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

Awake early to the sound of chanting of some sort. (It turns out, Daryl reports, to be fishermen working their boats on the lake.) Operating the shower is a bit of a joke without a curtain, but I do my best and then have to figure out how to wipe up the resultant mess with the scrap of towel available.

Caroline, David and Bobby are already at breakfast when I get there, at a table outside on the patio. A large bird, sort of like a peacock, saunters around and we have some fun feeding it.

People seem to be doing OK with everything so far, though Bobby confesses to be going through something of an identity crisis. The fact that the people in the camps think of him - refer to him - as "Muzungu", really got to him, he says, and he's having some trouble dealing with it.

The rest show up and the cars are expected, so we head out to the front of the hotel. We're to drive to Kitale Camp this morning. It's the northernmost of the camps in the Goma region, and I think the largest. At the last minute I decide I'd better get my jacket and run back to the room.

I don't think I was gone all that long, but when I get back, they're gone! At first I think it's a joke, of course, but pretty soon it becomes clear it's not and I have to try to figure out what to do. I assume that once they get to UNHCR HQ in Goma they'll discover that I'm not there and either come back or send someone back, but perhaps I ought to try to grab a ride out that way in order to save the time.

There is no phone at the hotel other than a cellular, which they guard jealously, and a two-way radio. The man at the desk speaks English about as well as I speak French, so it's a torturous process to get him to understand that I need to reach UNHCR. He's busy, the lines are tied up, this phone is only to be used for incoming calls, etc. In the meantime, every time I hear a jeep outside I assume it's someone coming back for me, but after a while I become concerned. As time goes on and no one shows up and I can't get to the phone all the old insecurities set in. Maybe they had an accident. Maybe they hate me and have decided they'll go on without me. A UNICEF car shows up and I try to hitch a ride with them, but they're going to Mugunga, which is to the west. HQ is the other direction and we're to head up the Northern Axis today. And if I do get a ride to HQ, will they pass me coming the other way? What a hell of a mess. (In the back of my mind I am hatching a plan all this time, you understand, that involves getting to HQ and grabbing one of those motorcycles I saw in the motor pool and fighting my way up the good old Northern Axis on that. I'll show them. I'll magically appear at Kitale in spite of their attempt to ditch me!)

As I'm waiting, a young red-haired woman I saw talking to Simon earlier comes out of the hotel. An Englishwoman, Ruth, she's producing a documentary about the situation here. When she understands my plight she's very sympathetic and tries to help figure things out, but is up against a schedule herself and can't offer a lift because she's going the other way, to Mugunga. As she awaits her driver we talk a bit about the bleak situation here. She tells me to take a look, if I have a chance, at another camp, Kibumba, which is on the Northern Axis before Kitale. She was there yesterday, she says, and thinks there are more military types there than in Mugunga.

I finally get access to the cellular (at a cost of "une dollar per minute, monsieur") and get through to HQ, but Joel, Betsy and Nici are in a meeting and no one knows Barbara or where she or the group of Americans might be. Growing more frustrated by the minute, I leave a message which I'm sure will be lost and go back outside to try to bum a ride.

After a long and unsuccessful struggle to find a way out of this fix, the whole gang suddenly appears in two jeeps, terribly embarrassed and trying to figure out what to say to make amends. It seems three jeeps had showed up shortly after I ran for my jacket and in the confusion everyone assumed I was in one of the others. When they got to HQ, arriving at slightly different times, the same assumption was made. In fact, David and Daryl tell me, when they started looking for me it was at HQ and someone there told them they had seen me, so they spent a lot of time looking around the building before finally coming to the conclusion that they should think back. Once they walked through who was in which jeep they understood what had happened and raced back here.

Well, I don't want them to waste a lot of time feeling bad about it (though it did soothe my hurt feelings a bit that they were so contrite), so make a joke, shrug it off and we load up once again. Back through town and up the Northern Axis we go, and again I'm riding with Simon, Hannington and the equipment. This route will take us right past the volcano, Simon says, so if the clouds lift it should be quite a view.

The land is greener here, looking more like pasture land than the hard, gray rocky scape around Goma and in Mugunga. In short order we pass some of the refugees who are being repatriated, truckloads of them going the other direction with jeep-loads of heavily armed Zairean soldiers riding guard.

