by Mike Farrell

Ntarma

introduction

1/21

1/22

1/23

1/24

1/25

1/26

1/27

1/28

1/29

1/30

1/31

2/1

coda

what now?

human rights

At 3AM I'm up, trying to exorcise the demons of Ntarama by writing out my feelings. I call Shel to try to touch something whole and warm and healthy.

At 6:30AM there's a call I have a hard time understanding. It's from the police and there seems to be some problem with a form. My "fiche," as he calls it, has not been filled out properly and I need to come down and do that. Amazing. Without letting him know in my rudimentary French that I've been up for hours, I ask this bozo if he has any idea what time it is and tell him he's got a hell of a nerve calling this early. I'll be checking out later this morning, I tell him, and I'll fill out whatever the hell it is then. Merde!

Sure enough, I'm down to check out at 8AM and ask the Belgian at the desk what the call was all about. He gives me a blank look and says he doesn't know anything about it. He checks and comes back and says no one at the hotel has any problem with my papers and no one knows anything about a call. It must have been the police, he says. Well, that's who he said he was, I respond, but I assumed he was down here. Nope.

I ask the group and Daryl is the only other one who got a call and he handled it about the same way I did. The only thing that makes sense is that it must have something to do with the papers at passport control. So, they can't collect the trash, but they can hassle visitors who come in and don't fill out their "fiches" correctly. That officious little bureaucrat is coming back to haunt me. Oh well. We're about to head up to the Zairean border anyway. If the police are looking for Daryl and me they'll have to be good.

Nothing out of the ordinary about the checking out process except for the discovery that my emotional purge on the phone to Shelley in the middle of the night cost $225. The price of therapy these days! (The good news is he let me use a credit card. We were told they wouldn't take them here, so each of us brought a good deal of cash which is strapped to various parts of our bodies and has made it through all the security checks and friskings so far.)

Because we only have the one wagon, Barbara has suggested that we pack enough into one small bag to get us through the next couple of days at the camps in Goma and leave the rest here at the Mille Collines, as we'll be staying here again on our return to Kigali. It will be a tight enough squeeze for each of us and a single bag to make the three-plus hour drive to the border - unlikely to impossible if we try to fit everything. The man behind the desk agrees to let us leave some things here, which will provide a test for Richard Walden's lock thesis.

Heading west-northwest out of Kigali, the day is nice, with a few clouds suggesting the possibility of rain. The road, a good one built by Chinese laborers (a roadside monument pays tribute to some who died in the process), climbs through the mountainous terrain at a pretty good angle at times. The land is beautiful. Green, lush, "incredibly fertile," per David, it is cultivated to an astonishing degree. The steep mountainsides are terraced and planted on inclines that it exercises the imagination to understand how they go about working.

Again, we pass few vehicles and most of those we see are associated with non-governmental organizations of one stripe or another. People line the roadside, walking with their burdens to market or homeward.

Many of the kids we see on this leg of the journey are riding a particular design of wooden scooter. It has two wheels, like a bike, with an angled piece in the middle for resting on when they coast. It rises from the back to connect at the front below the hand-grip/handle-bar affair and looks in design to be similar to a two-wheeled Big Wheel (for those of you with kids) without the pedals and seat.

Mile after mile we go through rich, green land along a road virtually lined with pedestrians struggling through lives of grinding poverty. How, I find myself wondering as we pass the squalid houses, towns and settlements beside the road, do they keep from having the humanity ground out of them? At one stretch of the highway we pass two or three groups of men carrying rude stretchers in which are the bodies of others. A funeral? Are they taking someone to the hospital?

We stop for a leg-stretch at a town which Khassin says is about the half-way point to Gisenyi, the Rwandese border town just across from Goma. This place is depressing. Dirty, noisy, it's got none of the beauty of the surrounding countryside and all of the people and problems one can imagine would be associated with city life.

We head onward. Khassin is sneezing fairly regularly. Caroline, who said something earlier about her tendency to catch any germ that's around, has her bandanna out over her mouth again and I wonder if she's sorry she has adopted the seat so far forward.

Up higher in the mountains it gets fairly chilly - enough to put on jackets for a while - and starts to rain. But before long we head down again and toward the lake that peeks through the mountains in the distance.

After a very long, wearying ride, we come into Gisenyi. A resort town, as was Goma before the onslaught of refugees, this city in northwest Rwanda is on the eastern edge of the northern tip of Lake Kivu, one of the Great Lakes of Africa. The Zairean border, with the town of Goma on the other side of it, is a stone's throw up the highway. Flowers abound and there is a much more pleasant feel to this town than there was where we stretched our legs an hour ago, even with the knowledge that bodies have been known to float ashore with some regularity here; victims of the war or the intimidation in the camps. This is the lake from which Sten told us the locals won't eat the fish, given the presumption of what they themselves have been eating. It's noticeably hotter here than it was in Kigali, which is probably much higher, though it's still not the oppressive tropical heat one tends to expect this close to the equator.

