The Congo visa story does not have a happy ending. It has been a difficult week of ups and downs, hopes built and squashed, possibilities presented and retracted. In the end, I just couldn't make it happen. The demands were too convoluted and too expensive to meet.
While it is not a personal thing, (my own search for a visa included numerous tales of others jumping through hoops and standing on heads only to be denied at the end, despite all their acrobatics and money and effort ) it still feels personal. It is a reminder that I am - yet again- an "other." I do not belong and have no connection to claim. This Congo that inspires an intense longing and desire to fill my senses with her air, her sounds, her energy. She has rejected me.
I am left searching for the next step. Luckily, there are quite a few things to be done. Among them- start learning Bambara. It will be helpful to have some familiarity with the language before we arrive. July will be here in no time.
-And while I am too tired to try and make a smooth transition, this story somehow feels connected to me and has been popping up in my on-line browsing, inbox and social media. An overwhelming sense of powerlessness fueling so many human interactions these days.
Showing posts with label DRC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DRC. Show all posts
13.4.17
18.6.12
From South Korea, with Love
I can't remember how long it's been there. It is gnarled and dark and appears to have been forged with the first dawn of time. I drive by it several times a day and marvel at its ugliness. Apparently it was a gift. I had to stop the other day and actually walk up to read the plaque to believe this. Who would give such a thing and even worse, how do you receive something so monstrous?
To be fair, I mentioned my thoughts to a friend and she didn't exactly agree. While she didn't go so far as to proclaim beauty, she did state that she never thought of it as ugly. "Looks like a wrestling statue....or something." I snapped a few (bad) photos with my phone, which can't really do justice to the artwork. But it's a dark sculpture and I am not even sure I could capture it with my regular camera.
There are a few leg like structures that melt into each other. Faces jut out at odd angles and all seem in agony. The sculpture is coarse and rough and forged with darkness. It stands just across from the grounds of Camp Tshatshi, a military camp that surrounds our school. It is near the entrance to the old "zoo" which, legend has it, used to boast wild animals like zebras and elephants. Apparently in tough times, the zoo was loosed and all the big game were eaten. The community registration building of Ngaliema rests just behind the statue. People come here for any number of legal documents and weddings can be viewed on most weekends. It's an odd juxtaposition.
The plaque declares this a 50-years-of-independence gift to the Congolese people, who have endured terrible hardships and wishes them solidarity in the face of a radiant future. Grand words for such a bleak statue. I have read recently about the phenomenon of "dark tourism" - sites of mass death that draw in visitors. Congo certainly has a history of its own holocaust and could join its peers in erecting some kind of memorial to honor the tragedies of history that have taken place here. The statue seems to kind of fit in with this theory. It's the only one I can come up with that really makes any sense. Of course, I guess any site in DRC would be more of a living, breathing work of art- as the tragedies haven't quite ended yet.
To be fair, I mentioned my thoughts to a friend and she didn't exactly agree. While she didn't go so far as to proclaim beauty, she did state that she never thought of it as ugly. "Looks like a wrestling statue....or something." I snapped a few (bad) photos with my phone, which can't really do justice to the artwork. But it's a dark sculpture and I am not even sure I could capture it with my regular camera.
 |
| The general outline is apparent, that's really all you can see driving by as well |
 | |||
| The round nodules are faces contorted in pain |
The plaque declares this a 50-years-of-independence gift to the Congolese people, who have endured terrible hardships and wishes them solidarity in the face of a radiant future. Grand words for such a bleak statue. I have read recently about the phenomenon of "dark tourism" - sites of mass death that draw in visitors. Congo certainly has a history of its own holocaust and could join its peers in erecting some kind of memorial to honor the tragedies of history that have taken place here. The statue seems to kind of fit in with this theory. It's the only one I can come up with that really makes any sense. Of course, I guess any site in DRC would be more of a living, breathing work of art- as the tragedies haven't quite ended yet.
29.11.11
Silent Night
It's 2 am in Congo and for the first time ever I have been awakened by silence. Even the bullfrogs are quiet. Since moving to upper campus, I have found my evenings marred by loud, rumbling trucks as they pass at all hours. Less interruptive is the call of the taxi buses, singing out their destinations as they pass. Sirens also make an odd appearance in the cacophony of late night sounds, and I usually remind myself that there aren't many Western style ambulances or police cars (where are those sirens coming from?) Apparently I have gotten used to all this, as we humans are wont to do, and this early am it seems the absolute quiet has driven me from slumber.
