Nakivale Refugee Camp: Part 2

Half of the group went to see Rwandese refugees like Oliver, but after my lovely conversation with him, I decided I had heard enough of their side. So I went with the other half of the group to the Congolese refugees (this sounds too much like a zoo visit) because I wanted to learn about the conflict in the DRC.

I don’t know much about the conflict in the Congo, other than that Rwandese militias are there; some LRA militias are there, and there seems to be utter chaos that the government cannot control. In the past 20 years, millions have been killed, and nobody really knows by whom because there are so many rebel forces, and there doesn’t really seem to be an end in sight from what I can tell. The largest UN peacekeeping force in the world is stationed in the DRC, but their mandate is set to expire early this summer. I have no doubt that mandate will be extended, even though the Congolese government apparently wants them to leave in order to prove they have control over the country.

We walked into a concrete shed/room and filed into wooden benches. Congolese men and women filed into benches on either side of us until the room was packed; probably 25 people were standing in the back. Our director introduced us as students, “ambassadors” for their stories, and future leaders of America. Then the refugees started asking us questions.

First, why so many Somali refugees get to come to the States, and Congolese don’t. We had come once before, and nothing had changed; what were we doing here again?

Our director William answered the second question for us: we didn’t come to help; we came to learn. We came to hear their stories and spread them in America, and maybe in the future, we could change their situation. But there would be no short-term satisfaction.

William was very clear and calm in his explanation, but he seemed angry. I didn’t really understand that – their question seemed perfectly justified to me. This group of white kids, with our nice clothes and notebooks and pens, comes in and listens to their problems, writes down some details about their personal lives, and leaves. No help, no recognition, really, of what they told this group of strangers ever comes… the strangers go back and live their lives, as usual, and so do the refugees. So why did we come, if we weren’t going to do anything?

Then they told us their story.

"This is a people war, not a guns war. If it was a guns war, we would go home," a refugee who translated for us said. Many of them said they have been in these camps most of their lives.

They told us about the water – “The health people told us safe, pure water is clear, but ours has color.” They get food from World Food Program, but they have trouble cooking the maize and beans they get because they don’t have firewood. Cutting the trees is forbidden; it’s a conservation area, so the women (always the women!) have to walk miles to go get logs for the fire. Many get raped on the way. And the amount of food isn’t even enough – the school requires a certain amount of maize for school fees. So their children aren’t in school.

One man stood up; he had a degree in Public Health, but he couldn’t get a job. He couldn’t even get books; he felt like he was losing all his knowledge and would never get it back. A Burundian nurse stood up – same problem. She was born in this camp, had lived here her whole life. She didn’t even know where “home” was. And she had gone to the nearby clinic to ask for an interview for a nursing job recently, but they told her to come back in two weeks. She came back so excited! When she returned after two weeks, though, they told her they had changed their minds… they needed nurses, but not refugee nurses.

Another woman stood up. She said life was hard for women, especially those who weren’t married. When there is some sort of manual labor a woman cannot do, she has to ask a man. But they usually won’t help without compensation. So the women have to have sex with these men, even if they might get pregnant, even if they know the man has HIV, even if that ruins most chances of their getting married in the future.

After she spoke, almost everyone in room started whistling and yelling louder than before. We couldn’t decide: were they whistling in support of this woman, or were they making fun of her suffering?

After we thanked them for their time and honesty and filed out of the benches and the stuffy room, we walked back towards the van. I stopped to say hello to a cute little boy in a Tigger shirt and a doe-eyed girl with braids. I was looking at them, smiling, when a man walked up: “When you go back, you will forget these.”

…I never even knew their names. How can I remember them, distinguish theirs from the faces of so many children I've seen?

We rode back to town in the van and spent the night celebrating Charity’s birthday at a bar.