Harper in Seattle

NEW BLOG

2009-10-29T07:34:00.001-07:00

Hey Folks.....

Back in Goma.

Please check out my new blog at
http://harpermcconnell.wordpress.com/

Thanks!

The Legacy Continues

2009-01-24T22:42:00.000-08:00

I can’t remember the last time I was in a high school. But, on January 19 I sat cross-legged on Garfield High School’s gym floor listening to a choir sing and speakers exhorting the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. As much as I wanted to immerse myself in the festivities, I couldn’t take my eyes off of a black poster on the wall at the top of the bleachers. Written in yellow paint it said, “STOP THE VIOLENCE IN CONGO. HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH? OVER 6 MILLION KILLED.”

Now either the Garfield High School students were rising social revolutionists or a Congolese had put it up on the wall. I got up in the middle of speech to start asking around about the sign. I found the high school basketball coach at the gym door and asked him if the sign was usually up. ‘No way, I am in the gym everyday and I never seen it’.

So, I decided to just watch it until I saw someone take it down. The speeches closed up and I saw a hand going up to the corner of the poster. I sprinted up the bleachers to make sure I caught the guy. ‘Did you put this up? Are you from Congo?’ I excitedly asked. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ he answered. From there we started speaking in French and I told him that I lived in Goma for two years and he couldn’t believe it. He had been in the States for two years now after moving from Kinshasa.

We walked out the door with the black banner not believing the connection we just made. ‘There is no one in Seattle really talking about what is going on in Congo,’ he said, ‘you know I just made this poster and said I am going to just march with it even if I am by myself.’ Instead, we ended up walking the 3-mile march together and even managed to get an independent media interview (the major stations declined…)

In turns out that he was organizing a panel at a nearby community college on the conflict in DRC and Darfur and asked me to speak on behalf of the work HEAL Africa is doing in the east, the epicenter of the conflict where I lived. We talked about the infamous Congolese music and dancing which we miss here, but also about all the possibilities to bring Congo into the public’s consciousness and how we can create a movement motivating people to help.

It is amazing what community can do. We were definitely not made for solitary lives. It only takes a few people to start something unstoppable.

Burning in Bierere

2008-05-09T08:16:00.000-07:00

I stood in the street in a quarter of Goma called Birere yesterday (April 25) around noon. It is the busiest district in town with all the wholesale markets selling bulk sugar, flour, milk, crates and crates of drinks, fruits, vegetables, fabric, spare parts, tvs, radios, lumber, everything you can think of. The pot-holed road is always packed and a little difficult to drive through as you have to navigate through all the buses, pedestrians, and people pushing crates with hundreds of pounds of goods. If it rains you have avoid all the muddied potholes and puddles. Behind these markets are the poorest neighborhoods in Goma. The houses are on top of one another and made out of wood and iron sheets. It is not uncommon to hear of a fire which starts in one house and spreads to the whole row. The runway for the airport is just behind the markets.

I was with two of my co-workers after buying fabric and all of the sudden a deafening noise from a plane made us duck a bit and cover our ears. I looked up and a plane barely passed over the electrical lines right in front of me. It looked like a cargo plane that was probably weighed down with cassiterite, tantalum, copper, etc. I said to my co-workers, ' someday a plane is going to crash here and it is going to be an absolute disaster.'

2 hours later Birere was up in flames in the exact spot I was standing before. A passenger plane carrying 79 people started its take off in the market instead of on the runway. Pieces of the plane laid scattered across the street and stores were hallowed out by the fires. The UN peacekeeping force gave water hoses that didn't work to civilians who ended up trying to put on the flames by buckets.

Located about a 5 minute drive from the crash site, the HEAL Africa hospital started receiving patients right away. We received over 90 patients, 11 of whom died. People gathered around the hospital gate reading a list of patients checked in to see if one of their missing family members or friends were admitted . People were panicked to see if their loved ones where on the deceased list, several people walked away, sobbing or falling on the ground once they saw a name they loved.

The same day we had a visiting medical team from Colorado arrive and they were thoroughly impressed with the rapid response of the doctors, nurses, and logistics at the hospital. The new medical team didn't even have to stay late and help which was a huge testimony to the efficiency of our staff. They were working into the night and I was driving around with a doctor trying to find critical saline and vaccination we were missing. Some of our staff spend the evening building a temporary cover with mattresses under it for the patient overflow. This morning, the hospital is packed with families visiting patients and representatives of the Congolese parliament are here right now.

