In Goma.
The city is literally just off the border of Rwanda and is one of the Democratic Republic of Congo’s eastern most cities. It lies beautifully at the shore of Lake Kivu, a massive lake that is encircled in mountains and serves as the capital of
north Kivu. You enter Goma via the Rwandan town of Gisyeni. You have to walk across the border, leaving behind the unexpected ease and beauty of Rwanda. Suddenly, outside of the car, you put foot to the earth and begin the crossing. It’s a mere forty feet, yet a world of difference. Even the ground below you transforms from the red clay of Rwanda into the black lava flow of DRC.
The immigration officer opens my passport and greets me by name Lyn Ann. This surprises me, mostly because back home people stumble over it. We smile. He then asks if I am madame or mademoiselle a sneaky way to ask if I am married. I wag my finger and in my very bad French tell him he is cheeky. He stamps my visa and we are off down a road filled with puddled craters and lava rocks. Thank god for four-wheeled drive. I am lucky to be chaperoned by such an amazing hosting organization, WAR CHILD. They came to get me in Kigali and drive me over the border. You don’t fly in these days, as even UN planes are crashing. And with the efficient and beautiful new road through the mountains, it’s an easy three hour drive between cities.
Along the way, are waterfalls, tea plantations, kids waving as you pass. It’s great fun and you can sense the feeling of community rooted in the culture. The driver stops so I can get a picture of the volcano that rises in the distance behind Goma. He has parked near an egg stand which I know means we will end up buying eggs. You can’t stop right in front of a vendor and not make a purchase. Since I am vegetarian, it is decided we should get a dozen so I will have
a protein source for dinner. They are tiny, like quail eggs, and come packaged in banana palm leaves tied up to resemble a nest. I am giddy that we get to carry them home in this way. I love that stuff!
On our way to the border we stopped to see the new WAR CHILD house in Gisenyi. There are elections being held on November 28th. This always means FUN in Africa, as candidates try to out spin each other’s rhetoric. The staff has
decided to move out of Goma the week preceding the elections, just in case the town becomes unstable with rallies, riots and killings. But for now, they are sticking it out in Goma. We are in a safe area, the UN are neighbors to the left, Bangladeshi army to the right, HEAL AFRICA ,an amazing health and psychosocial facility.
Behind us and across the street lives a city deputy. He has 24-hour armed guards in a deer stand out front. Our digs are pretty fortified. The house is three stories. The lower level houses the kitchen and common areas. The second floor holds the WAR CHILD offices. Ex-pat staff and visitors like me all have rooms on the third floor. The upper terrace affords a view of Lake Kivu. If this country got its act together the property values here would be astronomical.
It baffles me that the beauty of this place is squandered by corruption, laziness, and selfish short-sightedness. This place is a gold mine, literally, and officials use it to their own personal advantage rather than nourish their country and make her strong. Military/UN/police officials are consistently busted at the border (road/air) smuggling minerals for their own personal gain. I’ve heard one bust garnered 5 million USD. It makes me angry, but frightens me too. Nothing is sacred. It’s all up for grabs.
We arrive before dark, a must, as it is a big no-no to be out after sundown. The house is quiet. It’s just me and one other woman sleeping here tonight. She shows me around. I like my room. I am also thankful to have a bathroom with a hot water shower. I unpack. We drink a beer. The cook is only here during the day. For dinner we are on our own and it’s slim-pickings. Someone at some point left garam masala in the kitchen so I concoct a decent couscous with the
tomatoes and carrots in the bin. In the morning I am to meet the WAR CHILD staff, my interpreter, Judy and I make a site visit of the facility where I will be teaching. I sleep well and awake early to let the cook in. I am the earliest riser , unbelievable, right! And so the task has fallen to me. She is adorable and patient and mothers me — offering me mango, passion fruit and a tree prune for breakfast. I like her instantly. I take my coffee back upstairs and get ready. Judy arrives at nine so we can discuss my needs and expectations and to give her a yoga primer. We look at the manual and handouts together. We go over names of body parts and some of the more subtle instructions involved in yoga & meditation.
I also am to meet with the head of Don Bosco, the facility where the yoga trainings are taking place. He is a youngish man, with eyes that smile, but it is hard to get a read off him. He and the WAR CHILD coordinator are going backn-
forth finding the best schedule for us to follow. Despite the way it sounds, it’s all good news! Counselors from all of their projects want to participate in the training! Holy cow…totally unexpected news. This means forty want to take the
classes. I only brought twenty mats to DRC though. So we decide to allow six people from each site to do the training.
These six will be responsible for training the remaining staff at each of their centers. I am dancing inside as this is exactly how the model is supposed to work…a ripple effect! We have also gotten him to agree to four yoga classes a
week for beneficiaries: two sessions a week for girls and two sessions a week for the boys. Already, in one meeting the project has evolved from one to three program centers. Stoked!
Before leaving we tour the facility. The rooms are packed with girls learning to sew. Rows of machines are lined up, reminding me of the typing class I took in seventh grade. It’s a trade, a tool, that will hopefully help them move forward.
All of these vintage black singer sewing machines. Their feet pumping to make them run. I can’t wait to teach them yoga!
In the car ride back to the house, we stop to get me a SIM card. These are “chips” you put in your cell phone, unlocked cell phone, and works like a calling card does in the U.S. Having a number will make my friends and family back home have some comfort in knowing they can call me if they want to. It’s a superficial comfort, but it makes me feel closer to them too.
As I work to install the chip, the WC coordinator gets a call. It’s more good news. Her friend at another NGO wants to talk about starting a yoga program as well.
If I ever doubted this path, I don’t any longer.
Lenny Williams is the founder and executive director of the NYC-based non-profit, MANDALA HOUSE which provides self-directed healing programs to post/conflict populations. Specifically, focused on survivors of sexual & gender-based violence.
Working with a trauma-sensitive yoga & breath awareness model in a group dynamic, she teaches mind/body awareness tools that practitioners can take into their lives–healing themselves & others. She has never forgotten her roots. She grew up in Houston and attended U of H and later moved to the Big Apple . Wanting to make a difference in peoples lives everywhere.
You can learn more about Mandala House atwww.Mandalahouse.org