Heritier: What is peace?
As 2009 comes to a close, DTJ invites you to remember how this year began for us.
Meet Heritier.
Heritier: What is peace? (written Jan, 2009)
A whisper. A sigh. A cry. Echoing across a sea of vastness and space, held in place by a rising chorus of aching , honest pleas for peace, a drumbeat is heard. A child turns his head and with blood shot eyes, yells, “No Nkunda, no job.” He stumbles to the side of the room, his small frame swimming in an alcohol-induced sideways swagger. His father looks on, eyes quietly downcast, hands folded.
The steady thud of the drum continues. Rwassa Shamapfu, one of three chiefs of Sake, speaks woefully of the last 17 years, drenched in conflict, and his tragically strategically located village – the last bastion of defense before Goma, North Kivu’s provincial capital. Since August, he has fled five times with his family.
Sake is flanked by mountains. Facing away from Goma, on the right, the mountains are covered by Nkunda’s rebels, and to the left, the hills are covered by government soldiers. Occasionally a UN vehicle will drive by with the blue helmets. The chief questions what protection much less peace, if any, the UN has brought. He laughs. The UN mission to Congo, MONUC, has become laughable to villagers. War continues. They have not brought peace.
The town is chillingly desperate. Emptied numerous times over the last few months alone from renewed fighting, a temporary hesitant, fearful energy circulates amongst the black dust and rising kitchen fires. Nothing is stable. At any moment, Rwassa says, the rebels could begin firing. They are less than 2km away. Coping with that level of daily unexhaustable fear has created a culture of coping that is no more than mere, raw survival.
Heritier, intoxicated, accuses the muzungus of stealing the money rightfully his for demobilization. A former Mai-Mai child soldier, Heritier had joined the rebel group hoping for a better life than what had been offered him in Sake. At the time, other rebel groups were threateningly close, and if they captured Heriter he would be killed or forced to fight with a rebel group far from his home. If he stayed in Sake he could be killed. If he fled, he could be killed. So he joined the Mai-Mai to try to protect himself and the land of his ancestors, and still be able to see his family.
But within this fighting force, Heritier learned to kill. Demobilized and disarmed through the national DDR program, Heritier was not offered schooling or training after coming out of the Mai-Mai. He says the government has failed him. His father makes crude alcohol out of banana leaves and sends Heritier to town to sell it. Heritier gets drunk on it instead. Everyday, his father says, Heritier is drunk. “There is nothing else for him to do,” sighs his father, deep lines of surrender etched in his face. “I can’t feed him every day, I can’t pay for his school fees. Please, he needs work. He wants to work. He is strong.”
Heritier’s slim body buckles under the sway of the alcohol, his voice rising in embarrassing crescendos of anger and accusation. He keeps asking why I was wearing pants, and why two new people were here with me and where Jonathan, Wade and Brett were. His mind had a difficult time processing his surroundings. He finally buried his face in his hands. 15 years old.
The current peace process boasts much but offers little. Since 1992 there have been 11 peace conferences. War continues. There have been dozens of ceasefires, made and then broken. Promises made and then betrayed. Hope given and then rescinded.
//
DTJ’s film, No More Tears, follows Heritier’s story since this was written. To learn more, click here.
As 2009 comes to a close, DTJ invites you to remember how this year began for us.
Heritier: What is peace? (written Jan, 2009 by Lindsay Branham, from DRC)
A whisper. A sigh. A cry. Echoing across a sea of vastness and space, held in place by a rising chorus of aching, honest pleas for peace, a drumbeat is heard. A child turns his head and with blood shot eyes, yells, “No Nkunda, no job.” He stumbles to the side of the room, his small frame swimming in an alcohol-induced sideways swagger. His father looks on, eyes quietly downcast, hands folded.
The steady thud of the drum continues. Rwassa Shamapfu, one of three chiefs of Sake, speaks woefully of the last 17 years, drenched in conflict, and his tragically strategically located village – the last bastion of defense before Goma, North Kivu’s provincial capital. Since August, he has fled five times with his family.
Sake is flanked by mountains. Facing away from Goma, on the right, the mountains are covered by Nkunda’s rebels, and to the left, the hills are covered by government soldiers. Occasionally a UN vehicle will drive by with the blue helmets. The chief questions what protection much less peace, if any, the UN has brought. He laughs. The UN mission to Congo, MONUC, has become laughable to villagers. War continues. They have not brought peace.
The town is chillingly desperate. Emptied numerous times over the last few months alone from renewed fighting, a temporary hesitant, fearful energy circulates amongst the black dust and rising kitchen fires. Nothing is stable. At any moment, Rwassa says, the rebels could begin firing. They are less than 2km away. Coping with that level of daily unexhaustable fear has created a culture of coping that is no more than mere, raw survival.
Heritier, intoxicated, accuses the muzungus of stealing the money rightfully his for demobilization. A former Mai-Mai child soldier, Heritier had joined the rebel group hoping for a better life than what had been offered him in Sake. At the time, other rebel groups were threateningly close, and if they captured Heriter he would be killed or forced to fight with a rebel group far from his home. If he stayed in Sake he could be killed. If he fled, he could be killed. So he joined the Mai-Mai to try to protect himself and the land of his ancestors, and still be able to see his family.
But within this fighting force, Heritier learned to kill. Demobilized and disarmed through the national DDR program, Heritier was not offered schooling or training after coming out of the Mai-Mai. He says the government has failed him. His father makes crude alcohol out of banana leaves and sends Heritier to town to sell it. Heritier gets drunk on it instead. Everyday, his father says, Heritier is drunk. “There is nothing else for him to do,” sighs his father, deep lines of surrender etched in his face. “I can’t feed him every day, I can’t pay for his school fees. Please, he needs work. He wants to work. He is strong.”
Heritier’s slim body buckles under the sway of the alcohol, his voice rising in embarrassing crescendos of anger and accusation. He keeps asking why I was wearing pants, and why two new people were here with me and where Jonathan, Wade and Brett were. His mind had a difficult time processing his surroundings. He finally buried his face in his hands. 15 years old.
The current peace process boasts much but offers little. Since 1992 there have been 11 peace conferences. War continues. There have been dozens of ceasefires, made and then broken. Promises made and then betrayed. Hope given and then rescinded.
//
DTJ’s film, No More Tears, slated for release in 2010, follows Heritier’s story since this was written. To learn more, click here.
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