Durable Solutions

Work day garden project – Photo by Dr. J

Today was another incredibly full day of research. The morning started slow because today is the official work day of the month. On the last Saturday of every month, members of the community are expected to participate in a national work day—projects that are generally related to aesthetic improvement conducted all across the country. The “day” ends at 11 am, but until then, no one should be on the road driving. To respect our driver’s wishes to not be the weirdos on the road when everyone else was working, we decided to start the morning slow and go for a walk. By the time we got to town, people were already making their way home from their projects and cars were beginning to take back the roads. We wound up the mountain to a beautiful, old stone church that is one of the major local genocide memorials. There were women in the courtyard dressed in amazing colors sweeping and meticulously weeding the garden in front of the casing that still holds bones of victims that were killed there in 1994. The orderliness of the work project to clean up the garden was in such contrast to the chaos that the memorial commemorates. After watching them for a bit and soaking in the sound of brooms brushing the dirt away, we joined in and began weeding the garden. It was nice to get a little dirt in our fingernails and help with the garden. Afterwards we took a bunch of pictures. Despite the linguistic gap, I think we made some friends.

Busy day at the camp – Photo by Dr. J

We were a little farther from our hotel than we’d thought, so our driver came to pick us up and head to the refugee camp. I can’t say that I love the drive up to the camp. The deep crevices in the road have been etched into the earth by torrential rains flowing down the mountain. Yesterday on the way home, these ruts became rivers that seemed like they could sweep us away. Today, though the road was dry, I hadn’t taken any motion sickness meds so I remember every bump and swerve. Veering nearly to the edge of this incredibly steep mountain, we wound and bounced our way up the mountain—sometimes it was so bumpy the seatbelt was actually painful. As we round the bend to the “gate” (string), the sun was at its highest and we were feeling really optimistic. All the calls had been made and we were allowed back in!

The guard at the gate, at the tender age of 16, enforced their restriction on unauthorized entry. We were forced to call our contact who talked him into taking down the string. As we drove through, my professor had the great idea of interviewing this kid for my dissertation data. Seriously, at 16 years old, how many of you were in charge of the safety of 16,000 of your community members?

Field work and Fanta – Photo by Dr. J

I can’t possibly cover all the events of the day without boring you here, but I’ll try not to miss the good bits. We filed into the same mud room as the day before, only this time with more people. Our friend had the excellent idea to buy everyone soft drinks for spending their time on a Saturday with us. Apparently large portions of refugees in this camp are Adventist and go to church on Saturday, plus there was a large funeral that morning. They were all very busy, but there were many security representatives at the village level that took time to meet with us today. During the middle of our meeting, the rain began to pour down in sheets. I don’t mind the rain, but the tin roof above us made it nearly deafening at times! I was on a total academic high to have the cooperation and participation of all of these people and my professor and her good Rwandan friend. I remember after the rain cleared I looked over at my professor as she asked a question to the group, and then back over to our friend as she translated the question. The light from the open door and window lit their faces and all I could think was how beautiful they were. Here, we’re in the field. It’s so real and so dreamy at the same time. I don’t know how I got to be this person sitting here listening to these people’s strategy to secure the safety of 16,000 people on a hilltop. Surreal.

The gate (string) into the camp – Photo by Dr. J

Today the security was infinitely more lax. I don’t know if it’s because it was Saturday, or because (as my professor thinks) it’s because we actually made the effort to come back the second day—bureaucracy is no match for us!! Either way, we made our way to the market only to find that it was mostly closed. Then Gaston invited us into his house again to visit his mother. We met his local security representative who shooed the children that had been groping and draping themselves across my arms. If the kids think you’re not looking, they’ll do all kinds of experimenting with your hands. Petting, twisting and even pinching. One little girl this morning who was barely higher than my knee was kneading my hand and did a little twirl under my arm. My attention was diverted to another conversation, and the next thing I know she’d rolled my entire hand over her face. I felt her nose and cheeks squish between my fingers. Then she ran off. I really don’t mind it so much, but I can’t imagine it happening anywhere else.

