothing we can do.

It is truly an awful feeling.

I decide I need to retire early to my room just to relax and veg out. As I say my goodnights, Amy says, “I don’t want to worry you, but you should hide your electronics. A parish about 40km away was pillaged last night”. But don’t worry no one was hurt or raped, just robbed”.

Walking down the hall to my room I grabbed a large can of insecticide, I am sure it can act like mace in a pinch. I lock the door and secure it with a chair. I hide my hard drives and money. I go to be fully clothed in case I have to leave quickly. Thinking of the women I cannot save and the possibility of soldiers visiting my home I listen to every bump in the night. Tossing and turning my sleep is deep and dark.

I wake up at 6am to see the light of day, thankful to have made it through unscathed. As I open my window the morning light reveals the assortment of weapons surrounding my bed, a heavy glass bottle of alter wine (the brothers bottle) that I figured may daze someone if hit on the head, by my pillow my defunct Nicaraguan switchblade that can barely cut an orange, the can of insecticide, the cockeyed chair barricading the door, my headlamp, and gold cell phone by my head. The assortment or blockages and random weapons across my room looks like the aftermath of a day of play in a child’s fort.

Would any of these things really help me if soldiers visit our compound? I am not really sure, but very glad I did not have to find out.

COPERMA

COPERMA

I am not sure I have properly introduced the staff from COPERMA. They are truly an amazing group of dedicated humanitarians, all Congolese. They show up with smiles to work each day. They arrive from their mud brick and stick huts dressed in their immaculately pressed business clothes. Many times the morning is spent in search of gas money in order to fill up the gas tank. Often, they take personal loans from their friends and family to go into the bush to meet new clients, check on projects, and deliver goods such as medicine and plant seeds. Often on the way they have to get out and push the 4 Runner up a particularly steep section of the road, since the bald tires no longer have any tread. If we are in the 4 Runner, we break down at least once on a trip. If we are in the truck, we break down at least 4 times. The driver/mechanic, Fisto, is key to our operation. He always seems to know exactly how to fix the problem and we are usually on our way in 10 minutes. If we get to the field and see that someone has stolen a part of the crops COPERMA uses for members, they grab hoes and in their business clothes (with their laptop case strapped around their neck) everyone works as fast as they can the to harvest the entire field. They work the whole day without a break for lunch or a snack. With no choice, we stay until all of the potatoes are out of the ground. This means we will drive home in the dark. Otherwise, thieves will steal the rest of the crop and all the initial investment, sweat equity, and potential income for members will be lost. Wanting to be safe, I can’t really ask them to leave the potatoes in the field to keep the mzungu safe, so I go along with the plan.

When in Congo [Rome].

So, the team members drive back through the bush on the road where last month the country’s president, Joseph Kabila, was stopped at a roadblock and robbed by his own soldiers. They drop us off at the Crossiers on the way back to Butembo. We ask what time everyone will be in the office in the morning. We assume it will be later since everyone will not get home until 9pm. “Nine in the morning, same as usual”, is the reply. They bump back to Butembo hoping they will make it unscathed through the next two roadblocks. All this and no one is sure how much they will be paid at the end of the month, if anything at all.

I go back an forth between thinking they are the most amazing people on earth and feeling offended a few of them still see any white person (i.e. me) as a money pot who has access to infinite amounts of cash. The other day when Alana (the visitor from Hawaii) asked Mama Marie what project she could work on for the next month, she was handed an itemized list of needs that totaled $30,000. Her job order was, “Find this!”. Alana squirmed. She attempted to explain she was thinking more along the lines of helping COPERMA achieve 501-c3 status, so people could make tax deductible donations. Mama Maire shook her head and said, “No, we need this”. I resent being seen as a money pot, but I do get their point. We are a rare opportunity. A resources to be exploited before it is gone. In America the streets are paved with gold (well ok at least with asphalt) and everyone is a millionaire (well when compared with the earning power of the average Congolese). Even if I am middle class in America I have more earning power and more opportunity than most of them ever will. Hence, I have access to a vast amount of resources they do not. Excellent at making split second decisions that potentially involve life and death, Mama Marie has summed us up and our greatest resource is access to seemingly infinite amounts of cash.

When COPERMA cannot go to a new village for over week to meet 26 new rape survivors because they cannot find the gas money to get there I begin to see that maybe she is right about us.

