Who Is My Neighbor? Refugee Camps from Congo

You may have heard that fighting in the DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) has gotten worse in the past few months, maybe even heard that thousands of refugees have been pouring from eastern Congo into Rwanda and Uganda.  But even if you knew all of that, it probably stopped there.  Around 8,000 refugees poured into Rwanda in May, overcrowding a camp near the border (much too near to be safe—we drove by it last week) that was made to hold 5,400.  It was crammed with 13,000.  Because of this, and because of the safety hazards, the refugees were bussed down to a mountain that used to serve as a refugee camp for Burundians a few years ago.  This mountain is 20 minutes from my home, and smack dab in the middle of the area that we work in.

This camp opened in mid-June, and now homes 10,000 people.  Yesterday they were bringing in another wave of people—the UNHCR trucks and mini-buses that hold around 25 people came one after another by me as I walked down the street, caravanning to their new homes: tents stacked next to each other, on top of each other, covering these tree-spotted mountains.  

Ever since I heard that refugees were coming here, I longed to visit the camp.  When I first started thinking about my practicum this summer, I was hoping to spend it in Congo.  Although that didn’t happen, my heart still burns for that nation.  To be honest, I didn’t think there would be a chance I could visit the camp, since it’s not okay to visit unless you are invited and planning on being there long-term to help out.  That all changed today.

A couple weeks ago, the Vice-Mayor of Social Affairs for our district contacted my boss, telling her that the conditions in the camps were terrible, and that we needed to help.  She told him to draw up the necessary paperwork, and he never did.  My hopes were dashed.  But today the Mayor called, pleading for her to see if we could do something, since malnutrition rates—both moderate and severe—are very high among children in the camps (who comprise 70% of the population). 

Suddenly, while I was sitting at my desk, my supervisor walked in and asked if I wanted to see the camps.  We were going in to do an assessment on the issues surrounding nutrition, meeting with various directors and leaders there, observing the daily screening and nutrition status surveillance.  Within five minutes, we were leaving the driveway.

I knew it would be bad at the camps.  Just seeing thousands of people living in tents identical to each other, one after another, after another…I knew it would be hard.  As we waited to meet the camp director, we talked to some kids in the parking lot.  They told us that their school won’t open until January.  That’s another six months of nothing—of little girls carrying jerry cans of water up the hill on their heads…a painful sight.

We were ushered into the camp, and a bench was taken away from waiting women for the medical tent so that we could sit down in a tent nearby.  We waited for the doctor and camp nutritionist to come, and I realized I had just stepped in something that looked like the fluid that comes when a woman’s water breaks.  The rest of the tent was clean.  Right outside was the line of women waiting in line for their children to be screened for malnutrition.  At this point, they only have 3 MUAC (Middle Upper Arm Circumference) bracelets for measuring malnutrition in the whole camp.  I have one in a box back home in Chicago…and for 10,000 people, they have three.  There is one scale.  While not nearly all of the children have been screened, they are showing a rate of about 29% of the children suffering from moderate or severe malnutrition, which means they get supplemental food.

the screening line outside the tent where we sat comfortably.

the health tent--at least 20 women were waiting outside for services in the hot noonday sun

Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by children.  They aren’t afraid to run up to me and stare, yelling ‘muzungu’ right in my face, watching my every move.  This camp was no exception—it may have even been more.  This was the only place I found joy among the camp.  The situation is terrible, yet these sweet children are still that-children.  They still can smile and laugh.  But I fear that the circumstances of life in the camps will take away their innocence, their joy.

 

To be fair, this camp was thrown together rather quickly, and has only been open for a month.  Infrastructure is a major issue, but proposals are in the works to get funding for training community health workers, for building a health outpost, for actually getting the supplies they need to give supplemental food to vulnerable populations, and especially these young children.  With severe malnutrition, every day counts.  For these children, for these women and mothers, every day counts. 

A health worker screening children for malnutrition

I don’t know quite how to move forward from this experience.  Hopefully we will be able to provide assistance, and other organizations will get their proposals and budgets through to help out the camps.  But my heart…I don’t know how it will recover.  These families are there for the long haul.  It could be years before they can go home.  I left the place grieving the situation that these families live in on a daily basis.   

 

A quick five minute drive from the camps is a village, where we stopped for lunch.  It felt strange to drink fanta, eating brochette (kebabs) when such suffering was happening down the road.  It’s like the feeling I get going home from abroad, not feeling comfortable in my old life when I have seen pain and suffering in a place I have also called home.  Never has it felt so close though—just five minutes down the road. 

playing soccer on the field across the street from the camp

A dear friend prayed for me over the phone the other night, and one thing that she prayed stuck out specifically: that the big burdens that I have taken on, the grief that I carry here, would be picked up by Jesus.  I thought of that as we got in the car and drove away today.  Surely I can carry these people deep in my heart, surely I can advocate for them and continually lift them up in prayer.  But this must not come out of my own strength, for I will easily fall under the burden of it all.  No, this must come out of a place of surrender: letting Jesus carry this load with me, walking beside me and giving me a heart to pray and love and still live a life of joy.  I truly am weak, but I know that my compassionate, merciful, loving, strong Jesus is not going anywhere.  He can live in those camps.  He can go on this journey with me.  He can teach me how to laugh and love even when I hurt for others.  How thankful I am for how He comes with us.