Contributor: Matthew De Galan

Fernand, the hero, with a new friend. Photo: Matthew De Galan/Mercy Corps

Yesterday I went out on the food distribution, our first. We got lost, somehow, driving the minivan over the rough farm paths of Lac Vert. Other NGOs have Land Cruisers and Range Rovers with flags and big radio antennas; we creep along in our minivan, a piece of paper with the logo printed on it taped to the window. We are the soccer moms of Goma. But (and donors, please pay attention) the minivan rents for a third less, holds more people and burns less fuel.

Caritas and WFP were in charge of the distribution, and they are delighted to see us. The site is roped off with the thinnest of twine. On the other side are thousands of people, looking in grim-faced, waiting for their turn to enter the distribution zone, for their chance to eat. Just inside the twine was a mid-sized truck; workers carried 50 kilo sacks of wheat flour and stacked them next to the wall of a school — three high, five deep and 15 across. The workers are already covered in flour dust and look like bakers coming from a chaotic kitchen. I snap pictures and soon I have flour on my pants, shirt, face. I'm a baker, too, perhaps.

There are smaller sacks of beans — lentils, I think. And white plastic jugs of cooking oil. Each person receives 20 kilos of flour, 6 kilos of beans, a third of a jug of cooking oil and 5 grams of salt. To speed the activity inside the distribution zone, people are formed into groups of 15. Each group carts 6 bags of flour, two bags of beans, five jugs of oil, and then they leave the exit point and divide the goods. Most do so methodically, peacefully. But, inevitably, a few groups break into arguments. My share is short! You're cheating me! You bastard!! I saw a man in a wheelchair flailing with his arms at another man, and the man striking back. Another group was squared off, two men chest to chest, two woman gesturing wildly, screaming. But these are the exceptions. Some 2,500 families received 10 days of food rations — that's about 167 groups of 15 — and I saw two arguments. Statistically, not too bad.

Inevitably, human dramas come our way. An old woman has lost her food coupon, which you get when you register as an IDP. She kept trying to talk to each of us in succession, looking at us helplessly, hoping someone would give her a better answer. She was 70 or so, my mom's age. She seemed utterly alone.

A few minutes later a woman of 30, tall and dressed sharply in a colorful dress and matching head scarf, came to us, in tears, literally shaking. She's lost her baby. Cannot find him anywhere. I call Fernand over, ask him to translate French into Swahili.

Boy or girl? Boy.

Age? Less than one.

Wearing? A black t-shirt?

Last seen where, when? Right there, just out side the exit point. 15 minutes ago.

How did he disappear? I was dividing my food. He disappeared.

Where was he when you were dividing? I handed him to a boy.

Describe him? About 9, wearing a beige t-shirt.

Do you know him? No, I had never seen him before.

Your boy's name? Espoir — Hope.

I ask Fernand to get one of the Caritas bullhorns. We leave the distribution zone and walk around — me, Fernand and the woman, now more hysterical, beside herself with grief. For 15 minutes we walk through the IDP site, Fernand explaining the situation, asking if anyone has seen the baby. I think about all the police dramas I've watched — the first few hours are the most critical. Does that even matter here? Who would steal a baby in a IDP camp? Who would want one more mouth to feed? But then, if you've lost a baby … maybe you want one back.

It's hot, and getting hotter. We walk up to the road, past the UNICEF tent. The tanker for the water distribution is pulling in off the main road. We jump out of the way. Kids trail after us, some wanting to help, some seeming to laugh at the woman. Other women shout out advice, look concerned, shake their heads solemnly. I wonder if my presence will help or hurt? Do I project some authority that will aid in the return? Or will people think, hey, this baby might be worth something. The foreigner will surely pay for its return!

I start to wonder, just a bit, if the woman is slightly mad. Perhaps there is no baby. Finally, Fernand suggests that we go back where the boy disappeared and wait. Surely, the other boy will return the child there. We head back, slipping inside the twine barrier, and immediately the woman gives a cry of joy and relief. A sheepish boy in a beige t-shirt holding a smiling baby in a black t-shirt. She runs and takes the baby, hugs him close, cries some more, and says something that might be thanks or might be an admonishment to the boy in the beige shirt. Then she hands him a cookie.

Fernand smiles and laughs. We both do. We have done our good deed.

"You are the hero of the day," I tell him. Fernand explains that, in fact, his family name — Bingwa — means "hero" in Swahili.

"You see, he is a hero everyday," Christophe says, and slaps his friend on the back.

The woman, still crying, turns and thanks us, takes her child, holding him very closely, very carefully, and walks down the hill into the camp.

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The friendly hotel staff is always in good humor. Photo: Matthew De Galan/Mercy Corps

Everyone at the hotel wants to work for us, sell us something, get something from us. They approach the matter politely, with deference. Feliciane wants to work in admistration. She also raises chickens and submitted a proposal to us, asking for $70,000 to launch a larger enterprise.

The tall young man with the Good Humor Ice Cream shirt that says "Robin" on the nameplate wants to be a driver. The cook here, who also waits tables, has offered his services as our cook, should we rent a house. A short young man whose name I do not know asked me, three days, running, if I had an extra flash drive. He kept explaining that this was his last day at the hotel, but that I could give it to his brother before I leave. But he's still here, every day.

Finally, another tall young man with the Good Humor Ice Cream shirt that has Tasha on the nameplate asked if we would be interested in purchasing "un petite animal du foret." As a pet, a curiosity. It turned out to be a turtle.

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Like thousands of Congolese children, young Giselle's path to relative safety in Goma has been grueling. But, with your help, Mercy Corps is offering them much-needed support once they reach their destination.