Through another gate and we're into the UNHCR compound, a complex of small buildings where Barbara promises there is a toilet (if not a particularly modern one).

We're greeted by Alexandra, a vivacious young Italian woman who heads the international team of UNHCR staffers here. In her 30's, I'd guess, Alexandra is a magnetic fountain of energy with a round face and flashing dark eyes. She keeps apologizing for having to delay or interrupt talking to us because of a squawking walkie-talkie, a beeping cellular phone or other pressing matters, but we assure her that we're OK with waiting, well aware that there are higher priorities in terms of her attention.

She has been dealing with another group of international visitors (from Australia, I think) this morning, and is trying to clear up some schedule problem with regard to a meeting with them.

Overlooking a well-maintained tropical garden, in the open main room of the building, with a woman sitting by handling incoming calls, Alexandra tells us that her first priority is to "ensure the safety and dignity of people who are voluntarily returning." (This office and her staff, being inside Rwanda, have primary responsibility for transporting, relocating, settling and monitoring the safety of the [Hutu] refugees who opt to come out of the camps in the Goma area.)

At this point, because of High Commissioner Ogata's continued concern about the possibility of reprisals against returning Hutu by the RPF/RPA military now in control in Uganda, the UNHCR does not actively encourage repatriation. (There is a division, we learn, inside UNHCR on this point, with many believing that the High Commissioner is wrong, that the risks are acceptably small and that repatriation should be encouraged.) That being her view, the only way in which one can come back is to volunteer to do so and Alexandra's staff is here to see to it that those who do so are well taken care of.

Of the camps just across the border, she says, Mugunga Camp is the worst one for creating difficulties for those who want to return - this because of the large and obvious presence in the camp of members of the military of the former government.

Making the decision is difficult for these people, she says, because of the degree of pressure and propaganda aimed at them by the former government and military. There was an effort made to encourage some repatriation by some of the UNHCR staff a while ago (I have the sense she's talking about a few weeks ago) and one of her staff was attacked by some of those opposed, thus demonstrating the lengths to which these guys will go. Things are calmer now, she says, so once again the process is under way - and it's meeting with some success. 500 people are scheduled to be loaded on trucks and buses and brought across the border tomorrow.

A major problem they are having to deal with is the now fairly common development that once a refugee decides to return, he/she may find his/her house occupied by someone (probably a Tutsi from the '59 or '63 "old case-load" refugees) who has come back to claim it.

Some of the returning Hutus also face the possibility of being named as complicit in the massacres. With so much killing - and so much participation in the killing - it's hard to sort out the legitimate charges from the false ones. Under current Rwandan law, one cannot be jailed as a result of being accused of a crime unless 5 people concur in the accusation. Given the country's recent experience, when there have been whole communities wiped out with sometimes only one survivor, the requirement of 5 is impossible to maintain. It's a thorny problem.

Despite these problems, Alexandra says, the primary reason for refugees being unwilling to repatriate is the intimidation and propaganda coming from the military, the militias and former authorities in the camps.

We then meet Holly, an American UNHCR staffer who works for Alexandra. Probably in her twenties, short and cute, Holly is fairly new to the area, but has worked in the non-governmental humanitarian world for a while. She'll show us around the local facility.

First, though, Alexandra is finally successful in contacting Major McComber, a Canadian officer stationed here with UNAMIR, the UN Peace-Keeping force provided for in the Arusha Accords. McComber comes in just as she has about given up hope that her messages have gotten through and gives us a run-down from his point of view.

A big fellow with reddish-brown hair and a full mustache, he's wearing a uniform with a Canadian emblem on one shoulder and a UN patch on the other. He wears the familiar blue beret of the UN Peace-Keepers.

"Officially," he says, "the situation is calm." He and his people have good relationships with the UNHCR and the rest of the NGO community and he's pleased with the way the current effort is shaping up.

This part of Rwanda, he tells us, is very much a stronghold of support for the former government, which explains, to some degree, why so many of the military and former government leaders came out of the country by this route. That being so, the RPF/RPA is seen by the local citizenry as very much "an occupying force" and relationships have been tricky. There have been incidents in the past of harassment and intimidation of locals and returning refugees by RPA soldiers. (The RPF versus RPA designation, as I mentioned above, has to do with the developments pertinent to the war. The RPF [Rwandese Patriotic Front] became the RPA [Rwandese Patriotic Army] after they triumphed and took over the country. They are still often referred to by the old letters, hence my continuing use of both.)

Recently, McComber says, the RPA has had "the light bulb come on" and is behaving in a much smarter and more appropriate way. He says the new government is "very serious" about the refugees coming back ("They need these people."), so they have reassigned their most professional officers to this area in an attempt to better control the troops and to foster better relations with the local citizens. And, he says, it's working.

An example offered is the story of the government's issuing new currency (a smart political as well as economic move that made worthless all the paper money the former government and military had taken out with them and was using to support themselves as well as their sporadic military operations back into the country). In an attempt to have the new issuance be as effective as possible, the government mandated that the borders be sealed for a short period of time. During that time, McComber says, refugees who wanted to return began piling up at the border and creating a tense situation. The local commander of the RPA "took a risk" and made a decision to open a "humanitarian corridor" so that these people could come through and be fed and cared for. It went directly against Kigali's orders, but it made a lot of points with the local citizenry, he says.