After another fifteen minutes or so we slow to go past Kibumba Camp. To the casual observer, it would appear that Ruth was right. Soldiers, most wearing some part of their uniforms, are everywhere. This camp, it seems, is a more recent addition to the mix. Made up out of necessity to handle the overflow from the others, it now is home to some 220,000 people and has no natural water source nearby, thus requiring an incredible trucking operation to deal with that need. During the cholera epidemic, Hannington and Simon recall, bodies were stacked along the side of this road like so much firewood.

As we drive, and the country becomes more lush and beautiful, Hannington and Simon talk about many things. AIDS, they say, infects about 35% of the population of Rwanda. (!) It is particularly rife, says Simon, in the southwest and in Burundi. It is also reported to be heavy in Zaire. They think about 10% of the people in Kenya have it. Hannington tells of 80 prostitutes in Kenya who were diagnosed with AIDS 11 years ago and who seem to have developed some sort of resistance to it, showing no manifestation of the disease at all (at least so far). He says, and Simon agrees, that children born to AIDS infected mothers test positive at first, but often test negative in later years. (None of this makes any sense to me - and sounds frankly like folk wisdom, but I don't know enough about the phenomenon to even be able to comment intelligently, so just listen.)

Simon, who obviously needs to get a lot of the experience of the Rwanda war out of his system talks about it a good deal. He tells of a particularly bleak moment when he was sure he couldn't deal with any more of the horror, when he called his wife and told her that he was pulling out and coming home. She told him, he says, not to wimp out; warned him that if he left in the middle of the job he'd have a hell of a time getting another one. He tells the story in a way that suggests he's half proud of how tough she is and half embarrassed at this own weakness. He finally decided he simply couldn't do it any more and left. And, he says, she was right; it was a long time before he got another job.

He talks of the enormous courage of Ghanaian members of the UNAMIR force, either unarmed or only in the possession of small arms, who stood off Interahamwe mobs in front of the Mille Collines during the height of the massacres when they were determined to come in and take out some of those inside. Says they did it without firing a shot, simply by facing them down and refusing to back off. Then he talks about a Ghanaian sergeant who was driving him around Kigali when they were stopped by Rwandan Government (the Hutu government) forces, who were at that time totally unpredictable. He says you never knew what they were going to do, but if they only robbed you you felt as if you'd gotten off lightly. Anyway, he says this driver was stopped by a roadblock and they started giving him trouble and the guy, who was built like a bull, got out of the car and started throwing people around and knocking heads together. Simon says he was cowering in the car, sure they were both going to die, but the Rwandans evidently decided the driver was crazy, backed off and let them through unmolested.

He and Hannington talk of a man they both know, a Frenchman who was diagnosed with AIDS, who decided to come to Rwanda and set up a place for homeless and destitute people. It was shortly before the awful trouble started, evidently, and he stayed through the whole thing, saving many Tutsi lives.

Simon tells of interviewing women who were part of the Interahamwe. He would come upon a massacre scene just after the slaughter, when the dancing and the singing were still going on, and ask them why they were part of it. One told him, "I didn't really kill anybody. I just finished them off." Another's response was, "I wasn't part of the killing. I just killed children."

He says you'll see many people who were hamstrung (the Achilles Tendon at the back of the ankle, just above the heel, is cut) so they couldn't get away. The killers would leave them and go after others, knowing they'd still be there when they got back. He met a Hutu man whose wife and daughters had their feet and ankles in bandages. He pressed the man for the story and finally learned that the women were Tutsi and therefore had been hamstrung and left for later. He had come home, found them and begged for their lives when the killers returned. He was told they would be spared if he would work at a roadblock in his neighborhood pointing out his neighbors who were Tutsi, so they could be killed. And, Simon asked, did he do that? Yes, was the answer, he did.

I find myself wondering, watching the pain in Simon's face as he tells of these experiences, what one does with that kind of knowledge?

Kitale Camp

We pull into a fenced compound (again "fenced," while technically correct, is a bit of a misnomer in that it suggests a protected border - this is strictly for purposes of demarcation and wouldn't stop anyone who was intent on coming through) and get out, grateful for the chance to stretch. A few large tents provide cover from the sun. In one, people are being taught how to do the census, which seems to loom large in everyone's mind. (It's to start in two days, and even though there have been indications of cooperation so far, the staff is clearly concerned that things might blow up at any moment.)