It's election night in DRC and not a sound can be heard. I could almost be back in upstate New York with only the crickets to serenade me in these wee hours. The late night revelers have vanished, the overly loud music unplugged, the drummers retired indoors. But I know all are not sleeping. Somewhere, people are planning, configuring, and conspiring. Maybe they're counting too.
After weeks of speculation, I was surprised to hear a friend express hope for the results. "The time to speak was long ago," I argued, "when they were passing the law of one round." I can't imagine the results being anything other than favorable for the incumbent. It has always seemed the anticipation is not for the results but the response. How will the Congolese react to what must be a certain, if not altogether accurate, declaration? It seems impossible to know the true will of the people with elections passing this way. But it must come as the first step in achieving change.
Voting can be a powerful, empowering process. But it can also lead to intense emotional frustration. I spoke to some Congolese who, on the eve of election, still hadn't decided who they were planning to support. As I spent the day washing dishes in buckets and wondering how long our water reserves would hold out, I found it hard to imagine how anyone could be in favor of the status quo. But expectations are different here, life experience is different and people vote along passionate lines.
Of course, with no candidate debating or discussing of prominent issues and potential solutions, it may be hard to cast a vote inspired by anything more than passion. And blind belief.
It's election night in DRC and not a sound can be heard. I could almost be back in upstate New York with only the crickets to serenade me in these wee hours. The late night revelers have vanished, the overly loud music unplugged, the drummers retired indoors. But I know all are not sleeping. Somewhere, people are planning, configuring, and conspiring. Maybe they're counting too.
After weeks of speculation, I was surprised to hear a friend express hope for the results. "The time to speak was long ago," I argued, "when they were passing the law of one round." I can't imagine the results being anything other than favorable for the incumbent. It has always seemed the anticipation is not for the results but the response. How will the Congolese react to what must be a certain, if not altogether accurate, declaration? It seems impossible to know the true will of the people with elections passing this way. But it must come as the first step in achieving change.
 | |||
| Congolese voters search for their names before voting |
Voting can be a powerful, empowering process. But it can also lead to intense emotional frustration. I spoke to some Congolese who, on the eve of election, still hadn't decided who they were planning to support. As I spent the day washing dishes in buckets and wondering how long our water reserves would hold out, I found it hard to imagine how anyone could be in favor of the status quo. But expectations are different here, life experience is different and people vote along passionate lines.
Of course, with no candidate debating or discussing of prominent issues and potential solutions, it may be hard to cast a vote inspired by anything more than passion. And blind belief.
 | |
| Queue outside a polling station in Kin |
28.9.11
death in the drc
My neighbors are dying. It started with a man whose name I still cannot remember. I am haunted by this. I first met him as the chauffeur for our superintendent. He was so well respected that we sought to offer him a more prominent position working for the school. Some paperwork issues prevented this and led to his eventual dismissal. He found work for one of our school families instead. I saw him often on campus and always made a point to speak with him. A few years ago I sought his services to train a young friend of mine. I hoped he would not only lend his expertise as a driver but also his manner of being, his professionalism. It was a month or so ago that I learned of his death. I have no details.
Last week, a member of our atelier, the custodians and gardeners who keep our campus running and looking beautiful, lost his three year old son. The boy had been at home with his older brother when he suddenly took ill. He died quickly before his parents could even return home and seek medical care. Although money is the customary response, nothing I could offer felt adequate. I see this gentle man who has returned to work after only a few days off and am troubled by the sadness in his eyes. My words of condolence seem ineffectual and small. Death is all around us.
Mama Vero is a woman whose family I have come to know personally. I have visited her house, listened to the stories of her family and run around the yard with her children. She lost her cousin this week. He was a working man, recently imprisoned and finally released, who refused to seek medical care. It is said that upon leaving prison, one must get quickly to a doctor. Congolese prisons are places that breed illness and disease. They think he died from tuberculosis. He had a cough that wouldn't stop until one day it just did. He left behind a wife and young children.