McComber says he calculates there are about 23,000 former government soldiers in Mugunga Camp. They are armed, though primarily with small arms, and are seriously intimidating refugees who want to return.

The current UNHCR strategy to deal with the security situation is to hire Zairean Green Berets to protect the refugees who choose to come across. This is problematic, he says, because the Zairean Army is not paid (this statement was made a number of times by a number of people and I never got clear whether it was meant literally or to infer that they weren't paid enough) and as a result tends to resort to strong-arm methods and extortion. Regular Zairean troops had been brought in originally. They were OK for a while, then "they became the problem." After that a special unit was brought in. Same scenario. Now, he says, the Green Berets will be OK for a while and "then they'll become the problem."

Here in the town of Gisenyi, the RPA is doing the work of a local police force as well as national security. There have been some problems, he says. Some human rights violations, some killings. Robberies occur with some regularity, evidently, and most of the criminal activity is generated from out of the camps.

Of the other side of the border, "It's Dodge City over there," he says, which is certainly heartening, considering we're on our way.

There have been some cross-border raids staged out of the camps. Some of it is to harass the RPA and the government, but some of it is aimed at returning refugees.

There is "good leadership in the RPA here." They "had lost the Robin Hood approach" that attached to them during the war, but "now they're working to get it back." They are doing serious human rights training of the troops, he says.

As to the situation in Zaire, McComber says the US Ambassador told him, off the record, that "it is no longer a country. It's now a group of principalities." If the Prefet, or Mayor, of Goma, for example, gets an order from Kinshasa that he wants to obey - if it profits him in some way - he will. "If not, not."

McComber has to take off, so we thank him for his time and Holly takes us over to the Repatriation Center run by CARE, where we meet a soft-spoken staffer named Innocente, who shows us around. A Rwandan, Innocente speaks good English, having spent two years ('89-'92) in the U.S. I ask, per the dates, "You came back in the middle of the war?" "In the middle of the war," he nods, then adds, "Everyone has the right to love his country."

Innocente was aptly named. There is an admirable calm about him as he walks us through the CARE compound, showing us the procedures by which they deal with those who come back. From the gate (where there are now perhaps a dozen or more people lining up, patiently waiting - and a separate group of about a dozen kids inside who have been designated "unaccompanied minors" and will be given special consideration) [the issue of unaccompanied minors is a particularly tough one for UNHCR - it's hard to know in a situation like this if these children are orphans or simply separated from their parents. Often the children don't know themselves. Reunification is obviously the optimum solution, but given the reality with which they have to deal that may not be possible, so the question of what to do with them is daunting] each person is brought in and registered. The registration card then tells the size of the family with which the individual is traveling and where they are headed. On the basis of this information, the staff decides how many jerry cans of cooking oil, how many blankets, how much flour and other food to give.

To safeguard against repetition, each applicant dips his/her finger in ink before passing through the line. Most get what is called a "Transit Pack," which provides some comfort and enough sustenance to get them to the next processing center. (As Alexandra had pointed out to us, they have set up a line of these centers on the routes back into the interior.) Some, if they are going an unusual direction or distance, get a "10 Day Pack.")

This compound, Innocente tells us, used to belong to the president of the country. When it was turned over to CARE after the war for this project they had to go through a serious process of de-mining the yard and removing unexploded shells and grenades.

The legacy of war.

Into Zaire

Stopping on the Rwandan side is a fairly straightforward process. The usual wasp's nest is in a corner of the ceiling, which is comforting. Consistency is all. The process of checking papers and logging us out of the country is a bit tedious because everything here is done by hand, so we have to make ourselves clearly understood and simply be willing to be patient as the necessary details are completed. One of the advantages to having things done in this laborious, old-fashioned way is that it makes it less likely, it occurs, that anyone here will know that Daryl and I are fugitives wanted by the police in Kigali for not having properly filled out our "fiches".

Once through this bureaucratic tangle we load back into the wagon and move through the military checkpoint, into the No-Man's-Land between countries, and then up to the Zairean border post. Holly, who has been riding with us to be of whatever assistance she can be in the event of any problem, will only go this far.

Into the line in the small, dirty building and wait. Shuffle forward. Wait some more. A man who has a kind of fierce appearance but turns out to be fairly friendly asks the necessary questions about occupation and purpose of visit and enters the information into a log, passes the passports on to another, who writes down more information and we're out. As some of us are waiting for the others who are still being processed, Daryl wants to take a picture of some of the machine-gun toting soldiers at the barrier across the road, but has been warned against doing so. Having had this experience in other parts of the world, I step down onto the road between Daryl and the soldiers and suggest he simply take my picture (with them in the background). As he's lining up the shot a man shouts and waves at him, warning him off. We explain, all innocence, that he simply wants a picture of me at the border, but the man isn't going for it and tells me to move to a different spot for the picture.

