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Last revised: April 3, 1997

DIRECT FROM THE FRONT

by Patricia Raven

Editor's Note: Patricia Raven is a Sonoma County resident of Camp Meeker. She is a registered nurse who recently returned from Zaire/Burundi/Rwanda/Tanzania, where for the past year she has lived and worked. While there she helped to monitor ten camps for internally displaced people who had fled the conflict in their local areas.

In an article written for the SONOMA COUNTY FREE PRESS she captures the feeling of what it means to be in the middle of an ongoing revolution on a day to day basis. She recently told me that she had learned to say, in ten different languages, "I am just a nurse."

I awake to a hundred African voices chanting in unison as their feet hit the tarmac outside my house. They are new recruits for the Tutsi military, some no more than children. The alarm sounds. I fumble among the items on my small bedside table, questioning why I set it at all. The morning sun gently grazes my bedroom window as birds, whose names I do not know, soar through the acacia, papaya and avocado trees. I perch myself at the side of the bed groping for my sandals with one foot. I'm once again tempted to shuffle into the kitchen barefoot but remind myself of previous close encounters with Africa's insect world of beetles, spiders and centipedes. I make my way to the kitchen and call out to the night askaris (guards) "Habari za azubui" (What's your news this morning). They reply "Souwa, ma-ma" (good, madam). With coffee in hand, I return to the bedroom and search the 12-band for the BBC. The conflict between the Tutsi rebels and Zairian troops has resulted in the mass repatriation of 500,000 refugees, mostly Rwandese, from the camps in Goma, Zaire. There remains, within the eastern Zairian region, an unknown number of refugees trapped by the fighting. Negotiations continue for the deployment of international troops to secure the region for their safe passage. Bodies are reported to be floating in Lake Tanganika. It is believed that the Tutsi forces in Zaire are being assisted by Burundi and Rwanda. Burundi has been under strict sanctions from its neighbors since the July 25th military coup. It seems to me it can ill afford involvement in a regional war.

Today I will be traveling deep into the northern area of Giteranyi, close to the Rwanda border, in search of a remote camp by the name of Mpamarugamba. It is a camp of internal displaced persons (IDP). There are sixteen of these camps in the Province of Muyinga, where I am working. These camps are throughout all of the country and are slowly changing the face of Burundi. The rural people have traditionally lived in shambas: small houses constructed of stick and mud with thatched roofs, surrounded by banana and coffee groves. Nearby, are their subsistant farms of cassava, beans, maize, potato and sorghum. With tensions mounting and periodic attacks between the Hutu and Tutsi tribes, they have fled their shambas to live collectively in camps, hoping there is safety in numbers. Most of the IDP camps are Hutu as they are approximately 80 percent of the population and comprise most of the rural farmers. I've been asked by the Province to assess 10 of these camps for sanitation, water, nutrition and the need for health education. I have trained health educators in two camps and hope to expand my program into the northern region.

I climb into my landrover, turn the VHF radio on, which is attached under the glovebox. This will be our only method of communication to our base in Muyinga town as we travel. The askaris run to open the iron gate to my house as I start the engine. He salutes as I drive through. I drive onto the main road passing school children in beige khaki uniforms and women wrapped in brightly colored cloth, gracefully balancing gerry-cans of water on their heads, gliding in single file on the road side.I drive the short distance to the IMC's main house, to meet my driver, Khalid and my translator, Alexis. I will also be taking with me, Liboire. Liboire is a medical student. His education in the capital city of Bujumbura was abruptly interrupted in 1993 with the assassination of the first elected Hutu president and the resulting civil war. He is Hutu, and is therefore unable to live safely in Bujumbura which is Tutsi dominated. He is bright, talented and articulate. There is distance and grief in his eyes that grows as he sees the hope for a further education slip away. A few months back, he made the decision to return to Bujumbura to request his transcripts. Although he did not tell me, I knew he also had hoped that there might be a way to return. He told me while there, he met a fellow student and Hutu who had remained at the University. A grenade had been thrown through his dormitory window. He lost the sight of one eye. As Liboire walked the University campus he was approached and accused of being a rebel. Not a light accusation as it is frequently all that is required for arrest. He returned without his transcripts and without much hope. He will be the instructor for the camps in the north, and I've been cautioned to not allow him to go into the area alone due to the heavy military presence.