As we meander into the bush, Mama Marie will sometimes recount stories about near life and death misses. The stories are told with a smile on her face. Jerking along the path in the truck, I asked her what the round shatter pattern is in the windshield. It’s shape and placement looked as if the driver had stopped suddenly and the passenger firmly embedded their forehead into the glass. “Oh that? That is from bullets when we were rescucing three girls from their father”. “So someone shot at your head and it did not make it through the glass?”. “No, no. We had to go into the bush to rescue three girls who had been molested and impregnated by their father. We got caught in a gun battle, me, the girls, and the driver were all naked in the car …strip searched by soldiers”. Stunned silence –a million more questions on my mind-. “Was that your most awkward work moment?”, I had Amy ask. [Mama Marie erupts in laughter unable to speak] “No, no”. “Well what was your most awkward work moment then?”. Mama Marie went on to tell the story of one time when she had been on a bus with a preacher who was preaching hell fire and brimstone to anyone who would listen. “Women should not become prostitutes, even if their children cannot eat”, he proclaimed. God would help them in all situations and would always keep those who were faithful safe. Not that Mama Marie disagreed with him, but she was a bit embarrassed as his endless evangelizing to the entire bus. At a roadblock the bus was stopped by soldiers, the entire bus (including the preacher and Mama Maire) was stripped naked and robbed. Luckily, Mama Marie managed to slip ten dollars into a hiding spot she refuses to mention. In the midst of her story she was unable to speak due to laughter, all she could get out was, “You would not believe where you can hide money. So far away that no one can find it!”. The soldiers cut off all the women’s hair in ensure they had tucked money under their head wraps. After the soldiers left, the entire bus continued to the next village, buck naked. Still laughing so hard she could barely talk, Mama Marie recounted how embarrassed everyone was (especially the pastor) trying to cover their “sexes” with both hands. The preacher was silent. At the next village Mama Marie retrieved the $10 she had stashed and bought sheets for everyone so they would not arrive at in Goma naked. That was her last $10 for her journey and she was a good 6 hours from home with no food, no place to stay, and no clothes! But that is Mama Marie, doing what is needed in the moment trusting it will work out.

Out of necessity that is pretty much how COPERMA is run. By the seat of their pants (or sheets) with whatever they have at the time. With a list of needs that is ever growing and new survivors every week they continue to expand their programming based on need (not resources), because no one else is doing this work.

I am in awe of their vision and passion. I know few people who in the face of this many years of war and hardship, would have the stamina to work as hard and selflessly for the future of their country as the people of COPERMA.

Obama and a sewing machine - Part II

Ironically, the next group of people we were interviewing were several young girls all of whom had been raped and fled their village within the past month. They had previously received services through COPERMA and had been placed into foster families in the local community. Today was a chance to check on them and see how they were doing. Up until this meeting I do not think I had emotionally processed anything that I was being exposed to in the Congo. But this testimony was different. There were these incredibly sweet, innocent, young, and traumatized girls recounting their stories of being raped by multiple soldiers when their communities were attacked. My instinct was to hug them, but in Congolese culture that was not appropriate. Angered, horrified, and moved I sat there taping and shooting as these girls divulged the specifics of the attacks and how they were now doing. Since I do not speak Kinandie, I peered over Amy’s shoulder as she took notes in English. As I listened to a particularly enduring 14 year old who had been raped along with her two sisters something in me snapped. She continued to express her worry for her family and her village. Her sisters had fled in different directions and she was worried about them. The story was so intense I had to remind myself it was real. I began to wonder if we could figure out a way to get these girls guns to protect themselves. What is their other option? Just wait and get raped again?

During a pause in the conversation, I asked Amy if I could pose a question. “Is there is anything you need that could help you protect yourself?” I asked the girls. There was a brief pause while the translator went from French to Kinandie and back. “Yes”, one girl replied, “a sewing machine”.

Well that was defiantly not the answer I was expecting, but OK. I get it. Mostly, the girls were looking for something to keep them busy to keep their minds off of the trauma. They were also looking for a way to become self-sufficient.

Here I had been thinking about running guns and the girls were thinking to the future. Again amazed by their perseverance, Amy made a note to look into getting a few sewing machines.