There seems to be a second part to the process here, a screening of shot records, etc. But since no one told us we had to do it, we all head for the wagon once the last of our group is through passport control. Of course, just as we're about to mount up we're accosted by a man who tells us that we haven't completed the process and must go to the health station. Not a big problem but, as mentioned above, this is the place they can arbitrarily decide one's shot card isn't in proper order - or can declare we need an immunization for something that we don't have - and it can become a problem. Oh well.

As it turns out, this fellow is a very affable guy who is quite taken by Holly and passes us all through without a hitch. It's a particular relief because it turns out that Barbara has left her shot records in Kigali, but between Holly's charm and Barbara's UN identification, he is satisfied that we won't carry the plague into the country and gives us all a smiling stamp of approval.

So it's good-bye Holly and hello Goma.

The city is virtually on the border. We're driving west, with the lake on our left side, down a palm-tree lined road toward the heart of Goma. Off to the left ahead a sign points to the offices of CONCERN, the Irish-based parent organization of CONCERN/America, with which I'm associated. Nearing the center of the city we pull into a fenced-off lot crowded with UNHCR vehicles similar to the one in which we're traveling (many of them Toyota Land Cruisers bearing a sign or painted logo in the window stating that they are here "Courtesy of the Japanese Government"), all of them four-wheel drive, but none of the heavy, armor-plated, bullet-proof types that were so popular in Bosnia. People dash about, vehicles move in and out and a large group stands outside the gate. "Looking for work" is the response to the obvious question.

The bustling lot is the motor pool for the UNHCR and sits adjacent to the modern two-story building, once a bank, which now houses its offices. Climbing out and heading into the building to meet some of the staff, my eyes stray to a group of Honda dirt bikes sitting before the shed. They're small engines, only 125 ccs, but look like fun. I find myself wondering which lucky stiff gets to ride those around and under what circumstances.

Inside the busy building and through a temporary door we go to the reception desk where Barbara makes the appropriate connections. Through another door and into a busy hallway lined with copy machines, bulletin boards and other signs of activity. People move through the hall and in and out of doors at a pace somewhat reminiscent of a Marx Brothers movie.

In short order we're introduced to a number of people. Joel Boutroud is the senior representative here. A dark-haired, bearded young Frenchman, probably in his middle thirties, he's harried and apologetic about not being able to give us much time, but explains that they are coordinating the first census of the camps' populations and the size, complexity and politics of the situation are clearly overwhelming. (The idea of a count has a number of important facets to it. The fact that UNHCR can require it and carry it out is a statement of their authority over the camps, a point that is highly contentious. For quite a while the military, militia and former government types had a stranglehold on the camps to the degree that they handled distribution of the food and supplies, therefore giving themselves additional power over the refugee population. It was not in their interest to allow a census to be taken because if they could, as they certainly did, inflate the numbers, it resulted in more food and supplies for them to distribute, perhaps sell outside the camps and/or use for their own purposes. So one of the UNHCR's first steps was to reassert their authority over distribution of the food, arranging a system by which it is handled through group elders, families or elected representatives. This census is another major step.) We also meet two striking young women. Betsy, a Dutch lawyer, probably in her early thirties, is a great looking, kind of no-nonsense type who moves about with clear eyes, a calm smile and a sense of authority that communicates itself impressively. Nici Dahrendorff, who is apparently the senior Protection Officer, is a strikingly beautiful woman with a thick mane of dark hair and flashing eyes. She's the kind of woman who makes you stop and look. Also in her thirties, I'd guess, German-born and raised in England, she has the kind of cultured English accent that makes people seem incredibly intelligent and poised, even when they're not. She is.

(It's remarkable, to the degree that we find ourselves remarking on it later, how many of the UNHCR staffers we have run across are knockouts. On so many fronts, physically, intellectually, energetically, they are an impressive crowd.)

Nici is also apologetic about not being able to give us more time, but arranges for Betsy to accompany us on a quick trip through the nearest camp, Mugunga (the one with the large contingent of military that we've heard so much about), once we drop our bags at the hotel.

There's an interesting beat when the issue of transportation is brought up. Barbara asks about a car and driver and Nici is confused, not understanding why we can't use the driver who brought us up. Barbara says she isn't sure, but he said he had something to take care of in town and assumed we'd get a driver from here. For a moment I can see that Nici is annoyed that Khassin would be so impertinent as to make the assumption that he can just drop us here, then just as suddenly the annoyance is gone, replaced by a flash of understanding. "Oh, my God," she says, "how stupid of me! Of course he can't take you into the camp, he's a Tutsi." (Never occurred to me, but it clearly did to Khassin.)

