It's been a long time coming....this particular post. And I'm not quite sure I'll get it right. However, I do think it's time to try and put some words to what I've been grappling with and what anyone who lives here already knows. It's too easy to get caught up in a stream of complaints about living in Kinshasa and doesn't make for interesting reading surely. If the second year was all about indulging in the small comforts I denied myself the first year, the third year is all about facing the harsh realities of fact. Kinshasa is an emotionally draining place to live. I find myself longing at times for the simplicity of the States...and isn't that why I left the US in the first place? To find some kind of simpler life?
I spend a lot more time this third year examing my love hate relationship with Kinshasa--and truthfully, I am not sure how much the "love" part really qualifies for love. What is love anyway? But the hate part....that is a bit easier to define. It starts with minor annoyances....police hassles on your way to the store, street kids pounding on your car because you didn't give them money, the seemingly illogical way many people approach daily tasks of work and life. It moves beyond minor annoyance though and before you know it, you find yourself starting sentences with "they...." and generalizing all people in the ignorant way of bigots and racists. Which is why I am constantly trying to re-evaluate my perspective and my expectations. It's too easy to get caught up in seeing all the wrong and never recognizing the right.
It has everything to do with life in a big city....life in Kinshasa specifically. Crime is everywhere. I see it in the young eyes that peer into my open passenger-side window, scanning the door lock, seat and dashboard for anything that would be quick and easy to grab as he puts his hands to his puckered mouth and implores me to give him something. A universal sign for "hungry." The only hunger I can see is his desire to grab a bag or phone or anything tangible I might have left on the seat. You can't drive like that here in Kinshasa. The car is empty; my bag is down by my feet hidden between the door and the brake pedal.
These aren't the stories that leave me with a clear sense of what's gone wrong though. I hear that story later. It's two days after I've lost my temper and yelled at the boy with his darting eyes. (Is he a boy? He wasn't a man, but boy conjures up the wrong image. He was 18 or 19 perhaps, somewhere on the cusp of adulthood.) It's weeks after I heard the story of a friend who, narrowly escaping a car accident, instinctively turned around to help the car that hadn't been so lucky. It was a car that hit someone. The person was lying on the ground and the occupants of the vehicle had gotten out and were standing around. The driver was on his knees, praying in the road. A crowd had gathered and began beating on the window of my friend's car. They wanted her to take the person to the hospital. In Kinshasa, there is no ambulance (though I am often lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens....?? It's an odd juxtaposition.) What to do? I hate even writing these words. It's like the secret of Congo. Sometimes you might do something that seems very inhumane. You can't really show up at a hospital with a dying person in your car....or even an injured person. It's all so complicated and without reason. (Hospital service deserves its very own post, but just know that doctors here don't seem to be obligated to care for the sick or injured. Money always comes first. And truth? I can see how the story would spin out for the good samaritan foreigner who arrives with a fatal patient - family, "witnesses" and police would all be on hand to concoct versions of the accident breaking from reality but potentially leading to benefit--or just plain violence. These are ugly words, I'm aware.) In this case, the crowd grew more peristent and ended up breaking the window. My friend managed to drive away. That's not even the story that pin pointed what's gone wrong. Nor was her story several days later (yes, same unlucky friend) about walking by the river a bit too close to dusk when she ended up paying some military guy 5000FC via friendly suggestion.
I had come home earlier than usual, having missed lunch and in need of some nutrients to help me attack the latest round of student work. The state of my house assaulted me first and because of this distraction, I didn't hear the story until much later in the night. Kazadi came home from his evening classes in English. He is also attending university during the day and getting ready for exams. He had been out looking for some kind of vest or jacket to wear (another incredible requirement that had me ranting and raving the lunacy of misplaced priorities- more ugly words) when his story begins. He was near the large market but had stepped into a store. An actual boutique, with walls and windows and clothing hanging from metal racks. He took one step inside and was immediately confronted with 5 other Congolese youth. They made some statements about this area belonging to them and began to demand money. They had a hand on his schoolbag and grabbed him by his sweatshirt. Apparently some punches were thrown. Kazadi calculated his situation. His bag was full of books for school, a new shirt he had just bought for the exam, and he had twenty dollars in his pocket. He could lose it all or he could play along. Someone in the store stepped beside him and said,"Just give them 500 franc." Kazadi did have 500 franc cleverly placed in a separate pocket from the $20. He pulled it out to give to them, considering how much more he could be losing (remember conversion rates.....$20 could be considered a months salary to some.) He spent some time trying to talk them down---and asking himself we're all Congolese here right? After the gang left, the rest of the people in the store had words for him, what he should or should not have done. He just shook his head and walked out, continuing his search for the right attire to wear to his exam. I think that is the most disturbing part of the story to me. Not the fact that it happened in the middle of the day or inside a real store, but the fact that it happened admist a crowd of people, not one of whom did more than just observe. Even the owner of the store was there, a casual witness to another man's crime.
That's the story that's left me with an undeniable sense of what's really gone wrong here. No one stepped up to help. In fact, the only interference was someone suggesting he just pay the money. The truth about Congo is that sometimes is really is like the wild west, a lawless no man's land where everyone is willing to turn a blind eye. It reminds me only of a quote from one of my fifth graders during a recent crusade to join the OutCry for Congo campaign- posters and photos urging Washington to make a policy change. What's the point of being human if you don't help other humans? It seems to be the question that Congo itself has forgotten.