It is hard to think about why Goma has to suffer another catastrophe apart from war and a volcano eruption. In the last few days several people have told me, "Goma ni ajabu", Goma is a miracle. It is really a miracle that daily life functions amidst complete chaos. Yesterday, I realized how close I have become with the people I work with and how their work is completely miraculous in spite of everything that is stacked against them.

Purses Over Rocks

2008-04-04T22:18:00.000-07:00

I put on my black Chaco sandals as I can get by with wearing them with a dress and can still manage to walk over the lava rock side streets of Goma. I still am in complete awe of so many Congolese women who tackle the roads decked out in high heels and brilliant dresses. I have never seen anyone trip or fall-I don’t know how they do it. Out of the gate of my house, I walked away from the lake, the “public beach” where people get their water. Up a hill of the black rocks I pass children carrying canisters of water on their back; pieces of fabric strapped across their head to balance the weight. I think about how I spent 15 minutes under the shower this morning. I am on my way to see a group of widows in a church who decided to meet together twice a week to learn how to sew and to weave baskets.

“We met together every week to pray, but then I got to thinking, why do we just pray together, we need to do something in addition to praying, something that will keep our hands busy and maybe even give us a chance to make money together,” said Mama Yuka, a large woman of about 60 years with a beautiful, gentle face which also has a firmness which reveals her strength. She is the mother of 13 children.

They are helping Healing Arts (www.healingartsafrica.com) fulfill an order of 2000 purses that UNICEF has requested for an international campaign crying out against sexual violence. Some women are able to make $50-$100 in one month which is a huge supplemental income for Goma. One of the women called me the other day on the phone just to tell me that she paid for all her children’s school fees and was saving for a sewing machine.

This an incredible beginning to the fair trade products that Healing Arts is developing. We have established a product line with 10 items including purses, skirts, dresses, jewelry, table settings, and wallets which will be sold in North America. We are working with 5 organizations that already exist and are training them how to make the models. We deliver the materials, the women sew the models, and then are immediately paid when we pick up the items. All the proceeds go towards materials, salaries of seamstresses who teach, and to the payment of women who sew. In addition, it provides support for a school at the HEAL Africa hospital for children waiting for surgery and for a fund for income generation grants and small loans for women who show entrepreneurship initiative. We will keep you posted on where you can buy these products in North America.

Malaria and Ben

2008-01-08T07:00:00.000-08:00

Though lying in bed without a shower for a few days and an IV drip in my arm after passing out in the middle of the hospital due to malaria was not the ideal way I would have liked to present myself to Ben Affleck, I nevertheless thoroughly welcomed the opportunity for him to greet me at my bedside.

I knew he was coming to the hospital and was quite angry at this mosquito because I, along with the hospital administrator, would have been the one to take him on a tour of the hospital and talk with him about the conflict situation in eastern Congo. I was lamenting this fact to my friend who was visiting me and who works with a film and art organization in Goma. And as I was saying, “it will be perfect, perhaps he will come in here and then I can introduce you and give a little plug for your organization,” in walks Ben Affleck to chat with me because they told him I had malaria. Despite acting in some pretty horrible movies, I was quite impressed with his initiative to travel around the Great Lakes region to learn more about the conflict.

After leaving the room, my friend and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. Who would have thought that I would meet Ben Affleck in eastern Congo while bed-ridden with malaria?

Mayi Mayi

2008-01-08T06:57:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday morning I hopped in the car with two visitors who are doing some independent journalism. Our destination was Bweremana-about 1 ½ hours away from Goma along the border of the lake. The drive is over a bumpy dirt road that winds around the curves of the lake-at times close to the water and at times above a steep cliff. We are going to see the leader of the Mayi Mai Cobra brigade. The Mai Mayi are one of the main four armed groups in eastern Congo. They claim to be the patriots of Congo and say they exist only to protect their country from outsiders.

Along with us is a young man named Freddy who is involved in the government, but who knows the leaders of the Mai Mayi as he used to be a part of the army. Our main connection though was a 19 year old who was a child soldier in the Mai Mayi. We passed easily through the security road block as I joked around in Swahili with the guards. After another hour we pulled up to a house with a large broken town truck in the yard. Freddy went to tell the Colonel that we had arrived and while I waited I watched as the 50 something year old man who owned the house tried to teach me a game with a wooden board and small pebbles. The Colonel and Major of the Mayi Mayi arrived and we went inside the house to speak with them. The Colonel quickly laid out conditions for talking with us saying that the majority of the press are on the side of Laurent Nkunda (the dissident commander leading the offensive against the Congolese army). We quickly explained that we were independent press and wanted to hear their side of the story straight from their mouth. After justifying ourselves for about 5 minutes they eased up and were quite open to speaking with us.