So, with Nici's assurance that we'll have a driver waiting once we get back from the hotel, we head back to the motor pool, find Khassin and climb aboard once again. Driving through the center of Goma is an interesting experience, to say the least. With cars, motorbikes and people everywhere, the town is a beehive. With few exceptions, the buildings are single story cement block construction and dirty. Everything is dirty. The streets, with a large roundabout in the center of town, are pitted with holes and full of people racing to one place or another. UNICEF, UNHCR, CARE, CONCERN, and other organization's cars and trucks are everywhere, as are local buses, trucks, broken-down cars and bicycles. In a stalled lane of traffic on one side of the divided main business street men are walking from car to car with large wads of cash in their hands, evidently carrying on a lucrative trade in currency exchange - dollars for Zairean, Zairean for Rwandan, etc. It's so blatant that it's either not illegal or there is no law here. I fear it's the latter, but we do see the occasional soldier, or group of soldiers, their submachine guns at the ready, standing around or driving by.

A wretched place, Goma. Everything is relative, as they say. If what I saw a few short hours ago in Rwanda was poverty, this is squalor. As we pass out of the center of the city onto the "Western Axis," the main road leading to Mugunga Camp and beyond that, I assume, to the interior of Zaire, we're treated to the sight of masses of people either walking along the road toward the camp, walking along the road away from the camp, or squatting by the road trying to sell something to those walking by. Food is for sale, and merchandise of various kinds: supplies, probably purloined from one of the camps. Terrible shacks dot the roadside, the kinds of places you're sure will fall in a stiff breeze. The ground is hard, harsh, lava rock. Everything about this place seems to be inhospitable. How in the name of God do these people survive? The place teems with humanity, and as Khassin races us through it all, honking his horn at the children playing, people walking out into the road, animals and carts and vehicles and everything else that conspires to jump in front of us, it seems certain that we'll kill someone, run over something, before we get past this crush of people.

But we don't. Soon we turn off south toward the lake. We turn right again as the road ends at a sprawling place on the lake shore that we're told is or was Mobutu's (the president of Zaire) summer home. (If half of what is said about him is true he's an incredibly wealthy, incredibly corrupt man.) After winding along for a few minutes, passing a turn-off indicating one of the UNICEF bases is nearby, we come into the open gravel parking area for the Hotel Karibu.

Built on the lake, the Karibu is a run-down African version of a classy lakeside resort. Certainly it has seen better days. Animal skins, African art and travel posters decorate the walls of the reception building, which houses the desk, the bar, a TV area, the kitchen and a large dining room, outside of which is a patio and swimming pool. It seems clean, though, and modern enough to have all the necessaries.

We check in, are assigned rooms and head for them to stash our bags. The rooms run westward on an angle away from the reception area in two rows separated by a nicely tended stretch of lawn and flowers with paths. They are separate units, all connected in the style of condominiums. The heat is more noticeable here, for whatever reason, and given the generally run-down condition of the place I wonder about what shape the screens are in and what to expect tonight in terms of mosquitoes. (Every time I think of mosquitoes and Africa I'm reminded of Mombasa, Kenya, two years ago, with the giant picture of the mosquito on the wall at the airport and the warning about "cerebral malaria" - then going into the hotel room and finding a canopy of mosquito netting over the bed and a fresh can of mosquito spray called "Doom!")

This room makes the Milles Collines look like the Ritz. No canopy, no spray. The usual narrow bed with hard mattress (which, when it comes down to it, I much prefer to a soft, saggy one), an uneven field-stone or lava-rock floor with jagged edges which seems to have either been over-used or badly designed. Whatever, one can't walk on it barefoot. But then, as dirty as it is, one isn't likely to want to. It has a toilet that works, but the tank runs constantly so has to be turned off after it refills. There is a ragged remnant for a towel and one of those hose-extenders that serves as a shower, but no shower curtain. The screens seem to be in good shape, though, so thanking God for small favors, I set my bag on the table, wash my hands and head back out to the reception area. Both Nici and Betsy have given the impression that we're cutting it close by trying to go through Mugunga this late in the afternoon. All internationals are out of the camps by nightfall for security reasons, so we've got to get moving.

Back at reception some of our group are ready to go and we've been joined by two others. Barbara has arranged for a camera crew to accompany us through the camps in the hope of getting some good footage that can be used to help publicize the UNHCR's work. Whether it will be in the form of a documentary film or public service announcements or something else remains to be seen, but the people that have been hired to do the work will be with us for the next couple of days.

Simon Cox, our cameraman, is a 29 year old Englishman who has lived in Africa for the past ten years and now makes his home in Nairobi. Married to a nurse who works in a missionary hospital and the father of one girl with another on the way, Simon is energetic, experienced, opinionated, articulate, witty and fun to be with. He saw most of the ugliness of the Rwandan war, traveled with both armies as a news cameraman, is full of stories about it and says it was without question the worst he's ever seen.

Hannington Osodo, the sound man, is a Kenyan. Quiet and reserved, his observations, when offered, always prove to be keen and insightful. He's one of those people who the more you get to know him the more you like him. Usually a cameraman in his own right, Hannington has signed on as Simon's assistant on this one - perhaps for want of a job, that part isn't clear - but never offers the slightest sign that he resents being number two. Nor does he ever, as far as I'm aware, second guess Simon in any way. Hannington's also married, lives in Nairobi and has two daughters.

