Rewind - February 2008
Riot Police surround the Peace Conference en masse. Depending on the day and which diplomat is attending, they are either lounging in the shade asking attendees for cigarettes or glaring at high alert.
The road leading up to the front gate has a brick wall nearly 10 ft. tall along the left side. Above each column down the wall, men stand ready at arms, staring down. It's an intense spectacle, but at this point I hardly notice it.
It is nearly comical how comfortable I have gotten here. My first drive from Goma to Sake - the town between opposing mountain military bases - shook me to my bones. We stopped to refill our car engine with water and a solider walked up to us. At the time, I couldn't take my eyes off his gun. His uniform, his bearing, all of it captivated me. Terrified me. Now I barely see it.
After the entrance to the Conference there is a main road about 40 meters long and then a large courtyard. Last week they built a small stage there. The next day they tore it down. Two days later they built a larger stage. The next day they tore it down as well. Two days later, they built a grand stage complete with rafters for lighting and a red carpet. Yesterday I watched the builders put the lumber back in their trucks.
For more than a week, there have been hopes that the President of Congo, Joseph Kabila II would grace the conference with his presence. Each day those hopes have been crushed. The stage is simply another example of the waste involved in the government's lack of organization. But far worse than the waste is the damage to peoples morale.
With the rise of fall of The Presidents expected presence, the people's faith in Peace has reached new lows. Rumor and whisper float round the town, every one hoping and praying that Kabila and Nkunda will meet in secret.
The politicians keep smiling and the camera men keep flashing, but every one I've spoken with here feels it - Kabila can't cut it and Nkunda is a scoundrel. Peace won't come.
But progress has been made. Every voice has been heard in over two weeks of speeches. Many groups have been able to speak to their government for the first time in the countries history. Names of the dead from the original Congo Wars have were brought out of secret shadows. Mothers and widows cried. Fathers have pounded their fists. Brothers have yelled with zealous veins pumping from their necks. A passionate, destroyed people have risen up to reclaim their land and now, after 3 weeks, their frustration is palpable.
What many of them don't know is that for the past week, the real negotiations have been taking place in a neighboring hotel. The conference has been a venue for the people to speak, but the peace talks have been more discreet.
Difficult compromises have been made. The UN has trucked Nkundas representatives, under armed protection, into the mountains every day so they could meet and discuss each set of new terms with their General.
The Mai-Mai commanders of the larger and more powerful Mai-Mai brigades have snuck among the populace in civilian clothes to meet with their representatives. There are dozens of smaller Mai-Mai groups that have nothing to fear and less to hide. Some are merely frustrated villages who took up arms to protect their families. Most are little more than bandits.
So much effort and conspiracy and secret meetings and calls for optimism and still, the people are loosing hope. But then, with the people at their lowest, the announcement comes from the executive office - Kabila is coming and Peace has arrived.
Of course, the proof of the pudding is in the tasting and everyone is holding their breath.
The final day of the Peace Conference is a circus. President Kabilas personal security has taken over. These are some mean suckas. Stories abound of the presidents police and their secret prisons. A number of Congolese journalists - who have seen my temper flare with the mistreated of local police - all warn me with concerned whispers. Don't mess with these guys. They are not to be crossed.
After the rise and fall of three stages, President Kabila finally arrives at the Conference of his country. His retinue is nearly a full military brigade. Truck after truck bursting with soldiers. And every player in this deadly game makes their presence known. The UN is out in full force, their blue helmets standing tall. Nkundas representatives are there. The Mai-Mai of every shape and size have come. And behind them are every other, small, rebel group who seem proud to have even been invited.
The ceremony begins when a short, stocky man in a too-tight tuxedo calls everyone to order. Rebel group after rebel group come forward and sign the Peace Agreement. In the beginning of the ceremony the audience enthusiasm is high for the pomp and circumstance. Cheers and applause follow each signature. But after watching men sign their John Hancock for five hours the applause calms a bit. Hands are throats are now raw. That's when I realized we haven't even gotten to the speeches. Dang, peace takes a long time.
Around 10:30pm, Kabila finally stands to speak. He is the youngest President in the world, having taken office at 27. Like nearly every Congo leader, he was originally a rebel and overthrew the dictator Mobutu. Originally known for his intensity on the battlefield, I can understand why people were afraid of him - the guy is seriously large. Today, however, he is a "Man for Peace." He is all smiles.
The Presidents speech is nothing spectacular. But as he comes towards his conclusion, we can all feel the energy resurging. We are finally here. Peace has come.
As he ends, many are containing their joy with only the utmost control. Attempting to stay poised until it's all over, I see women round the room with eyes brimming.
Peace is declared and the people rise. Rise up. I've never seen anything quite like it. The people are screaming and singing. Arms above their heads, their faces lift toward the air with unabashed tears. The songs and shouts come from a place deep within. I doubt I'll ever understand the depth of their life's pain. Or their current joy.
Of course, the politicians still shake hands, wave and give soundbite answers to the mobbing press. But as the different groups come together wildly in song and dance, I wonder if the human race has ever known greater praise. They are thanking their maker for his blessing and my widening smile grows into weeping. I can barely film. My body is shaking. This is a moment. A great moment.
Outside there is indulgent feasting. A group of nearly 20 college students - who represent the Voice of Youth - are laughing and jumping with their arms on each other's shoulders. They're falling over each other like schoolboys at recess.
Everywhere victorious smiles. Everywhere hugs. Mai-Mai soldiers shake the hands of Nkundas diplomats. Tutsi and Hutu break bread together. A priest is swigging down wine. A boy of about 19 grabs my shoulder, yanks me around and yells, "We are very proud," the young lines of his face bursting. Pride. That's what this is. On every face. Their country has done something of honor.
The western diplomats and press all leave for their own celebration. Tonight, alone in my white skin, I feel Congolese. The women show me all the traditional dances. Shaking my rhythm-less hips, I can tell the men can't wait to get me drunk.
It's rousing time. We are all howling traditional tribal screams. They've wrapped Congolese material around my waist and I look quite the fool. But tonight, I feel the pride of the Congo people pulsing in my blood. And it feels good. Tonight, for the first time in a long while, it is good to be Congolese.
Peace.
Sean.
http://www.fallingwhistles.com
Make their weapon your voice