The conversation was a mix of French, Swahili, and English and our questions were followed with passionate responses. Before the meeting with the Commander and Major, I had never talked with a Mayi Mayi and the conversation proved to me that an opinion without first hand information is missing validity. They laid out their perception of migration patterns in eastern Congo since the mid 1950’s and their perception of who a true Congolese person is. Accusing the UN peacekeeping troop and America of supporting the dissident army commander, Nkunda, they asked us why Americans continued to perpetuate and support the war here.

Upon concluding the interview we had to pay them back for their time with beer and a small amount of cash. We made another appointment to meet them on Thursday so they could take us to their headquarters about 20 minutes away. We set 11am as the time, but on Thursday we didn’t end up arriving until 1:30pm as we were caught up with other obligations in Goma. We missed the large meeting they had planned for us to attend, but they still took us to their headquarters 20 minutes through the rolling dirt mountain roads. Their headquarters is a house with a large sitting room in the middle and about four rooms off the side. It is built of wood and has a tin roof with a floor of rock. The names of the respective leaders’ offices are written above the door with chalk. There are a few chairs and one desk. We did another interview in the house with a different major. We were receiving many of the same answers we had received in the previous interview so I decided to take a chance and ask a somewhat politicized question. After I asked the commander stood up and said the interview was over and walked outside. I realized my mistake and was a bit apprehensive about the repercussions, but as we were making our way to the car I apologized and told him several times that I had no political intentions. He readily accepted my apology and 9 of us piled back in the car, equipped with several AK-47s and headed back to town.

On our way back they explained to us that their troops were in the hills and we couldn’t see them, but they could see us. We stopped about half way back to talk to some regular soldiers. About half of them had to be 15 or younger. Their eyes had a disturbingly and seemingly contradictory glazed look of submission and rebellion. They asked for money, my bracelets, a telephone, my hand in marriage, etc. They sleep like goats in grass huts of about 8ft by 4ft which are spaced a couple of feet apart and ascend up a hill. Their green uniforms sag on them like a little boy playing work in his dad’s white collared dress shirt. Their guns are slung across their shoulders-some hold it with pride-some hold it as if it is a burdensome heavy backpack.

After we dropped off the commanders and were on the drive home, the19 year old demobilized soldier who was in the Mayi Mayi off and on for six years pointed at different areas in the hills and on the side of the road where he used to sleep and roam the area during the day. He would go without eating for several days at a time. I looked past him and over the grassy cliff to the sun jumping across the blue soft waves. The volcano is in the distance with a white spherical cloud looming over the top. The UN peacekeeping camp is set up right next to the lake. Goma is in the distance with its glittering tin roofs.

War and Jet Skis

2007-11-07T04:36:00.000-08:00

A jet ski goes speeding by on Lake Kivu. An internally displaced persons camp sits on the shores of the same lake maybe eight kilometers away. A wakeboarder flies over small waves past the “public beach” where people are doing their Sunday washing and bringing water back to their homes in yellow canisters. Men with 5 canisters strapped to a bike, sweating, pushing it up the hill. A new SUV with a non-profit flag waving from the hood of the car passes children carrying one water can on their back attached with a piece of fabric strapped over their head. Free alcohol at a party while 20km away people are sleeping in makeshift grass huts as a big as a two car seats. Life in Goma continues as normal even though war is on every side of the town.

Contrasts. Wars. Beauty. Suffering. Life.

War-The manifestation of all our innate selfishness? Are we complicit in it if we aren’t doing anything about it? If we aren’t fighting for peace, if we aren’t open to changing our minds about people and ideas, if we play the victim, if we just talk instead of act, if we don’t call out things that are wrong and don’t work for justice then we enable the war to continue. We must promote human rights without promoting an individual feeling of entitlement that he/she should have something over someone else.

Solidarity?

Beauty that hurts to look at. The palpable beauty that comes from intangible expressions which pulse through the air –infiltrate and surround and press in. A pressure that makes you gasp and makes your chest tight-but it isn’t constraining-it is the closest thing to freedom. How could something so beautiful be created? How can you even stare at it without wanting to collapse with joy? It is a glimpse of perfection and the only possible response can be silent tears. Because it is perfection. But it doesn’t last-it is only a backdrop. The foreground is cluttered with horrible attempts of perfection-but could we recognize perfection without the clutter? The background is often invisible though because the clutter piles up, but if you catch a glimpse, it is a beauty so haunting that it overwhelms you to the point of utter, knee-bending weakness.