Both of them, it turns out, were friends of Hoss Mena, the Kenyan photographer who was with us in Somalia two years ago. It was painful to hear, months later, that Hoss was one of the journalists killed by the angry mob in Mogadishu.

Everyone is ready and we load up and head back to UNHCR headquarters. We need two wagons now to accommodate our passengers and their equipment. Heading back, Simon is asked what he thinks was responsible for the massacres in Rwanda. "Unemployed, uneducated kids and two years of propaganda," is his off-the-cuff response.

If possible, HQ is even more crowded and crazy than when we were here earlier. Joel says a quick hello and offers another apology then heads off for a planning session for the upcoming census, which has everyone on edge. Nici gives us a quick sense of the meaning and importance of the census and therefore the reason for all the nerves, then adds that the plans are made for a pre-dawn gathering for those who have volunteered to repatriate tomorrow. This is an attempt to avoid a confrontation with those military types who might want to "dissuade" the returnees. There will be buses or trucks to transport the volunteers, about 500 people, and Zairean military to provide security. All of it could easily come unstuck, is the sense one gets, and the contingency plans are being developed as we watch.

Betsy shows up and we head back out to the motor pool. Our wagon and one other are made available, so the others go with Betsy and I ride with Simon, Hannington and their equipment. Back out the Western Axis, through the madding crowd and past our earlier turnoff. The crowds on the roadside seem to get thicker as we get further out of town, which seems weird, but is actually a testament to the trade being done in and around the camp.

Now the tell-tale blue plastic sheeting begins to show up on the roadside. Draped over make-shift shelters to provide cover from the weather, it is one of the hallmarks of UNHCR provisions. All over the world where the UNHCR operates in support of the human needs of refugees, these plastic sheets are in evidence, providing shelter from the rain and some minimal degree of creature comfort.

Groups of people by the road are now seen to stretch off into the hillocks on either side, gathered around shelters, simply standing or sitting together, trading, eating, grousing, talking or cooking up who-knows-what kind of mischief.

Soon the crowd has thickened on the roadside to the degree that it spills into the road, causing our vehicle and the one in front to slow. Coming to a turning place, we see a lone uniformed Zairean soldier acting as a policeman, holding some trucks coming from the other direction as he allows another to cross in front of us. The crowd is amazing; people are everywhere, hauling wood, water and supplies on their heads, in arms, on their backs, on wheelbarrows, bicycles, on the backs of animals. Sort of an African Times Square. We pull past the soldier and I see some of his fully-armed compatriots off to the side in a jeep which probably makes him feel a bit more secure, but it occurs that if this crowd decided to get ugly he and his small crew would be history in no time. That, of course, is true for us as well.

Mugunga Camp

We're introduced to another in the dazzling array of impressive UNHCR volunteers; Elizabeth Reglat. A petite French woman in her early 30's who looks to be in her late teens, Elizabeth is a nurse with dancing eyes, brown hair in a pony tail, a wonderful smile and an apparently iron will. This tiny package runs this camp of over 200,000 refugees, many former soldiers and/or militia, and clearly brooks no nonsense.

Earlier today, she says, when introduced to a group of the camp's leaders, she was identified as being French and they broke into applause (this because of France's historic relationship with and support for the Habyarimana Government). She says she told them in no uncertain terms that she was embarrassed at what their reaction implied, that she was here as a nurse on a humanitarian mission and that she was ashamed of many of the things for which her government was responsible in their country. (Simon says later that the French started the Interahamwe, the youth group responsible for much of the slaughter. Subsequent reading suggests their connection may have been a bit less direct - that they trained the military which in turn trained the Interahamwe. Whatever the case, he says, when the French came back and set up the Safe Zone in the southwest, they were cheered and welcomed ["it was a two-day carnival"] by Rwandan Government forces who believed they had come to take over and prosecute the war for them. And some say, in fact, that the French intervention allowed the time and opportunity for additional massacres of Tutsi as well as the successful escape to safety of many of the worst of the war criminals associated with the government. It is this tortured relationship, at least in part, that led to the pull-out of MSF [Medecin Sans Frontieres/Doctors Without Borders] from the camps. That and the inescapable awareness that they were ministering in significant part to the very murderers their government's support had empowered.)

Elizabeth wants to show us some of the camp, so she and Betsy confer and decide we'll walk around a bit first, then come back for the vehicles and drive out to see the rest. Because Caroline, David, Bobby and Daryl have not had this kind of experience before, Barbara is intent on making sure everyone understands the situation and the rules of the game, so asks Elizabeth if there is any reason for concern when walking around. Elizabeth is quite candid in her response, and Betsy concurs, that "we feel safe being here until 6:00 ('til dark)." Since it's now after 4:00, I'm not sure how reassuring that is to my colleagues, but to their credit no one flinches and we head for the gate. Elizabeth goes on to say that one has to be aware of the temperature here, as things can turn violent very quickly. She tells of a recent incident where an angry mob was organized in a flash by some leader with a grievance and it created a very scary time for the staffers caught in the camp at the time. There is a good deal of tension currently due to the upcoming census and the repatriation of some 500 volunteers scheduled for tomorrow, she says, adding "We have many Interahamwe here. I am afraid if the convoys (loads of repatriating refugees) continue, they will start again." Though she doesn't spell out what she means by "start again," the inference is clear.