We meet Lino, the UNHCR rep in charge of the camp. He's an Italian in his forties with one of those deep, resonant voices with just a touch of rasp that reminds one of the valiant, wounded, heroic characters you run across in some movie made from a Hemingway novel.

With Lino leading and Simon and Hannington filming this trek, we head out for a walk through the camp, and are immediately besieged by a sea of kids who reach out, leap around, beg, pull on our hands and attach themselves to us however they can, all shouting "Muzungu!" They want money, they want to walk with us, they want their pictures taken; in short, they want attention. It's the Pied Piper routine again, but the crush is worse here. People are everywhere. Some of these kids are heartbreaking in their need to hold your hand; pushing each other out of the way, getting in between your legs, under your arms, prying their way between you and another child. Soon I've got one holding on to each finger as we walk along, trying not to step on or trip over anyone. Caroline and David, Bobby (smiling in spite of his discomfort at being Muzungu) and the incredibly good-natured Daryl are traipsing along, going with the program without any apparent problem. David remarks on the difference here, noting that the atmosphere is lighter than in Mugunga, less openly hostile. Lino says it's because they've been able to break the stranglehold of the military here. In concert with acknowledged tribal elders and other popular figures, the UNHCR has been able to arrange an election wherein the refugees choose their own representatives - and those representatives in turn deal with the organizations to work out the distribution of provisions, etc. There is no guarantee, of course, that the people selected aren't the same old bad guys, but there is at least an attempt to empower the individual refugee and the results appear to be worth it. (There are still some suspicious and hostile-appearing characters around, no question about that, but there is a markedly lighter atmosphere.)

After quite a walk through the camp, including heading off the main track and winding through what are essentially people's front and back yards, excusing ourselves as we go, we make our way up a fairly steep hill to the main distribution area (where the crush of people is so intense that it becomes actively uncomfortable), then head back toward the compound. The oppressive feeling associated with so much need, so many bodies pressing against you, so many hands and faces and voices reaching out, calling, wanting something, anything, from you, becomes overpowering and by the time we get back to the compound a couple of our group need to take a minute for a few deep breaths.

This is not, we try to reassure them, an easy thing. Many in my experience have faltered well before having gotten this far.

After a few minutes we load in the wagons and head down the road a ways to the CARE-Australia compound and the orphanage they're running. We're introduced to a number of CARE volunteers and have a chance to wash our hands and have a drink. The Aussies are typically warm, friendly, hospitable and generous.

A doctor named Kathy, a pediatrician who has committed to a six-month stint here, takes us around the area. First she shows an emergency medical facility they have set up for people from the area (refugees and locals, I think) who are in need of attention. There is a line of people waiting at the moment. Their primary charge, she says, is orphans and unaccompanied minors. They find a 30% AIDS rate among these kids, which is heartbreaking. Crossing the road to the school area, we pass through a wooden gate with an open dirt compound surrounded by tents which serve as classrooms, housing, mess areas and anything else needed. There are 12,000 kids here, divided into groups, one of which is just finishing an activity and about to break for lunch, so we're able to meet them.

Of course we're once again surrounded and pulled, pushed, etc. The staff has a bit more control here, though, so it's not as overwhelming as in the main camp. Soon some are doing a dance and song, following a powerful young lad with a whistle who sets a fierce pace with a specific rhythmic step. It's impressive and fun, but there's something vaguely troubling about its militarism and ferocity (later Simon says he was very much bothered by it because the Interahamwe were known to dance and sing in much the same manner after the massacres).

There's a dugout in the middle of the yard, evidently a trench with some material over the top, all covered with dirt. It has entrances at regular intervals and I ask what it's for. Kathy says it's effectively a bomb shelter. She says the camp has been shelled in the past and this is for the kids' protection. Asked who did the shelling, she indicates that it may have been the Hutu military's attempt at intimidation, or it may have been Zairean forces, she's not sure.