Pour your hearts out to Him because He is our refuge.

Maybe then we can all rest in one soft, descended hallelujah.

Another Side

2007-10-16T03:32:00.000-07:00

Winding through the green and red clay terraced mountains of Rwanda on my way to Congo back from a month long trip home to the States, I, for the first time feel an anxiousness to return to Goma. War broke out on a large scale again and all the sudden I felt a tremendous pain for the soldiers. Though perpetrateurs, they are the outcasts, everyone is afraid of them, no one respects them, they are suffering , poor, don’t receive salaries, and can’t afford to feed their families. Their disillusion of power comes from the uniform , baret, and AK-47 slung over their soldier. Oh, the suffering they inflict, but oh the suffering they incur as well. They only know life as fighting, some are soldiers from the age of 10. The suffering of that little child, the monster he is because of what he has learned. What could we do to show these children of God, love? How can we undo the damage that is engrained in their minds as truth? How can we emulate Jesus gently approaching a soldier, taking his hand, penetrating his eyes, and leaving him with a sense of peace and wonder that starts to change his view on the brutish nature of life? How do we battle of fallacy of power thorough might? How do we love something that is completely unlovable by worldly views?

It's Clearer

2007-08-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

I kept waiting for a profound moment or thought to pass through my head before I wrote an update: that moment never came . T he experiences and stories have piled up so now I am sitting on my porch by the lake watching a storm roll in at dusk and I knew there was no better time to start. The whitecaps are picking up and the lake looks more like an ocean, the lightning strikes along the backdrop of the horizon and the thunder echoes close by.

The rain means that tonight Dada (the seamstress I work with at the hospital) has a few worries. She shares a house meant for one family with Francine (the other seamstress at the hospital). They have a tarp dividing the house in two and this house (about 15ft x 10ft) holds 10 people. At night Dada or anyone for her family must walk through the rain to the other side of the house to use the bathroom. Rain also means that tomorrow morning, the hole they dug for washing is full of water and they have nowhere to put their bathing and cooking water. If it runs into the street, the police of the quarter say they will take her husband to jail for not following the community health laws (although they have no problem letting this slide if they are paid off, but Dada can't afford that).

It hasn't rained here for a while as it is now dry season and Goma has been in a haze for the last month. Today was the first clear day, but it will haze up again tomorrow as Saturdays are now community clean up days which means that no one can drive from 8am-11am and everyone has to burn trash. The results are that the streets are a bit cleaner, but it also creates a day of smelly, burning piles accompanied with a dry, scratchy throat.

Dada and Francine will get to work far before 8am tomorrow though. We are currently organizing the production of a thousand purses among several organizations in Bukavu and Goma. Eve Ensler, author of the Vagina Monologues, has a campaign against gender-based violence and focuses on a different area of the world each year. 2009 will be eastern Congo. The rape and sexual abuse in DRC is astonishing. HEAL Africa has performed over 1200 fistula (a tear in the vaginal wall causing the woman to constantly leak urine and even feces) surgeries since 2003. 70% of the cases are a result of rape. Unpaid, hopeless, emaciated young men, also known as Congolese soldiers or rebels of varying factions, continue to exert the only power they feel they have left through rape and violence; crushing the women both physically and emotionally.

But, if you walk across the lava rocks, past the women cooking maize in their small pots over a fire made with twigs, and up the cracked cement stairs to the sewing room in the hospital, you don't see victims, you see women who are focused on survival. These days, the hand cranks of the sewing machine roll from 6am-6pm as women try to make as many purses in one day as possible as they are paid for each one they sew. Dada told me to save half of her salary every month and the money she makes from the purses so that she can buy a new house next year.