As we walk out of the gate and up the road, the crowd has dwindled a bit and those remaining let us through without comment. Some follow along, others remain at the gate or go about their business. The crush of humanity in any refugee camp is impressive; here it is palpable, probably because there is such a sullen, heavy, almost leaden sense of hostility. Children, as always, are the saving grace, with their light energy and ready smiles, but even the little ones who dance among us asking for money and gum or food refer to us as "Muzungu," which Betsy says means "white man," "white person," or "stranger." It's a bit like any situation where you're viewed as the outsider. For some of the adults here it clearly means "hated other", for the kids, though certainly not all of them, it's probably as simple as "you who are not like me." Everywhere we walk, the call is "Muzungu!"

Simon says to watch for boots, which will be a clue as to how many are former military. Sure enough, most of the young, fit, sullen men who watch us pass by or trail along in our wake are wearing them. Some still wear parts of uniforms. And if looks could kill...

The structures in the camp are traditional. The hard soil has provided problems for digging latrines and such, but some of that has been overcome with time. Wooden frames with the blue plastic sheeting are the primary form of shelter. Businesses line this main road, with stores selling everything from soap and soda pop to shoelaces and tobacco. Undoubtedly there is a good deal of contraband here, from stolen or extorted supplies to whatever you can name that is brought in from the outside. It is a city. Restaurants and bars line the road, some of which are decorated relatively attractively by lacing, fringing or cutting the plastic in clever ways. Compounds set up by other NGOs are interspersed with these establishments, with a water treatment facility here, a sanitation unit there and a clinic around the next corner. An occasional vehicle goes by, with a UNICEF or CARE logo on it. Supplies are brought in and life goes on.

As we walk, Betsy is warm and open with everyone, particularly the children. Daryl takes to the kids right away and has a number of them hanging onto him, wanting their pictures taken - a request he responds to with great good spirit and a big smile. David, Caroline and Bobby are also besieged by the kids and seem to be dealing with it all well. They are taking pictures and smiling, responding to the children all around. (A camera is like a magic wand in these situations, at least with the kids. Simon and Hannington, on the other hand, walk with us simply as visitors because their equipment, if visible, could inflame the adults.) As we walk, Betsy, Elizabeth and to some degree Simon are kept busy providing information as questions occur.

Per an attempt to understand the massacres, Betsy offers that "they didn't have an experience that taught them humanity" and "they are a disciplined people." She also is quick to point out that many Hutu families were quite heroic in risking their lives to hide Tutsi friends in the rafters of their homes and other places during the massacres. The penalty for this courageous act, if discovered, was immediate and painful death.

Walking with Betsy, I keep looking back to check on the others, concerned as to how they're doing with all this, but everything seems OK. Caroline's expression of concern about being susceptible to "whatever's around" must be causing her some degree of discomfort, given the crush of kids hanging onto all of us, but if it is she's certainly game in the face of it. Bobby and David seem to be handling it well, too, and Daryl's good nature comes through with flying colors. I know, though, after the reaction we all had to the massacre site at the church, that the hostility around us has to have an eerie and extra threatening quality.

After walking up the road for a half-mile or so, we come to another compound, this one used by a group that is screening potential returnees. No one is about, and the representatives of the group (I think they're UNHCR personnel as well) are wrapping up for the day. "Isn't this a bit public?", I wonder aloud, expecting people to come up in the light of day and express their willingness to go back when there's so much reported intimidation? "Yes," is the response, but what other way do they have to offer assistance? Once an interested party makes contact, we're assured, the arrangements are handled with great delicacy and what degree of secrecy can be achieved.

After looking around a little more we turn and head back for the vehicles. Elizabeth and Betsy, I note, are keeping a close eye on the time. Simon keeps up a running commentary about the prevalence of military types around us, including speculation about the number and variety of weapons in the camp. I ask him about the testimony of the shepherd from Nyamata, particularly as regards the white priest. He says no one, priest or otherwise, should be condemned for running from that situation. It was the most terrifying experience of his life, he says, and he has nothing but compassion for anyone, no matter how they did it, who got out alive. Pointing out that my question has more to do with trying to understand the dynamics of the situation than with judging that particular priest (though I confess to some ambivalence about what his responsibility might have been under the circumstances), I ask what he knows about the possible involvement of church people in the killings. He says the church hierarchy was deeply involved with the Habyarimana Government to the degree that the Bishop refused to recognize or condemn the genocide for the first three weeks of the slaughter. He said this and other demonstrations of sympathy for the Hutu point of view resulted in the RPF's execution of the bishop and a couple of his aides when they took over. He also says that in past emergencies the churches were recognized as sanctuaries to which those hunted could and did flee and in which they were safe. With that history, one of the evils of this campaign was that this time they were encouraged, by radio and by word of mouth, to go to the churches for safety and were then slaughtered there by the thousands, sometimes with the complicity of the nuns and priests. There were also extraordinary demonstrations of courage on the part of some priests and nuns, he says, both Hutu and Tutsi, who refused to participate and put their lives at risk to protect their charges. Some survived, miraculously; many were martyred.