Obama and a sewing machine - Part I

sewing machine

This was no ordinary day it was December 31^st the last day of 2010. The office was bustling with excitement. Not only was is the last day of the year, but we were also going to a village to meet with some new COPERMA clients recently demobilized child soldiers and to interview some young girls who had to flee their villages after being raped.

When we arrived I was not sure I would be allowed to shoot at all, but hoped that Amy would ask if it was possible. Some of these kids were minors and I wanted to be very sensitive to their traumatized state.

In general there is great debate about photographing rape survivors at all. My feeling is this. Rape is not a comfortable subject. People do not like to talk about it or think about it. It is a subject most people would rather ignore than face. In all honesty it is more comfortable for the general public to not look at images of survivors. Not the other way around. These women have survived one of the most traumatic events you could experience and still physically be alive. If they want to share their story and telling other people will empower them I want to help make their voice heard. If a girl was raped when she was 15 and she is now 17 years old, estranged from her family, and supporting a child alone I feel for all practical purposes she is an adult and has a right to make the decision to speak publicly. That said, I feel very protective of the younger girls who may not be able to fully understand the lasting repercussions of speaking out about being raped.

As we settled in for the interviews a COPERMA community member offered their two-room mud hut for our meetings. This time we sat on a straw bed with a foam mattress in a dank mud brink room. There was one small window that filtered enough light we could just make out each others faces.

First, we interviewed three teenage boys who had recently defected from a paramilitary army. After several years of fighting they had returned to this community to live with their birth families. Today COPERMA wanted to see how they are doing and get a feel for if they were readjusting to life in the village. Kids who reenter their village under COPERMA have to sign a contract that they will not return to the army, but there is little anyone can do to enforce it. Sometimes the kids are recaptured by the military and other times disillusioned with the limited job options they return to fight.

The three teens squeezed onto a small wooden bench and leaned on each other. Four of us sat in a semi circle opposite of them. The first boy about 16 was cocky and it was obvious he had few social skills. His eyes were weary and sad. His grin was more like a mischievous smirk. As he talked, he looked away from us into the corner or covered his face with a red handkerchief. He never made eye contact. It all seemed like a game to him laughing and offering what seemed to be agreed upon answers, it was a frustrating interview because it was apparent he was just handing us BS and though it was funny. The next boy seemed almost angelic. With good manners and a genuine smile he began to answer questions more openly, until the first boy began to continually interrupt and feed him answers. Frustrated we told them we wanted to continue the interviews separately, but they refused and said they wanted to stay together. We told the first boy, who seemed to have some pull over the other two, to stop feeding them answers or go outside.

They all talked about killing people, so many people they could not possibly remember. Old people they thought were sorcerers and anyone else who got in the way. They told us about a tattoo they all had that protected them from bullets. It was a small cross that looked like a brand someone had made with a needle. They also said, “If a soldier rapes his tattoo does not protect him and we kill him”. A few different times we tried to ask if they knew anyone with the tattoo who had ever been killed, but they always said, “No”. Asked point blank if they had ever raped anyone they all point blank denied doing so.

Who knows the power of belief is mighty. Maybe no one with the tattoo has ever been shot or maybe it is because none of the villages they attack have guns. After the interview we asked the teens if I could photograph them as long as I did not show their face. They agreed. As I photographed them I realized that one of them had an Obama belt buckle. Of all things, that was the absolute last article of clothing I had expected to run across that day. Pants so torn the thread was barely holding them together and shoes that looked as if they had been worn for years. Somehow this guy in the middle of the bush had found an Obama belt buckle. Hey do you know where I can get on of those?

PART II - Next Post

The Village Elections

As my alarm went off I drug myself out of bed. Today was my 9^th day in the DR Congo and while I still really wanted to be here the novelty was beginning to wear off. Faced with the knowledge that it had been pouring rain most of the night the roads were going to be even worse than normal. Already tired to the bone, the prospect of getting tossed around on a 45-minute moto taxi ride no longer excited me.

Amy let me know that she had stuff she needed to work on that day so she was not going into town. It would just be me with COPERMA. As I packed my gear for the day I ate some bland cassava porridge and drank some muddy instant “Coffee”. I thought to myself, “Does this stuff even have caffeine in it?” Truly, it makes Nescafe instant coffee seem like the best cup of your life. I just wanted something anything to make me feel a little less tired and miserable!