Tomorrow I am going to wear my new shirt that the women at the hospital sewed. The quality of their work has vastly improved and I will be styling in Congolese fabric as I go to a jam session put on by a few of my friends from Goma. I will sit on their back porch and listen to some of the best rapping and spontaneous music I have ever heard. When you listen to their music you just want to stand up and change things-you want to act right now-they make you want to start a revolution. But then you realize, you are already fighting the daily battles-you are already engrossed in the combat. You help the patients fight the monotony of waiting for treatment; you fight the ostensible hopelessness of societal change through education, you fight the violence through pushing for justice, you fight the poverty through small grants, you battle your own desperation through prayer and through friends who are alongside you in the trench. It doesn't seem glamorous until their rhythm purses through you and the voices ring above you and then your day plays before you like a movie-you realize this revolution you want to start has already began-it began a long time ago with a radical love that defies all common sense-this love of a God for his people despite their constant denial and destructiveness. A love that transcends poverty and race and this selfless God love is the only thing that can truly be called a revolution. Without this love a revolution is just merely exchanging one type of worldy, selfish power for another. Without this love, work becomes work whether you work with a non-profit or in the corporate sector. But, with this love you can transform the mores of society because your appeal is outside the material and physical realm. My prayer every day is that I would be "too God-intoxicated to be astronomically intimidated" (MLK Jr.) by the suffocating suffering I see. And I pray that you as well would be too God-intoxicated to think of anything else but serving him wherever you may be.

i will be in the states from Sept 4-30 then return to congo.

To Paint a Corner

2007-06-22T05:10:00.000-07:00

It has been a while since I last wrote and for those of you who don’t know I will stay in DRC until June 2008 and plan to come back home in September and will hit up the Midwest hotspots of KS, IA, and MN and will also be stopping in NY and NJ. So if you are in any of those 5 states during September be sure to let me know!

I think that the best way to show Goma is to paint pictures of daily life…..so here are some colors……..

Playing soccer on a dirt black field under the hot sun with dark rain clouds looming over the volcano against a team of some friends. Young boys surrounding the field and playing with a ball made out of plastic bags tied together. Sideline outbursts and sweaty palms slapping. People climbing telephone poles to catch a glimpse of the big game against Kinshasa. The traffic police in their yellow shirts, blue pants, and yellow hard hats, pulling me over in the car, and talking my way out of it in Swahili.

A teacher trying to control neighborhood kids with tattered shirts, smelling of urine, and fighting with each other. Walking past the class later and being amazed at 15 children standing in a straight line waiting to shoot the ball. The children sitting in a circle eating disturbingly fast as if the faster they eat the more food they will get.

Weight that presses inside my head after listening to hours of meetings in French and Swahili-straining to hear the next sentence while my mind is still trying to process the last sentence. Wearing Congolese fabric and walking and shopping through the markets with every other person saying, “mzungu anavala vikwembe mzuri” (the foreigner wears our fabric well!) The constant guard against being ripped off when shopping . Walking 6-7km through town feeling like I have a role in the script instead of being in the audience.

Driving over lava rock to pick up a co-worker at her home in a little Suzuki, laughing at the fact most SUVs in the States only drive on pavement. Two large middle-aged sisters-Mama Muliri and Julienne- in charge of HEAL’s program for women with fistula- wearing matching fabric, finishing each other’s sentences, and speaking with such conviction and passion that they could persuade you that the orange you are eating is in fact an apple.

Two guitars, a jembe drum, a group of 25 people, one little boy with a voice that makes you stop anything you are doing. Sitting on the back porch of a friend’s house in awe of the spontaneous jam session with free-style rap, chorus rounds for the whole group, and the eyes squeezed together, mouth stretched, a tightened neck accompanying a song where the intensity of the sound convinces you that these lyrics are anything but mere words.

Tires burning in the street. Students protesting police violence. The never-ending battle. The chaos of mass groups. People running. Swinging the car around to go in the opposite direction. The normalcy of unrest and death. People continuing to go about their business ½ km away. The amazing ability of humans to adapt. Continuing to go about work. That student died. Did I answer that email?

Out dancing with friends to Congolese music that will make the most uptight person move their shoulders back and forth and unable to wipe the smile off my face as my friends show me how to dance to each song. Occasionally I glance over towards the bar and my world stops as I can’t help but stare at the older, white, man push the hair away from the face of a young Congolese girl-most likely a prostitute. Disgusted at the influence of this man and broken for the girl who feels this is her only way to survive and make money.

Buying my bed spread and placemats for my house from the women at the hospital waiting for fistula surgery. An older woman with bad eyesight showing me how she can thread a needle now with her new glasses. Buying and wearing the skirts the women sew and seeing the pride on their faces when I wear them at the hospital. A 19 year-old patient playing the drum and leading 100 women in song in church. Taking a two day trip to Rwanda, crossing the border to Goma and feeling like I was returning home.