Anyway, after Gaston’s we got to tour our new friend (and translator) Louis’ house. This amazing 23 year old is the elected head of education in the camp, a math teacher, and an orphan that has raised his three other siblings since he was 12. We sat in his house and talked with him for a bit. He’s one of the lucky ones that got to go to school somewhere outside the camp. He proudly showed off an entire photo album of pictures from his school and pictures of his friends who have been resettled in other countries. My professor held his baby nephew who seemed okay at first, but eventually her whiteness overrode his shock and he began to cry. Oops!

ARC Playground that’s gated – Photo by Dr. J

The afternoon really flew by. In a whirlwind we saw: a sign for an internet café, which apparently is not operational because the internet to the camp has been cut (UNHCR is supposed to be working on this); a small building no bigger than the average American bathroom where people can pay to watch films (Louis said he’s seen a Schwarzenegger film there!); a solar panel strapped to the top of a house (Louis said they’re ‘pretending’ to be rich); the many places where locally brewed beer made from sorghum is sold (half of day of work for an NGO to pay for one beer!); a watching crowd full of seemingly mean faces that quickly open up to easy smiles, warm handshakes, and invitations to visit their homes; and a random tiny playground built by an American NGO but entirely gated and kept in pristine conditions (I can only imagine that it decorates the cover of a glossy brochure somewhere encouraging donors to send money to the camp). While there were many requests of the foreigners walking around, the thing that seemed to carry the most weight was the fact that we cared and that we were willing to share their story with others. Here’s the truth, for all those whose ethnocentrism convinces them that all immigrants want to stay in American (or other developed country): The Congolese refugees just want to go home. That’s the number one solution to their “misery” that they always state. Second would be to have more opportunities to settle abroad. Though the camp is relatively safe and orderly, there can be no real human security without opportunities in life. Idleness breeds problems and is a waste of human potential. Who can sit around and wait for 18 years? For the majority of people, there is literally nothing to do. I asked Gaston what he will do tomorrow when we’re not there and he said “Walk around, just like every day. There’s nothing else to do.” They begged us to talk to our government so that they could figure out what wrong with the Congo and everyone could go home. Please tell your colleagues and advocate for us so that we can have more education opportunities and the chance to go home. Louis told me that our visit means so much because now he knows that people in other places care about what happens to them. They are not forgotten, but how do I make them see that? What can I do to help?? Don’t think this is me feeling overwhelmed and giving up. On the contrary, I’m brainstorming aloud and inviting you to join in!

Gaston talking about his durable solution – Photo by Dr. J

The sun was setting fast, and despite all the invitations to visit more houses—probably mostly due to the ‘president’s’ conspicuous absence in the late afternoon—we had to head back. That road would be impossible to navigate in the dark, and no one’s supposed to be in the camp after 5 pm anyway (their curfew is at 7, 9 at the latest). Gaston informed us that he has been selected for resettlement by UNHCR, so really he could end up anywhere. He told me, “For me, this is my durable solution.” That’s UN-speak for “going home will never be possible for me.” We said our final goodbyes to our friend Gaston, and we made him promise that we would all keep in touch. How do you really make promises like that though, when poverty keeps them from maintaining a functional telephone? I’m just thankful that technology has made its way into these contexts so he has a phone number at all for us to call. For perspective on that, I asked if I could mail the pictures I took. What’s the address? The “address” is: find an NGO that comes to the camp, send the pictures to them with our friend’s name on it, and ask them to hand carry it in when they get a chance. Apparently this system has worked in the past. No mail. Not really.

Despite the way this entry may sound, I’m feeling really motivated and really inspired. Maybe this reality check is the kick in the arse I need to actually get my dissertation moving forward. It’s not for me anymore, it’s for all those who want what I have: a safe place to sleep at night, a relative certainty that I will wake up tomorrow and my country’s laws and policies will protect me and be fair to me, and the knowledge that if I want to get a job or pursue education or other opportunities, that it’s within my reach. Tomorrow, I will not walk around in circles until curfew only to start over the next day. Tomorrow, I will type up my field notes and begin my promise of advocating for a better future.