In one crowd of kids we meet, Kathy singles out a boy a bit smaller than the others who, she says, is actually a few years older. He is, she thinks, one of the Twa people, the Rwandan minority said by some to be related to the pigmies. He's a sweet kid with a friendly air and a slightly chalky coloration

Next she takes us to the infants' medical area, where we see tiny, sick children with a variety of problems lying on blankets in small tents. A hydrocephalic child, one with a microcephalic condition, some with AIDS; an amazing array of medical problems. This is always the toughest part. Suffering children are so hard to deal with in the first place, but to see them under these conditions and try to fit it into some understandable scheme is next to impossible. In each tent are adults; some wet nurses, others simply caring for the children, all volunteers drawn from the ranks of the refugees. It's heartwarming to see the special meaning these kids apparently have to the community. And the quiet, sweet, simple, positive attitudes exhibited by the CARE volunteers is enormously touching.

The suffering makes you want to weep.

Bidding our good-byes, we load up and head out. Barbara had arranged for sandwiches to be made up at the hotel this morning and Lino has a place he wants to show us for a picnic lunch, so we drive about 15 minutes further north and the lead car turns east onto a dirt lane into the bush. Another 10 or 15 minutes in and we stop. It's thick bush, not what I would call jungle, but serious outdoors with a heavy canopy of trees off to the side and a dense tangle of weeds all 'round. A steep trail off to the south side of the road takes us down to the bank of a good sized river and leaves us under a giant tree. Just up to our left is a splendid waterfall that cascades from a ledge about 75 to 100 feet above. A great spot.

A trail threads its way up the bank toward the waterfall, so I head up that way and Daryl decides to join me. Once at the foot of the falls it's pretty wet and slick and just as Daryl comes up beside me his foot slips, or the ground gives way, and he's suddenly gone, it's only a flash and he's down, barely stopped by the tangled growth only a matter of inches from the rushing water! It's amazing; one of those freak occurrences that can change, or end, a life. As it is, he's able to get enough support from the growth to right himself and scramble back up on to the path in seconds, but the reality of what might have happened had he gone through into the water and been swept onto the rocks downstream is enough to make you lose your breath. Daryl's fine, so we head back toward the others, but the sense of what might have happened had things been only a little different gives us all pause.

Once back with the group, it's soon on to other subjects. Isn't life funny? What might have been a tragedy that marked us forever is now a matter of some excess adrenaline, a few jokes, a bit of cleaning up and back to the business at hand. Perhaps it's what we've seen in the past few days - that, I guess, and the exotic circumstances - but the sudden nearness of the possibility of death stays with me for a quite a while.

Lunch is plentiful, if dry and not particularly tasty. The hotel has eggs, I've discovered, so I asked if they could make a couple of fried egg sandwiches. The rest have cheese, or some kind of meat and cheese. Mine are essentially two pieces of dry bread with an even drier fried egg between them - and they're simply wonderful! A couple of these washed down with an ample supply of bottled water supplied by the UNHCR and the meal is one of those experiences where you feel very alive, very much aware of textures and tastes and sounds and feelings. The fact of being here in the African bush, being witness to this combination of horror and human triumph, and then having it capitalized by a split-second flash of the imminent possibilities, brings with it a sense of appreciation, of awareness and gratitude, of nerve endings atingle.

After lunch we climb up the hill and load into the wagons. Back along the dirt track we pass some people working their land. Smiles and waves are exchanged and we note the care with which the crops are tended, the beauty of the flowers surrounding the flimsy dwellings, the children playing. It's a simple life. Not an easy life. A different life.

Heading back out we pass through Kitale Camp again. The contrast between the crush of people, the vehicles pulling in and out with their loads of supplies, the oppressive sense of human need here and the calm and quiet existence a few minutes up the road is even more striking. Lino wants to stop at MSF headquarters which is just to the south, but before we head for it Simon wants to get a shot of the camp from this vantage point. We pull to the side of the road and he and Hannington set up their camera quickly - and just as quickly, with Simon totally concentrated on what he's seeing through the lens, Hannington has to push him out of the way to avoid being run down by one of the trucks coming off a side road. It's tough out there. After Simon chases the truck down the road a bit they scramble back into the wagon, swearing a blue streak about the idiot who, if not for Hannington, would have ground him and the camera to pulp under his wheels without even noticing. The experience again makes me wonder about the seemingly endless, ant-like train of people on both sides of the road, children dancing in and out. How many are crushed without a blink of the eye?

