Reaching Innocent Victims of a Senseless War
It was in 1988. We had been driving for hours along the bumpy laterite road that led from Kinshasa to a village near Kahembe, a border town between Angola and then Zaire (now Democratic Republic of Congo). The land cruiser we were traveling in bumped up and down like a yo-yo, as it negotiated the huge portholes on the road. We had to hold on to anything our hands could reach in the vehicle, including the upholstery, just like a drowning man clinging to a straw. The dense forest through which we were traveling provided some beautiful scenery, with monkeys jumping from branch to branch, completely oblivious to the sound of the moving vehicle or to the thick cloud of dust it was leaving in its wake and birds chirping merrily. We could have soaked in the beautiful scenery and the best of nature, but we were in no mood to do so. We needed to see these new arrivals so we could arrange for them to be provided with the assistance they required.
It was the morning of the last day of our mission to Zaire to assess the situation of refugees, when the authorities from the Government informed us of some new arrivals from Angola “in desperate condition that we absolutely had to see”. I cannot say we were pleased at this last assignment as we had a plane to catch that evening and we had to get back to Geneva after what had been a difficult mission. We knew that in this vast country with difficult terrain, traveling to remote areas could take a long time. So we thought we had better go immediately to return in time for our flight and we decided to skip breakfast and left at 8am. We had only eaten peanuts, which we bought from the roadside. It was now 2pm and we had still not arrived and we did not know when we would. We were anxious and hungry.
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As we passed through the villages we could hear the loud music from amplifiers whose sound competed with those of the generators that were feeding them with electricity, as is typical in the Zaire countryside. Small children danced gracefully to the sound of the music, their bodies swaying to and fro, like branches in the wind, but our minds were elsewhere.
At last we arrived in the village at around 4pm, exhausted and hungry. What we saw was something we could never have imagined. In this village the head welcomed us and took us to the compound where the refugees were. The leaders of the group came out covered in loincloth, while the rest were stark naked and were clutching their private parts with both hands. They were emaciated, with eyes bulging out in such a way that one felt they would drop off any minute. They recounted their story to us. Their village in Angola was raided by the rebels six months before and they had to flee with only the clothes they were wearing. They lost the clothes when they were again attacked in the jungle by other groups, but found some remains of a parachute which were given to their leaders. They thrived by eating unknown wild fruits, with one person volunteering to try them, and everyone waiting for a few hours to ensure they were not poisonous before proceeding to eat them.
But what really hit me hard was the sight of a woman with a baby. Her high cheekbones were sunken. Her eyes were dark circles staring out with bewilderment and fear. One could count the ribs on her chest beneath her breasts that were completely flat. And yet the baby who was feeding on her breast was sucking hard making every effort to get any drop of milk she could draw out. As I stood there looking at them, the tears gushed from my eyes and I was weeping without any effort.
I could not help myself and suddenly everything else seemed immaterial. The hunger I felt died away and I forgot about my flight back to Geneva. We needed to make arrangements to feed, clothe and ease the suffering of these unfortunate people, victims of a senseless war.
