Dara - HRI

DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF CONGO

From one camp to another…

Displaced in Buhimba camp

Gilles Gasser

To organise a head count in a displaced persons camp, one has to get up at the crack of dawn. This is what UNHCR members do, accompanied by the NGO Norwegian Rescue Council (NCR) and local NGO members, who are taking part in this operation in the Buhimba camp 15 kilometres from Goma. They arrive at three in the morning. The vehicles make their way through a landscape worthy of Joseph Conrad: swamps, jungle, tall grass… everything is green except the red mud path. The camp is built on a desolate plain of volcanic rock a few kilometres from the border with Rwanda, an area well known as the last sanctuary for mountain gorillas and for its two volcanoes. Every 25 years there are eruptions. The last time the Nyiragongo blew was in January 2002. Streams of lava 300 meters wide and three metres high surged down the steep slopes of the volcano only 10 kilometres from Goma. The burning stream destroyed everything - vegetation, roads, houses, factories and crops until it finally reached the cold waters of Lake Kivu. Goma was partially destroyed. The surrounding countryside was transformed into a moonscape of volcanic craters, jagged rocks and red dust.

The camp is sound asleep. It is divided into 54 blocks. In each block there are 48 huts made of sticks, leaves, straw and white plastic sheeting. “We organise these head counts at night to avoid mistakes or fraud,” explains Carole from UNHCR Goma, “this way the families are asleep and we avoid discrepancies in the figures due to visitors who come into the camp during the day. The people we count are the real occupants of Buhimba”. In each block a team is deployed made up of two local NGO members and a police officer. UNHCR and NRC expatriates supervise the exercise closely. All the occupants of the huts are woken up. They are lined up in front of their home and the humanitarian workers count them. Before letting them go back to bed, the humanitarian workers put a red plastic band on their wrists. From block to block, hut to hut, the operation is repeated calmly. Little by little the camp stirs back to life. The displaced persons (Hindus, Tutsis, Pygmies, Hutus and Tembos, etc.) invade the steep, narrow, rocky paths of the camp. Here and there fires are lit. Through the swirling smoke one can see squatting women heating water. Noisy, teasing children dart about among the humanitarian workers. Men sitting on a slope observe the unusual scene in silence.

It’s ten thirty. The first phase of the camp registration has gone well. “Before this head count, the camp population was estimated to be 16,363 people,” adds Carole. “After today’s operation, we know that 11,080 displaced persons actually live in Buhimba. A drop of 30%”. Every day hundred of inhabitants from Goma come into the camp to receive a little of the aid distributed to the displaced occupants and then they return home. Hunger does not end at the camp’s borders. Not to mention those who went to foster families or who decided to return to their homes. Most of the camp’s occupants come from Masisi and Bahunde. In August 2007, when fighting broke out between FARDC, the government army and the different militias that flourish in the area, (CNDP, PARECO-Maï Maï, FDLR), the civilian population became trapped in the cross fire between two or even three sides. “It was terrible,” recalls Jerôme, a former judge of the secondary court in Masisi. “At first we hid in the forest around our villages but the situation got worse every day. There was talk of massacres, rapes. To save our families we had no choice but to escape”. So, Jerome and his family left, along with hundreds of thousands of people living in the area.

At first they lived in hiding, fleeing in a state of exhaustion and constant anxiety. When they reached Goma they were welcomed by their families. For others, the RDC Government had set up the “lake camp”. Thousands of displaced persons were squeezed together like sardines in an makeshift camp. “There, the conditions were terrible,” reveals Jerôme, with disgust on his face. Sometimes it rained so hard that even the huts built side by side disappeared. Groups of refugees took shelter under banana leaves while others huddled under torn umbrellas. They had to fight against hunger, cholera, epidemics… find water… survive. Daily life in the camp was one of violence and extortion committed by bandits and government army soldiers. “That was not the worst part,” admits a member of an international NGO. “Tens of thousands of people couldn’t get into the lake camp and began to gather in the outskirts of Goma. Even though they had absolutely nothing, they settled in a volcanic area of stone and lava which was totally inhospitable”. Aid was mobilised but it came late, far too late. When there was a downpour, the people crowded together for hours with nothing to protect them other than their bodies, waiting for a bright patch among the clouds, a ray of light in their lives. Pneumonia, malaria and dysentery killed many. Afterwards, aid was organised. In October 2007, the Buhimba camp was ready.

This was a camp with orderly rows, blocks, latrines and showers. UNHCR coordinated the work of the NGOs. NRC was responsible for managing the camp, Oxfam UK for water and drainage, IMC for health, WFP for food, Save the Children for reuniting families and WWF for providing firewood. Digging the latrines was the hardest part, as the hard volcanic rock made everything more difficult. Now the priority is to locate orphaned children or children who have lost their parents in the exile. “Registration will enable us to compile detailed information about the families in the camp, become familiar with their profile and it will also help to identify children who are alone”.