Down the road through a gate and up a dirt lane past a fabulous garden of tropical flowers, we pull up before a villa on a hill. Owned by a Belgian and leased to MSF/Holland for the duration, the back patio offers a panoramic view of the valley. Kitale spreads out below us in all its squalor. Here is a stark picture of two faces of Africa: the political and demographic reality below and the colonial legacy on which we stand. And the camp below provides a contradiction in itself; at once an extraordinary feat of organization and an unbelievably huge, angry, hungry maw.

The villa, though a bit run down, is the perfect African colonial manse. Tiled roof, thick walls, paved patio amuck with flowers. The back is terraced and the level below us boasts a pool, though dry and crumbling. There's a meeting going on inside with representatives of most of the NGOs from the camp, working out logistics and other concerns, so we seat ourselves on the patio. Coffee is brought for those who want it and we have a chance to reflect a bit.

Perhaps in response to a question, I'm not sure, Lino launches into an explication of the political situation that I find more and more troubling as he goes on. His affection for the Hutu refugees, and his sense of responsibility for them, is clear, but there's a note of defensiveness on their behalf, coupled with a kind of derision of the Tutsi that bothers me more and more. Finally, I believe in response to a question from Caroline, he makes a comment that seems to suggest that the "western" response to the genocide was an imposition of our values onto a situation we didn't understand or fully appreciate. Finally I can't sit quiet about it and take exception to his view, wanting to make clear that it's not representative, as far as I'm aware, of the UNHCR position. Nor is it, from my perspective, a fair or healthy one in terms of international laws, covenants and understandings based upon the international community's aspiration for a more decent and civilized world.

The discussion goes on, probably to a point that it bores everyone else to tears, but I am more and more frustrated by what I hear as a kind of jaded, cynical, world-weary view that effectively argues that we can't hope to understand these kinds of (inevitable?) tribal rivalries and are being arrogant neo-colonialists when we assume we can or should come in here and impose our standards on them. He argues that the Tutsi are impossibly arrogant (a fact that, given the historic social stratification mentioned above and some of the things we've heard and learned here, may be true, at least in part) and overstates, in my view, the reports of danger of reprisals against returning Hutu (using words like "all" and "in every case") and blends it all into a position that, without saying so specifically, at least infers that the West can't understand the situation, so should stay out of it and let what comes come - and if it does maybe they deserved it. (Now, in fairness, maybe I'm exaggerating his position, but that's what I thought I was hearing. At one point in the discussion Bobby says he doesn't think Lino is saying what I think I am hearing, so perhaps I'm wrong. But I don't think so.) I think there is a common basis for agreements between peoples and nations and that we can articulate them (in fact have articulated them) in international human rights understandings. In fact, those understandings are agreed to and signed off on by most of the nations in the world, cultural differences notwithstanding, and one of the fundamental planks is the covenant against genocide to which we (the U.S.) and the government of Rwanda (all governments of Rwanda) are signatories. I don't agree that this tribal bloodshed is either inevitable or appropriate and to argue, as I think Lino is, that we should effectively let them solve their own problems their own way (even when that means the slaughter of innocents) is to abdicate our responsibility as members of the civilized community.

Finally we grind to a halt, realizing we've gone on too long and aren't likely to change each other's view, and turn to other business. The meeting over, a representative from MSF has come out and will make himself available for Simon and Hannington's camera so that his perspective can be incorporated into whatever Barbara ultimately uses this footage for.

His name is Michael Hoffman and he is with MSF (Medécins Sans Frontières/Doctors Without Borders) Holland. (MSF France has pulled out for political reasons, as stated above, but obviously MSF Holland didn't feel compelled to join them.) MSF Holland has been here since the major exodus in June/July and has primary responsibility for sanitation and health care in Kitale and Kibumba Camps.

Q. - Major problems?

A. - Gaining unimpeded access to the people in the camps (again a reference to interference by the military and militia types) and setting up an infrastructure system that works. They got a new group of between 70 and 90,000 last month, so the problems continue. They had tremendous difficulty, particularly at the beginning, in dealing with the hard lava surface and even now are in need of machinery which will make this condition more easy to deal with.

Q. - Greatest achievement?

A. - Having brought down the death rate in the camps.

Q. - The future?

A. - His greatest concern is that these camps are simply too large to be sustained over the long term. There are too many people in too small an area.