Once back in the compound, I suggest to Bobby, Caroline, David and Daryl that they make a point of washing their hands well as soon as they have a chance. They had all been generously responsive to the army of kids around us, holding their hands as we walked along, touching them, etc., and the level of sanitation in a situation like this is generally so bad that it's best to take no chances. (A friend almost lost his hand last year after suffering a simple pin-prick when going through a camp like this. He didn't give it much thought at the time, but clearly whatever bugs he had on his hands invaded the tiny wound and he was hospitalized for quite a while.) We load into the wagons, most of the group going with Betsy in one and Simon, Hannington, Elizabeth and I in the other. Though we're still in the middle of the camp, the relative protection offered by being in the vehicles is a source of comfort until Elizabeth points out that ours still has the tell-tale red dirt from Kigali all over the back of it and she has been wondering when someone will make note of it. (Being identified as having come from Kigali, she's suggesting, could create big problems for us with some of the more scary types here!)

Pulling up the road and out to the northern fringe of hill so we can look over the entire camp, Elizabeth expresses further concern about the volatility of the situation, but always from the point of view of finding the best and most effective way to do her work. She is clearly a dedicated and passionate believer in the need for humanitarian intervention and is frustrated and angered by the imposition into this equation of the pressure and intimidation brought here by the military/political component.

As we get out on the fringes of the camp, particularly into what is obviously a newer area, there is not only a marked increase in the number of military types, but less apparent interest in disguising the fact. Some of these men are openly wearing whole uniforms. There are vehicles, usually pickups (I see none of the overtly military vehicles I've read about), parked next to some of the structures. This is one strange refugee community.

Simon notes, and Elizabeth agrees, that people are growing marijuana plants - some have cultivated little plots of the plant. Elizabeth says there is apparently a fairly sizable trade in marijuana in the camp (Simon says that surviving Tutsi said many of those who did the massacres were loaded, probably stoned and drunk, during the height of the frenzy) and that there is also a thriving market wherein housing is sold or traded. How can this be, I wonder, when the plots are on land borrowed from the Zairean Government? She says it's a function of control; a way in which power is demonstrated and money changes hands. It's not so much, as Elizabeth explains it, an issue of true ownership of a certain plot of land as it is one of vying for position and power within the community.

We pass a video-screening room.(!!) A theater, in effect, where people can come and watch videos. The usual wood frame and plastic sheeting, but a theater all the same. People are amazing. (I'm reminded of one of my first refugee experiences, on the Thai/Cambodian border in 1979/80. Getting out of a jeep on a dusty, God-forsaken road and walking over a dry river bed into a make-shift camp, we walked into the middle of this settlement and found a thriving marketplace. Going down a lane, I heard a familiar noise and turned to see someone operating an electric blender, making drinks for sale. I remember then, as now, being struck by the incredible ingenuity and irrepressibility of people in difficult circumstances.)

As if there isn't enough to consider already, the threat of a volcanic eruption hangs over the camp. Three of the mountains just north of here, visible on a clear day, are active volcanoes. A group of Japanese vulcanologists is on the most active one now, studying it, and indications are that a major eruption may occur in the next 4 to 6 weeks. Contingency plans are in the works to deal with the possibility of yet another potential calamity.

As darkness hurries us along, we head down the hill to drop Elizabeth, but before we do so I ask her if there is any possibility of meeting one of those likely to have been involved in the massacres; one who will admit to having been in the military or, preferably, a member of the Interahamwe. I think it would be interesting to hear from someone willing to talk about the experience from that perspective, perhaps even articulate a rationale for what happened. Elizabeth gives me a look that suggests it's matter of some delicacy, but says she'll think about it. She is certain she knows who some of the people are who fit that description, but the question of whether or not they would be willing to talk about it is another thing.

Again we meet the others at the compound, head out of the camp and through the crowded roads back to Goma. On the road back, Simon points out a beat-up bus and says it's from Rwanda. When this horde of refugees left, they brought everything with them but the kitchen sink, he says, including the country's entire fleet of buses.

Back at the HQ we offer our thanks to Betsy, find Khassin and wend our way to the Karibu. After scraping off some of the dust from the camp we meet for dinner in the restaurant. The talk is about the experience of the camp, of course, and reactions to it, but quickly becomes more general. I'm whipped, and what looks to be a loud band is about to strike up, so I make my excuses and go out into the dark night to make my way to my room.

Again, relativity teaches its lesson. If this hotel is the pits as compared to the Milles Collines, the quiet and personal space offered are welcome luxuries when contrasted to the claustrophobic and threatening conditions in the camp, so I gratefully stretch out and let the events of these few days wash over me.