As I drive down the small dirt road leading to the main house, the gates swing open and I circle the drive. At the far end three IMC landrovers are lined waiting for the days activities. The drivers and askaris mingle and look up as I approach, with shouts of "Ki-Ki, Ki-Ki, haban". They have taken to calling me kibombobombo, Swahili for raven, which has recently been reduced to ki-ki. I park the car and approach the gathering, and as is the African custom, shake hands with each. Khalid, Alexis and Liboire gather around as we search the map for Mpamarugamba, which we are unable to locate. We decide to go north and will ask as we drive.

We drive for twenty minutes on a well paved road and turn off to the red dust road which climbs to the north. As we climb, the terrain drops sharply to the right to a large deep valley. Women are seen at a distance, babies strapped to their backs. Their brightly colored cloth wraps made dull by the red-brown soil. Their hoes swing in high arcs above their heads as they cultivate their fields. Further in the distance to the east, a small road snakes up a mountain side which is Tanzania and our evacuation route should we need it.

We reach a plateau, the road leveling as we enter the Giteranyi area. It is a volatile area due to its proximity to the Rwandese and Tanzanian borders.

There are frequent rumors of "assailant" rebels crossing over the border. Msungu (whites) are regarded with suspicion, at best. We approach our first military blockade. Three soldiers sit near-by watching. There is no attempt to let us pass. After several minutes, one soldier slowly rises and approaches. He's 16 at most, dressed in military fatigues, his automatic weapon slung carelessly over his shoulder, the barrel of which points indiscriminately into the landrover, swaying to and fro as he speaks. I resist the temptation to duck as it swings my way. In French he asks where we are going and the nature of our business. Satisfied he raises the large branch that serves as a barricade.

We continue, passing groves of coffee and banana and eucalyptus. We pass one of the poorest IDP camps, Rubenga. As we pass, children collect, some running alongside the car, grinning, waving and shouting "Amahoro, amahoro" ("peace" in the native tongue of Kirundi).

We bump along for another 30 minutes before reaching the town center of Giteranyi. The market area is a kaleidoscope of moving color. Women are wrapped, head to foot, in yellow, red, blue and green. Heaps of bright green and yellow bananas. Huge speckled pottery cauldrons used to sell the local brew "pombe" (beer made from banana) and sides of freshly slaughtered goat.

We approach another blockade. A soldier sits unmoving on a chair near a metal corrugated shack to the left. To the right a group of well-dressed men stands on the veranda of one of the town buildings. One of them approaches the vehicle and in French asks for a ride to a government building which lies 4 km. ahead. I refuse, in accordance with IMC policy. He returns to the veranda, staring with arms folded. The soldier stares too, unmoving. Khalid, erect and proud, looks straight ahead in the distance. His face, as always, is serene and betrays no emotion. He is an elder and scholar of the Muslim community in Muyinga town, known as the Swahili Quarter. His eyes, like small shining black marbles rest above his broad chiselled cheekbones. He does however, on occasion, erupt into laughter, African laughter. it is deep and visceral and results in a kind of rumbling from within. This is usually inspired by the human condition. One day, while returning from the camps, we passed four army recruits, young boys really, carrying a sizable eucalyptus tree stripped of its branches, upon their shoulders, at a near trot, their young legs trembling with the weight. Khalid's silence was broken by fits of laughter. I joined in laughing, not at the young boys but at his laughter as it filled the car.

But presently, the car is silent. I turn to Liboire and Alexis with their eyes directed to the floorboards. Dread hangs quietly in the back seat. I glance at the men, who cast a contemptuous smile my way. I consider it is my move, and decide to wait a few minutes and will then return to Muyinga. If detained or harassed I will attempt to radio. We wait, engine running for 5 minutes. The barricade is removed and we pass.

2 km ahead and another blockade. This is the military barracks. It is scattered with soldiers toting automatic weapons. Grim-faced they ask our destination and purpose. The barricade lowers and we continue.

Our next stop is a small township lined with mud and stick huts some with corrugated metal roofs that extend to form front awnings. Large bunches of green bananas line the road to the right. We slow to a stop near the bananas. A group of locals, mostly men, linger near an entrance of what amounts to the local pub, sipping banana beer from assorted containers through wooden reeds. They're cheerful and boisterous with wide grins and blurred eyes. When asked directions, they point collectively to a narrow turn off a few yards away.

