"The Field..."

The humanitarian circle is full of abbreviations, acronyms, and catch phrases. A good part of my graduate school was spent learning acronyms found in this sector. The millennial generation has a lot in common with the humanitarian world in their love of acronyms but instead of LOL, BFF, brb, and l8r, humanitarians use NFI’s, OCHA, NGO, UNICEF, CFW, and so many more. In addition, a common phrase is « the field. » Everyone knows this term means outside of the office, usually the place where the projects we support are physically located or implemented. If someone goes out on a mission, they usually say « I am going to the field. » After that fact is established, « the field » is then defined more specifically including directions and names of towns or coordinates. 

I am not sure why going on a mission is termed as going to the field but once verbalized imaginary implications automatically surface. I guess in English a field can be defined as a empty space, not much existing there, sort of brushy, and not particularly a pleasant place to be nor one that holds much attraction – a similar definition of « the field » when used in the humanitarian sense just implying more potential of adventure. 

Three weeks ago I went to the field. I don’t have many opportunities to work outside of my office due to the level of my work load. It is hard to answer 60 emails a day when literally in a field. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to this adventure which is quite unusual for me. I think my hesitation was provoked by the stack of papers on my desk that would only grow in my absence but also the security situation I knew I was getting myself into. 

My trip was going to take place over the course of two days, including an overnight stay in a town that was secure but surrounded by militia activity. The route we traveled is the most insecure axe that we work on. In addition, I was told to be the first white person to travel that axe since the war started, thus early 2000’s. I have been in other places before where people had never seen a white person before. It was again the case on this trip, however, the older generation had seen white people before. In safer times, there were many missionaries in this region that fled as a result of the war. I can’t say that the militia were too impressed with my presence but the local communities were. Despite the stories I heard, it seemed as though the face of a white person gave hope that their situation was improving and it was now safe enough for one to dare travel their roads. 

As anticipated the road was full of militia movements. Mid-trip we received advice from one of the hospitals to be careful because « these militia are aggressive. » It’s quite an interesting sensation to look into the eyes of a militia man or should I say boy. You know the person you are looking at has most likely killed, raped, and stole as that is how they survive. In addition, you are looking at someone who has done all of this and is as young as 13. They are also quite frequently on some form of natural or unnatural substances. Combining substance abuse with political motives, a hard life filled with suffering, and a AK-47 creates a very unpredictable person. Me being white and female also provides various options to exercise opportunistic tendencies. 

In between each town with militia presence is the Congolese Army (FARDC) and the UN’s mission (MONUSCO). While driving, I would take a sigh of relief and give my heart a break when we arrived in one of the later two’s territory. And also between all of this mix are our health centers I was going to meet. 

Despite the circumstances, it is really amazing to be able to support the communities that we are. All of these communities are victim’s in the crossfire of these three political and military actors. We are helping people who are displaced by non-stop conflict, children, and violated women. It messes with your mind a bit to look into the faces of the perpetrators and the victims within the same space, which they do as well themselves as there is no way to escape. 

I found myself being the listening ear throughout this trip. We would stop at medical clinics and hospitals and people would share their stories of what was going on. At one hospital the doctor was exhausted. He recounted stories to us : the night before someone had been kidnapped, a week before two children were burned alive in their home, three days before a woman was gang rapped and still hadn’t sought medical treatment. The constant state of insecurity was wearing on him. In addition, we put him at risk because we showed up to the hospital – a white person and a car = money was exchanged. Another person we met told us 17 homes had been burned down and the clinic looted. Now the whole community, including himself, wife, and children were living in the forest too scared to go back. And to what, burned down houses?

The second day on our way back home I was getting irritated. Roads in Congo aren’t easy to travel. It was blazing hot. Dust everywhere. My colleagues hasn’t planned our stops as well as they should have thus forcing us to back-track a few times. It was Friday – so already tired of a week of work. One person in the group noticed and asked if I was ok. In the moment, I was quite harsh on myself thinking, - I can’t handle two days in the field ?! I used to live this every day in Tanzania. Have I gone soft ? I also thought why am I irritated ? I am driving in a land cruiser opposed to everyone else we passed on a motorbike with them their whole family. I didn’t spend the night in a mud hut, I had eaten that day, and I wasn’t suffering from medical condition like so many we had come in contact with throughout the trip. 

We took the same route back home as there was no other option. About half way, I knew we had to go through a town that yesterday was quite heavily armed with a militia group. They occupied both the entrance and the exit a few kilometers apart. We made it safely through the outer-edge of town where a traditional mud hut was occupied by at least 20 militia. They saw the vehicle approaching and one of them placed himself directly in the middle of the road. He made a hand gesture for us to stop. Us driving a right handed vehicle and me being in the passenger seat meant I was the closest person to the group. My stomach jumped to my throat and my heart beat out of control. I could also sense my Congolese travelers hesitation and hear their shallow gasp of breath – making me more nervous. Just as the vehicle came to a halt, another militia distracted the one in the middle of the road and they starting fighting. It provided the window of opportunity we needed to escape and drove the car as quickly as possible passed them. Following in our wake was a pile of dust and a potentially terrible situation. We exhaled. 

This incident came after my mental reprimand for being irritated but now I had a different perspective and gave myself a bit more grace for how I was feeling. The last 36hrs I had lived in a constant state of alert. I was mentally exhausted leading to a physical, unconscious reaction. Needless to say by the time I got home, I didn’t feel guilty for being happy to back in my house with my bed, flush toilet, and most importantly a safer environment. 

But at the end of the day, Congo is suffering. Congo has suffered for a REALLY long time, too long. My trip to the field brought that more real to me than ever. Seeing first hand the people, the weapons, and the victims all caught up in this mess covered in a layer of dust masking the reality allowing the majority of this world to be ignorant of this conflict is very sobering. My trip to the field wasn’t exactly pleasant but I can never say it is an empty space with nothing existing there – all too much is being allowed to exist in this field. 

                                  (A health clinic we support. If you are sick, you sleep here)