Q. - What is the answer?

A. - Either relocate the camps or repatriate the people.

Out in the car as we're loading up to leave, Hannington, with his slow smile, offers an insight in to what happened between Lino and I. Lino, he says, has been "Africanized." When I ask what exactly that means to him, he and Simon work it out between them and finally suggest that there is a certain type of white man to whom Africa becomes so much a part of their lives that they feel they are the only ones who can understand it - that anyone who brings a view, no matter how positively intended, that is contrary to the way things have always been done here, is an unwelcome intruder who doesn't understand the innate wisdom of the continent and its peoples. The problem with that view, at least in Hannington's mind, is that it not only disparages any modern or outside view, much of which can be beneficial, but that it is most strongly held and articulated by those who are colonials themselves or are the descendants of same.

Hannington is an interesting guy. He's got a wonderful smile and easy manner, doesn't say much, but clearly watches and listens with great care and I have the sense that he's fully aware of what's going on at all times.

Heading down the road toward Goma, Simon and Hannington again talk of the AIDS problem. Simon says he thinks Khassin, our Tutsi driver with the tendency to cough and sneeze, is an AIDS victim. He says the runny nose and frequent cough are two of the signs he sees most often. Khassin is from an area with a high AIDS rate (Bujumbura, Burundi. Both Simon and Hannington tell stories of the open and aggressive prostitutes who work there.) Also, as he points out, Khassin is very thin. In Kenya, he tells me, that's the name they use for the disease: "thin."

Getting back to the massacres, Simon says there were two radio stations broadcasting during the war and the period leading up to it: Radio Rwanda and Radio Milles Collines. Both were encouraging the killers, but Radio Milles Collines, he says, was particularly ugly. Its announcer was a white man, a Belgian (Georges Ruggiu, subsequently named by the Belgian government as one "inciting to violence" for his diatribes against Belgians and calling for attacks against Belgian citizens living in Rwanda), who was as much an extremist as any Hutu and trumpeted the call to young people to get involved in the massacres, to kill the "cockroaches." There was also a very sultry-voiced woman, he says, who would ask, "Morning, boys. Who's going to help us fill the graves today?"

Back at HCR HQ, we check in and Nici tells me that Elizabeth is working on my request, trying to find someone who will talk to me privately. Joel stops for a minute and I ask him about the rumors I've continued to hear about "Operation Blessing." He smiles and says it isn't, from his perspective, either an effective or particularly legitimate organization. It does not operate in harmony with the UNHCR or the other NGO's here, seems to have its own (heavy-handed religious) agenda, has only a small medical staff attached and therefore has little impact on the situation. In short, it simply isn't a serious effort as far as he can see. On the other hand, and one can speculate that this is the sole raison d'etre, it's a great photo-opportunity for those who choose to "drop in" and, indications are, its existence here is very useful in leveraging contributions out of Stateside constituents. The discussion continues in a general way about some of the other people and organizations who use this emergency situation to their own personal, political or fundraising advantage. He sees them, unfortunately, with some regularity. One he mentions is Americares, a group out of the northeastern U.S. that is very good at getting publicity for its "good works." They tried to generate a publicity bonanza out of having been able to alleviate the terrible distress during the cholera crisis by bringing in, of all things, a planeload of Gatorade. Joel just shakes his head at the memory, suggesting that the idea was not only lunatic, it was medically counterproductive and dangerous.

Outside, we find Khassin and head back to the Karibu to clean up a bit. We're to meet a group from HQ for dinner at the restaurant Richard Walden told us about a hundred years ago in Los Angeles. Owned by a Belgian, he said, it boasts a $12 chocolate mousse and T-Bone steaks on the menu.

Khassin tells us on the way to the hotel that he was hassled by some Zairean soldiers today who took $20 from him. He wasn't doing anything, he says, they just stopped him and pushed him around. We hear a lot of that kind of talk, since the Zairean soldiers are notorious for extorting money from people, but this is as close as it's come to us. Again, the point is made that they're not paid, suggesting that this behavior is what's to be expected. I ask Simon and Hannington if it can be true that they're not paid anything and the response is that if they are, it's so little it's virtually nothing.

A quick change into something a bit less dusty and we gather again and head back into the city. The restaurant is surprisingly nice; open, very European in feeling with a long wooden bar, sofas and over-stuffed chairs in the waiting area where we gather. All of our gang is there (including Simon and Hannington), plus Lino, Nici, Elizabeth and some of the others from HQ. Talk centers mostly on preparation for the census.