Just as she was leaving with sad news of the funeral occurring tomorrow, Kazadi returned from the market. He asked me if I knew Patrick. Of course, I was acquainted with the young entrepreneur who sold phone cards just outside of the gate. I always preferred to buy from him and often tried to delay my purchase until I saw his umbrella out and his stand open. I hadn't seen him since my return from the summer. Kazadi told me he had stopped by when he saw a woman in Patrick's usual place. Upon inquiring, he found that Patrick had died. Although I did not know this man very personally, the news caused my mouth to drop open. I froze in mid preparation of our evening meal. Patrick? Dead? Not much was offered in the way of reason. Apparently he had died 5 months before. He had a swelling on his arm which was believed to have come from someone he was in conflict with. This ill wishing neighbor had placed a curse on him. No cure could be found and so he succumbed to death.
All around me, my neighbors are dying.
Last week, a member of our atelier, the custodians and gardeners who keep our campus running and looking beautiful, lost his three year old son. The boy had been at home with his older brother when he suddenly took ill. He died quickly before his parents could even return home and seek medical care. Although money is the customary response, nothing I could offer felt adequate. I see this gentle man who has returned to work after only a few days off and am troubled by the sadness in his eyes. My words of condolence seem ineffectual and small. Death is all around us.
Mama Vero is a woman whose family I have come to know personally. I have visited her house, listened to the stories of her family and run around the yard with her children. She lost her cousin this week. He was a working man, recently imprisoned and finally released, who refused to seek medical care. It is said that upon leaving prison, one must get quickly to a doctor. Congolese prisons are places that breed illness and disease. They think he died from tuberculosis. He had a cough that wouldn't stop until one day it just did. He left behind a wife and young children.
Just as she was leaving with sad news of the funeral occurring tomorrow, Kazadi returned from the market. He asked me if I knew Patrick. Of course, I was acquainted with the young entrepreneur who sold phone cards just outside of the gate. I always preferred to buy from him and often tried to delay my purchase until I saw his umbrella out and his stand open. I hadn't seen him since my return from the summer. Kazadi told me he had stopped by when he saw a woman in Patrick's usual place. Upon inquiring, he found that Patrick had died. Although I did not know this man very personally, the news caused my mouth to drop open. I froze in mid preparation of our evening meal. Patrick? Dead? Not much was offered in the way of reason. Apparently he had died 5 months before. He had a swelling on his arm which was believed to have come from someone he was in conflict with. This ill wishing neighbor had placed a curse on him. No cure could be found and so he succumbed to death.
All around me, my neighbors are dying.
20.8.10
Worldwide Caution
I've received my latest update from the United States Department of State Bureau of Consular Affairs. It is a lengthy caution about the risks of traveling as an American citizen. Apparently, many peoples of the world would like to do me in based upon my nationality. I receive many of these emails and texts messages from the American embassy here in Congo as well. They generally restate the fact that travel in and around Congo is dangerous. Some detail particular areas of heavy police presence or recent increase in robberies or other crimes against Westerners in a particular area. I find them akin to the evening news - only relating the very worst parts of life and rarely referring to the many positive aspects that occur more frequently.
For example, police in Kinshasa are the punch line to many a joke (shame-facedly I admit to laughing myself into tears during a recent teacher orientation exercise in which groups role-played traffic in Kin: police bribes, the infamous "third lane" complete with sirened, presidential motorcade and a dead pedestrian lying admist traffic that barely drove around him were all spotlights of the skits,) but one rarely hears about the danger they put themselves in every day trying to direct the horrendous, complex, fast, disrespectful-of-police-presence traffic. No one commends the excellent job they do diverting 6 lanes of traffic into 1 at the notorious crossroads of the Boulevard and Justice. And I am not sure how often anyone (besides me, who has become quite conscious of fashionware in Kin---always on the look out for sappeaurs and other fancy dressers) notices the incredibly HOT uniforms they wear (LONG sleeved dark blue shirts, long pants, combat type BOOTS...oh! and if they happen to be wearing their 'riot gear' that day---add in knee pads, elbow pads, helmet......) I have gotten good directions from the police in Kinshasa, exchanged friendly banter that had me smiling as I drove away, received assistance to enter into traffic and cross an otherwise impenetrable road....It's not all bad.
But the cautions from the Department of State serve a purpose. One is to cover themselves. I believe they are willing to rescue me from minor dangers and to help evacuate my person, should I need evacuating. And if they can't fulfill these duties (in the event of death or capture) at least they can say I was properly warned. Secondly, these message serve as a reminder to be aware of personal safety at all times.