My moto taxi arrived and as an afterthought I grabbed my ipod. At least I could check out and blast some music for a while. Driving down the road I cranked some old school Pearl Jam. As Eddie laid it down, I also belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. It just made me feel better. Not sure if I was trying to talk to him or what the heck I was doing, the moto taxi kept turning his head to see if I was up to. Tired of being on display I only waved to a few kids along the way. By the time we reached town and Eddie crooned “I knew that I would not ever touch, you hold you fell you in my arms. Never again, again, again…” The voice therapy had worked and I felt much better.

Arriving at COPERMA, they were worried that I was ½ hour late. “Yes, sorry it was a long morning. So are we ready to go?”. They told me come inside we are almost ready. Once inside I realized that since Amy was not going to be there to translate they had requested that their “English teacher” stay with us for the day so he could translate for me. Having heard their English classes the day before I was pretty sure that he was going to benefit more from practicing English with me, than I was going to glean from him being my translator. I greeted him. We quickly established he was eager to speak non-stop the entire day. At first I had no desire to try to make incessant small talk, but as he charmed me with his desire to practice English I realized now had a personal translator / assistant. Hey maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

We waited for over two hours while Mother Marie went to find some money and some gas to put in the car. Good thing I had not come at 9am! Once we were set 7 of us piled into the 4 Runner, which had grown progressively dirtier from the combination of mud puddles from rain and the red dry dust that engulfed us everywhere we went. As, we drove out of town I looked in my French dictionary to try to explain to my “translator” the events that had transpired the previous day. It turns out that the word for “ransom” in French is pretty similar to English. As I pointed at out team member and explained they were going to hold him for “ransom”, everyone in the car (including the driver) erupted in laughter. It seems the Congolese way overcome trauma and near disaster is with laughter. They prodded my why Amy had not come that day. I said, “…well she has to work on her article and…I don’t know maybe she is stressed”. Mama Marie who barely speaks English replied in plain as day English, “Stress? I am the one who is stressed!”. Again the car erupted in laughter. With everyone’s mood lightened we bounced down the track further into the bush than I had ever been.

We arrived at a stunningly picturesque little village. Situated on the edge of a cliff overlooking miles of bananas, a tree studded valley, and another mountain range in the distance. This was our outdoor classroom for the day. As the COPERMA team members pulled a full size school blackboard out of nowhere the local community assembled around us. Men, women, children, and babies today was going to be the COPERMA elections where they would select a president, vice president, secretary, and discipline committee. The committee would work to help run the COPERMA programs for the child soldiers attempting to reintegrate to normal life, the girl mothers, and the petite finance. As Mama Marie introduced me and got permission for me to photograph and film the women gathered around and greeted me with a song. Partially in Swahili, the song repeated over and over, “… Karibu, Karibu (welcome, welcome) come into us”.

As the names of candidates were written on the blackboard in white chalk, Mama Marie explained how the elections would work and what duty each candidate would need to perform. With out much input in life outside of their family the process of having this “democratic election” empowered the women and men. They suddenly had a voice in what was happening around them and what they said was going to matter. The atmosphere was bustling with excitement. The process seemed like maybe an election you would have in high school for your student council where each candidate spoke about why they would be a good fit for the job, but it was one of the most transformative moments I have seen so far. This symbolic gesture of an election among multiple villages that had come together to form this collective was giving people back their voice. Retuning “power” from the corrupt government and defunct police force back the community. How things were before the first war (minus the colonists). The atmosphere was one of excitement and serious debate. The elderly and the young wanted to be heard.

As the sky darkened with the threat of a storm in the distance the final elected members stepped forward to except words of wisdom from Mama Marie. They publicly made their promise to be faithful to their office and the duties bestowed on them. As the afternoon light filtered through the green of the banana leaves I snapped photos of the new community council.

Walking towards the car the village followed us. Once we were securely inside the 4 Runner they waived us off. The elderly and children a like squealed in delight as I used the few words of Kinandie I know, “Thank you” and “Go well”. As we pulled away, the tropical rain began to cover the windshield.

Elated and still exhausted to the bone we lurched and wheezed down the road. It was ironic that I could barely get out of bed this morning because in a lot of ways this had been my best day in the Congo. It had all been so real, the village so beautiful, the project so symbolically powerful, and the people so genuinely welcoming.