The teams that carried out the headcount at dawn spread out again through the camp. Patiently, they fill out information sheets in each hut. They ask for names, number of family members, ages, illnesses, etc. When they finish the interview they cut the wristbands with a scissors. Now they have been registered. Soon they will receive a UNHCR displaced persons card that will give them the right to receive the distributions in the camp. “Abarigan? What’s your story?” a man cleaning a shoe in a buckled basin is asked. His name is Biamongu and he is 35 years old. “I had to escape with my family… like an animal,” he says without pausing in his chore. “I lost everything. I know they destroyed my house and that it is impossible to return for now… The Rwandans are still there.” The heat is suffocating in the hut, just as it is in all of them. There is not the slightest bit of shade in the whole camp. There is just sun, and more sun. Seven people live in 6 square metres: Biamongu, his five children and his pregnant wife. The conditions are austere but they appear to meet humanitarian standards. “We don’t have mattresses,” he complains, “just straw mats. Sleeping on the volcanic rock is impossible. Our backs are destroyed and the children cry all night. We need mattresses and more blankets.”

Outside, registrations continues. Sifra answers the questions courteously. When asked where her husband is, she replies that he is in hospital. Malaria. She visited him once in the hospital at Goma, but now she is too busy looking after her eight children. Like many others in the camp, she would like to receive seeds and tools to cultivate the land, even if it is only to improve their diet of corn flour and peas. “We could grow everything, cassava, potatoes, tomatoes and aubergines. We have asked at meetings with NGOs. It is very important”. For the moment they have not been given anything. It is difficult to distribute this type of aid when the declared objective of the international community is for these people to return to their homes. “Go back?” shouts 25 year old Zekia. “That is just plain crazy right now. The murderers are still in our village. And there is the problem of landmines”.

Tall and strong, with a defiant look in her eyes, Zekia embodies the troubles of a poor people who have suffered constantly because of incessant conflicts. He is Tutsi. In 1996, part of his family was massacred by radical Hutus who had fled from Rwanda. Miraculously, he escaped with his parents. This happened during the Great Lakes crisis, characterised by years of inter-ethnic massacres, overwhelming scarcity and permanent fear. When the situation stabilised, they returned to their village to rebuild their lives little by little with the few resources they had. But the militias hiding in the forests continued with their barbaric cruelty. Two young female cousins were raped and the family’s crops were systematically looted. “Here I am happy because we cannot be killed. The camp is well organised. The only thing is that we have nothing to do. We spend the whole day wandering around the camp… If we even had footballs…,” concluded Zekia, accompanied by his two friends Motebois and Kanane.

Kanane’s hut caught on fire last Sunday. The nights are cool and like many other displaced persons, Kanane had made a small fire inside the hut. A few sparks and the cabin of sticks and straw went up in flames. Luckily, there were no injuries. “The worst thing is,” explains Kanane angrily, “that I lost my election card. It was the only identity card I had”. With his wife, they rebuilt the traditional house in two days. It is near the limits of the camp. An acrid smell of sulphur burns one’s nostrils. Two metres from the camp a split in the rocks can be seen containing natural pockets of gas. Just one more danger for those rescued from Masisi.

Not far, there is a school called Epe Aleluya. “Every day I go to study” says Salomé proudly. With her shaved head, protruding eyes and a radiant smile, this little girl leads a gaggle of likeable yet tiresome children. “We walk there every morning. It takes us half an hour. We have a much better time there than in the camp. We can do things, and play.” The school is a kilometre away and 1,200 children attend. The classes are overflowing. “How many?”, “A thousand,” replies Salomé in a fit of laughter. In the RDC, not all children are so lucky. In Masisi, some of Salomé’s school friends were kidnapped by armed militias and forcefully recruited. They are used as cannon fodder or sex slaves and their living conditions are atrocious. They are forced to eat bullets before going into combat, torture their comrades who try to escape, take part in group rapes or to swallow cocktails of drugs and alcohol. Although now there are demobilising campaigns, they are being hindered by the resurgence of fighting in North Kivu. Salomé goes away with her gang. Her mother is calling her - the humanitarian workers want to remove her wristband.

The occupants of 40 of the 54 blocks have been registered. The humanitarian workers who have working since three in the morning are exhausted. The operation will finish tomorrow. A giant of a man with a baritone voice appears. “My name is Jacques Chirac,” he exclaims. “Why?”… “Because I am the President of France” … This man has plenty of humour and wit. “Before I had a job. I worked for a building company making roads. Now I am unemployed … There are no roads, paths, or trails….”