Personal safety has been on my mind a lot. Just before leaving Kin on my visit to the US I had been feeling especially vulnerable and aware of how trips out didn't seem so spontaneous and free but calculated and worrisome. More specifically, trips in the car....I have generally felt safe on foot.
I've since determined I am in the middle. People often ask about the safety features when they hear I am living in Congo...or for those wishing to visit or new recruits to school. They wonder---Can you tavel about freely? How far out of the city can you go? What are the security risks?
It is difficult to answer questions like these because safety is a very personal issue. Everyone has a varying degree of risk that they feel comfortable with. It seems fair to say this risk is in constant fluxuation in countries like Congo depending upon recent events, personal experience and access or exposure to the various levels of rumor and gossip around town.
I've assigned myself to the risk group "middle" based on a global evaluation of basic human safety. We're all living with some kind of risk. Crime and hateful humans abound in every pocket of the world. Rural communities will always be "shocked at the heinous crime rocking this town" but they shouldn't be. They've just been living under a veil of complacency and delusion.
In the US, I gave virtually no thought to my personal safety. Some cats banging on the door in the night were the closest I came to feeling threatened. In Congo, I am aware of safety. It is something I consider nearly daily. The actual feeling of being threatened or in danger has really only occurred once or twice and the danger level was minimal....discomfort at most. Recent stories about Sanam Gul (also Bibi Sanam) a 47 year old widow who was accused of adultery (becoming pregnant) and then shot http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/08/09/afghanistan.woman.killed/index.html?hpt=T2#fbid=XddCd_mtOSq&wom=false
or the woman from Guerekindo, in Central African Republic, who watched her husband and five children get tied up and taken away http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2010/08/11/cardr-congo-lra-conducts-massive-abduction-campaign have made me realize in many parts of the world, people are living in incomprehensible states of fear and danger. My small apprehensions seem like grains of sand shaken from a toddler's shoes after a day at the playground. Annoying, bothersome but no great trouble to sweep up. Certainly not life changing.
Of course, the trickiest part of all of this is that shattering moments sneak up on us when we are least expecting them. They remind us that we can be powerless in the hands of others and ultimately in the hands of fate (or destiny, kharma, God's plan, whichever frame we are using to view the our world events.) So many stories from former child soldiers begin with idealic tales of life in the African countryside. They were walking home from school on a normal quiet day or playing with friends at the river when the unthinkable happened. The millions of women raped in the Congo begin their tale with ordinary days working in the garden, boiling water for meal preparation or washing clothes by the stream.
Occasionally, people know they are living in terror. Jonathan Kozol's book Savage Inequalities http://faculty.fordham.edu/kpking/classes/uege5102-pres-and-newmedia/Jonathan-Kozol-Savage-Inequalities-by-D-Beauford.pdf and others targeting inner city life in the US include stories about children diving onto their living room floors (which are cleared out because all of the furniture has been moved in front of the windows) to avoid stray bullets. Sometimes, this is not enough. Their bodies are found slumped beneath beds or fallen on basketball courts, victims of misplaced hate and violence. These same children live in apartments with unchecked plumbing and unpredicatble electricity or heat. Pockets of disturbing distress exist in all countries, in villages and cities, in homes, on street corners and in temporary (refugee) camps around the world.
These are the palces I am thinking of as I tell my boys, yes, it's ok to go out and ride your bike around campus. Even as we hail a taxi into town or walk down the hill to the vegetable market, I am aware, I am cautious and I am outraged. Worldwide caution perhaps, but living conditions for many remains unacceptable and inhuman. Where are my messages from the Department of State calling for worldwide action?
For example, police in Kinshasa are the punch line to many a joke (shame-facedly I admit to laughing myself into tears during a recent teacher orientation exercise in which groups role-played traffic in Kin: police bribes, the infamous "third lane" complete with sirened, presidential motorcade and a dead pedestrian lying admist traffic that barely drove around him were all spotlights of the skits,) but one rarely hears about the danger they put themselves in every day trying to direct the horrendous, complex, fast, disrespectful-of-police-presence traffic. No one commends the excellent job they do diverting 6 lanes of traffic into 1 at the notorious crossroads of the Boulevard and Justice. And I am not sure how often anyone (besides me, who has become quite conscious of fashionware in Kin---always on the look out for sappeaurs and other fancy dressers) notices the incredibly HOT uniforms they wear (LONG sleeved dark blue shirts, long pants, combat type BOOTS...oh! and if they happen to be wearing their 'riot gear' that day---add in knee pads, elbow pads, helmet......) I have gotten good directions from the police in Kinshasa, exchanged friendly banter that had me smiling as I drove away, received assistance to enter into traffic and cross an otherwise impenetrable road....It's not all bad.