She walked four hours with her mother and two siblings last Wednesday to escape eastern Congo's brutal violence. Her family first fled their farm last Monday when soldiers arrived, seeking shelter in the center of Sake, a battle-torn city. But early Wednesday, shells began exploding in the city, and the family ran for their lives.

"We ran out of the house as fast as we could," says 12-year-old Giselle, nervously playing with a key attached to a bracelet. "We haven't eaten for three days. Today we got water, thank God."

What worries Giselle most is her father, who is trapped behind the battle lines, unable to join them or even let them know if he is alive. Since arriving, she and her family built a small hut out of tree branches and banana leaves, perched on the rough gray-black volcanic rock that juts up everywhere in the area, making it difficult to walk and impossible to dig latrines or plant gardens.

On Thursday, the weather turned cool and damp, with massive thunderstorms and drenching rain that poured through the makeshift dwellings. With the rains came massive swarms of mosquitoes and gnats.

By Monday, thousands of families, including Giselle's, had received plastic sheeting and were draping it over the roofs of their huts - a small step forward from the misery of the first few days. Yellow jerry cans, filled with clean water, rested in front of homes. Blankets, cooking utensils and other items were making life a bit easier.

But for Giselle and the thousands of other children, recovery is a long way off. There are no schools, no activities, no health care. And even her primary chores - long walks to fetch water and wood - pose grave dangers. Sexual violence against women and girls is a horrific fact of life in eastern Congo, the legacy of years of warfare and the continued presence of at least five armed groups operating in the region.

"Last week we had to walk to the lake, an hour away," she says, adding that they travel in groups of 10 or more, for safety. "Now the water is right here and we feel much safer."

And the key on her bracelet, what is it for?

"It's the key to my house," she says.

Does she want to go back?

"Yes, but not until it's safe. Until then, we will stay here."

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Mercy Corps’ Muteyi and Elena from AVSI at the water distribution. Photo: Matthew De Galan/Mercy Corps

I never found Eduardo, but the distribution was exciting. Mercy Corps' first work in Congo. We helped AVSI, an Italian NGO, set up and distribute water to 2,500 families. It started off a bit rocky. The tanker truck was late, and then the hose connecting it to the three portable water taps (each with six spigots) was chock full of holes. Desperately, as hundreds of thirsty people waited in line, we wrapped the pipe with rubber strips, trying to stem the flow. You could feel hundreds of eyes on you, watching the water seep away into the lava rock. So close, so tantalizingly close. Soon enough, it was fixed, and a group of children — 4, 5, 6 years old — toddled into the area, which was taped off like a crime scene, with two entry points and two exit points. MC and AVSI staff were posted at each entry and each exit, and we had maybe two people at each tap to help the kids and elderly fill their jerry cans. You might think folks would be excited, but mostly they seemed worried, deadly serious. As if they might not get their full measure, as if their turn might not come. But it did, and soon enough about 400 people were coming through per hour, filling 10 or 20 liter containers. By the end of the day, we had distributed 40,000 liters, and no one was left in line.

The amazing thing is watching the kids — 4 year olds come in, wobble over the rocks, fill their containers and then, impossibly, hoist it up and walk home. Some loop a long scarf through the handle, tie it tight, and then sling the looped fabric over their head and hunch forward. They are masters at carrying things here. If there was an Olympics for transport, Congo would dominate. Some women balance the containers on their head. The kids who didn't have scarfs, usually the boys, simply hefted them in both hands, walking a few steps, setting it down, picking it back up and walking some more. With the really tiny kids, we'd help them carry it outside the perimeter, sometimes beyond, once or twice to the door of the dwelling.

* * *

After a couple of hours things calmed down, so I pulled Christophe aside and proposed a tour around the camp. It was hot, the sun out in full force. I wanted to talk to people, ask them how they came here, what had happened up in Sake. We talked to a few families — pretty much the same story. Shells started dropping into the city from the hills above, and they all fled. Some on Monday, some waited a couple of more days.

It's a three-hour walk or so, and even Sunday the road was packed with new arrivals coming in. We talked to one woman who wouldn't give her name, her age, the number of children she had. Who can blame her? So we decided to try the kids. That's where I met Giselle, whose photo and story now grace the Mercy Corps website. She is 12.

She looks at you with no emotion, no expression, a face rigid with non-emotion. There is no fear in looking at you — she doesn't look down, or away. She looks right at you, with a quiet intelligence. But not a trace is revealed, no hint of mirth or a smile or mischief; no sadness or tears or remorse. Perfectly still and self-contained and controlled. But somehow the life has gone out, or lays repressed behind some wall of fear or pain or reticence. I am assuming too much, perhaps. The writer's mistake. Thinking you understand, when you don't. When you can't.

Here she is, a girl whose father is missing in the war, who was shelled and shot at, who can't walk to get water or wood without going with 10 others for fear of rape. And now she is here, living in a hut that the rain pours through each night, swarmed by mosquitoes, without food or water or latrines or school. Nothing, really, but her pale purple dress with big white flowers, and a bracelet with the key to her home back in Sake.

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Finally, some real work! Actually helping people instead of listening to their stories and driving home. Mugur has found us a niche. He’s been frantically working every angle and contact as the IDPs flooded into town this week. Being new to Congo, it’s been tough to break in. At first, we heard that the UN had everything covered. We feared being stuck on the sidelines. But yesterday Mugur ran into the team from Solidarite, the French NGO, at Doga, the expat watering hole, and over cigarettes and beer he got us into the game. In just a few minutes we’ll head out with a 12-person Mercy Corps team to help distribute water to displaced families in Lac Vert. The Congolese staff that’s been helping us with the surveys has just been conscripted as aid workers. And they are tremendously excited. So am I. Our instructions are to report to an Italian named Eduardo.

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