The road is barely definable and soon narrows to not much more than a path as we enter a dense banana grove. The air is hot, humid and sweet. The leaves of the large trees arch much of the passage and brush the sides of the car gently as we pass. The banana gives way to coffee and soon we spot blendees, shelters constructed with sticks and woven leaves, in the distance. The first sign that we are approaching a camp.

The blendees line either side of the narrow dirt road neatly spaced and at a slight angle. The children stream from the blendees to keep pace with the slow moving car shouting "patiri" the native word for priest. It seems the church has been the only visitor they've received and they readily accept the possibility that a white woman can be ordained. We stop at a collective of mud and stick buildings which appear to be the center of the camp. Before I can exit the car an elderly man, dressed in a suit jacket and tattered pants with a walking stick approaches my car window. The top of his black and gray head has been neatly split open and a bit of blood has oozed to his forehead. He introduces himself as Gabriel, the chief of Mpamarugamba. We leave the car and are escorted to a sheltered area with a small table and bench. Liboire asks him about his injury and he explains that his wife, after drinking much pombe, hit him in the head with a stick as he sat with the elder men of the village. Liboire, in a rather scolding tone, instructs him to clean the wound.

Other than small children and the elders, the camp is vacant. The elders gather around the table. The young males of the community have been recruited by the local government officials to burn banana and coffee plantations. They are considered by the authorities to hold the potential of hiding rebel forces. I consider also that they hold the only potential for income for the rural poor. The women are tending the family gardens which are a mile from the camp. The children gather about with immense curiosity, edging closer as the meeting proceeds. I look at them and smile, they smile in return and giggle. Their clothes are torn and the color of the earth. A symphony of coughs relay through at intervals with noses dripping. Bellies protrude to exaggerated proportion. I search their small hands and feet to find signs of scabies and chiggers. I conclude none are malnourished. The area is rich with crops and a good source of water is near. I also conclude many of the health problems are simply due to a lack of education.

After the meeting we tour the camp with the chief. As is my mandate, I peer precariously into several latrines. I've accepted that this aspect of the assessment is done solo as Alexis and Liboire pause several yards from the entrance. Their contribution is to tell me when to watch my step. It seems to be as acceptable to squat near the latrine as in the latrine. My survey is limited to the amount of time I'm able to hold my breath.

We say our good-byes, shake hands all around and begin the 90 minute journey back to Muyinga. Alexis is dropped off near the church to begin his hour walk to the Tutsi area of town near a military post. Khalid is dropped by the market in behind which is the Swahili Quarter. Here, the Hutus and Tutsis live harmoniously together joined by their religion. Liboire is driven to the main house to retrieve his bicycle for the twenty minute ride to an outlying Hutu enclave.

The sun is setting, and the rain clouds roll in. The white chested ravens circle a lamp post diving for grasshoppers and small children compete for their capture hopping about giggling at the base of the post. The windshield begins to receive the rain as I turn up my drive. The askaris race to the gate, their jackets tented over their heads "Habari ma-ma", and resume their places hunched over a small fire beneath the avocado tree.

It is a warm moonless night. The thunder rolls and snaps. For a brief moment lightning illuminates the sky to reveal the clouds. Then darkness. I am sitting in a bamboo chair. I am surrounded by falling water streaming on all sides of the small shelter overhead.

I sit out here most nights. I frequently examine why I am here. I consider what life offers here, what life offers at home. I scrutinize the value of my efforts. A journalist recently told me that all expatriates are disenfranchised do-gooders. I've thought at length about this, half amused, elaborating on the statement. Trying it on the expatriates I've known, trying it on myself.

But tonight I'm not thinking of Africa, or my work, or my reasons for being here. I am thinking of my children. This time away has brought them into their adulthood. This time away has brought me more clearly to myself.

I am thinking of Camp Meeker. I can see the bright yellow leaves falling to the wet ground and smell the smoke from the wood fires, that fills the early morning. I can hear the gushing water echoing among the trees. I am thinking of the golden light and damp smoky warmth of the Union Hotel on cold winter nights, of the sound of local feet dancing like twirling Dervishes, on the wood floor to the Friday night piano. I am thinking of home.

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