But the cautions from the Department of State serve a purpose. One is to cover themselves. I believe they are willing to rescue me from minor dangers and to help evacuate my person, should I need evacuating. And if they can't fulfill these duties (in the event of death or capture) at least they can say I was properly warned. Secondly, these message serve as a reminder to be aware of personal safety at all times.
Personal safety has been on my mind a lot. Just before leaving Kin on my visit to the US I had been feeling especially vulnerable and aware of how trips out didn't seem so spontaneous and free but calculated and worrisome. More specifically, trips in the car....I have generally felt safe on foot.
I've since determined I am in the middle. People often ask about the safety features when they hear I am living in Congo...or for those wishing to visit or new recruits to school. They wonder---Can you tavel about freely? How far out of the city can you go? What are the security risks?
It is difficult to answer questions like these because safety is a very personal issue. Everyone has a varying degree of risk that they feel comfortable with. It seems fair to say this risk is in constant fluxuation in countries like Congo depending upon recent events, personal experience and access or exposure to the various levels of rumor and gossip around town.
I've assigned myself to the risk group "middle" based on a global evaluation of basic human safety. We're all living with some kind of risk. Crime and hateful humans abound in every pocket of the world. Rural communities will always be "shocked at the heinous crime rocking this town" but they shouldn't be. They've just been living under a veil of complacency and delusion.
In the US, I gave virtually no thought to my personal safety. Some cats banging on the door in the night were the closest I came to feeling threatened. In Congo, I am aware of safety. It is something I consider nearly daily. The actual feeling of being threatened or in danger has really only occurred once or twice and the danger level was minimal....discomfort at most. Recent stories about Sanam Gul (also Bibi Sanam) a 47 year old widow who was accused of adultery (becoming pregnant) and then shot http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/asiapcf/08/09/afghanistan.woman.killed/index.html?hpt=T2#fbid=XddCd_mtOSq&wom=false
or the woman from Guerekindo, in Central African Republic, who watched her husband and five children get tied up and taken away http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2010/08/11/cardr-congo-lra-conducts-massive-abduction-campaign have made me realize in many parts of the world, people are living in incomprehensible states of fear and danger. My small apprehensions seem like grains of sand shaken from a toddler's shoes after a day at the playground. Annoying, bothersome but no great trouble to sweep up. Certainly not life changing.
Of course, the trickiest part of all of this is that shattering moments sneak up on us when we are least expecting them. They remind us that we can be powerless in the hands of others and ultimately in the hands of fate (or destiny, kharma, God's plan, whichever frame we are using to view the our world events.) So many stories from former child soldiers begin with idealic tales of life in the African countryside. They were walking home from school on a normal quiet day or playing with friends at the river when the unthinkable happened. The millions of women raped in the Congo begin their tale with ordinary days working in the garden, boiling water for meal preparation or washing clothes by the stream.
Occasionally, people know they are living in terror. Jonathan Kozol's book Savage Inequalities http://faculty.fordham.edu/kpking/classes/uege5102-pres-and-newmedia/Jonathan-Kozol-Savage-Inequalities-by-D-Beauford.pdf and others targeting inner city life in the US include stories about children diving onto their living room floors (which are cleared out because all of the furniture has been moved in front of the windows) to avoid stray bullets. Sometimes, this is not enough. Their bodies are found slumped beneath beds or fallen on basketball courts, victims of misplaced hate and violence. These same children live in apartments with unchecked plumbing and unpredicatble electricity or heat. Pockets of disturbing distress exist in all countries, in villages and cities, in homes, on street corners and in temporary (refugee) camps around the world.
These are the palces I am thinking of as I tell my boys, yes, it's ok to go out and ride your bike around campus. Even as we hail a taxi into town or walk down the hill to the vegetable market, I am aware, I am cautious and I am outraged. Worldwide caution perhaps, but living conditions for many remains unacceptable and inhuman. Where are my messages from the Department of State calling for worldwide action?
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