Elizabeth says she is to have a "security meeting" in the morning at Mugunga Camp with a group of "representatives" of the various factions within the camp. It certainly won't be one on one, but some of the people there certainly fit into the category I had mentioned to her, would that be of interest if it can be arranged? It sure would, at least for me, so she'll see what can be done.

When we're taken into the dining room and seated at a long table, Nici ends up seated between David and I, and we get a chance to find out more about her. A lawyer, she spent a couple of years working with Amnesty International in Asia before coming on as a Protection Officer for the UNHCR. Smart as a whip, experienced, extremely articulate and remarkably attractive, she presents quite a dazzling picture of the young, committed, humanitarian activist professional. I'm reminded of Nina Winquist, the ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross) representative we met in Somalia two years ago, who impressed our group there in the same way. It's heartening, actually inspiring, to meet people who have so much going that it's clear they could succeed on probably any level they chose back "in the world" who have instead chosen to serve in this way - in these kinds of circumstances. After a while, I ask for clarification of the UNHCR position on the various issues that pertain here, citing my earlier disagreement with Lino.

It's interesting to hear her launch into an impassioned description of an organization (UNHCR) very much torn by the situation in which it finds itself. She describes a split in the thinking within the group on this very subject and, I'm pleased to hear, says she has had "screaming fights" with Lino on the matter herself. The High Commissioner's position, currently held, is that they should not encourage repatriation of refugees because of the danger of violence to them once they return. Instead, they are to "facilitate" the return of any who wish to volunteer to go back. This view is shared, Nici indicates, by a minority of the people on the ground here, with the majority believing that conditions in the country have stabilized to the degree that return should be encouraged (and, I think it's fair to infer, is being encouraged, if subtly). She says the High Commissioner will be coming out soon and this view will be expressed to her as forcefully as possible. Further, she says, the UNHCR has a mandate to not only provide humanitarian assistance to refugees, but also to interview applicants for refugee status with an eye toward determining who does and who does not have a legitimate claim. It is, in her view, inappropriate for them to be providing shelter, comfort and support to many of these people who are in fact simply a vanquished army and are using this respite for their own purposes of rebuilding and re-supply. Further, and more disconcerting in this situation, she indicates, is the problem that many of them may be perpetrators of human rights violations on a massive scale.

Questions of how one goes about separating the good ones from the bad are big issues for a later time, she says, but indicates her own view that it is imperative that the process begin. Separate camps for military might be one possibility, with a declared, short-term life. Closing all the camps at a date certain, carefully pre-planned and pre-announced, might be another. And certainly moving the camps further inland, away from the border so they aren't such a convenient launching pad for cross-border raids should be an immediate consideration (if such can be worked out with the Zairean Government).

She's interested to learn that I know a human rights lawyer from Goma, (Joseph Mudumbe, who was one of the Human Rights Watch honorees this past month in Los Angeles) and offers to try to contact him since I've been unable to do so. She says he might well be a valuable person for her to know. She's going to try to help Elizabeth arrange to get us into the security meeting tomorrow and if they're successful perhaps a meeting with Joseph would be possible afterwards. Simon says he would like to go to the meeting as well and Nici says if it can be arranged at all he'll be welcome, but won't be allowed to bring his camera. It would certainly set things off, she says.

An interesting evening. Certainly an interesting and helpful woman.

Soon eyelids begin to droop and we pay the bill and head for the wagons. Nici is staying at the Karibu as well, so drives me back. When we all get to the hotel, Barbara comes over and expresses her concern about Khassin. She says he's afraid to drive back through the city (he's staying at or near the HQ) alone and wants to know if Nici can help. (It's interesting to watch the process, because Nici has just been talking about how exhausted she is from all the tension associated with the preparations for the census, the negotiations, the security considerations, etc., and how much she's looking forward to a good night's rest, but it takes her only a moment to say that he needn't worry, she'll follow him back and make sure he gets there safely.) With that, Caroline, David and I decide we'll go as well and in a moment we're off again. An eerie touch at that very moment is a burst of automatic weapons fire coming from the direction of Mugunga Camp. Training, or intimidation? Nici says it could be either.

The trip riding shotgun for Khassin is relatively quick and easy, and the trip back uneventful, so we say our good nights, walk down the path to our rooms and turn in. God, it's dark out here!