You look around Kinshasa and you see lots of men. You see
women too, but the men are everywhere. They hang out, they sell random things.
One man was dangling a tiny puppy and a tiny kitty from each hand in an effort
to get someone in traffic to stop for him. They saturate the lounge at our
hotel: the powerful men in their fancy suits, who most likely are in some sort
of favor with the country’s current president.
On one evening, I did attempt to go a block up the road to a
nearby restaurant that someone—a woman—from USAID had recommended to me. The
restaurant made pizza, and man was I craving it. Well, within a half a block I
knew it would be impossible. There they were: the men. I didn’t smile back and
I kept on walking, but the attention didn’t stop. It was only when one overly
eager fellow, probably in his 50s, started yelling, I decided it was time to
turn around head back to the hotel. I killed my dream of that pizza slice.
“Tu es jolie!,” he said once, then louder twice. He then
began yelling. He was reaching to grab one of my hands. If I had been in the DR
Congo longer, I might have yelled back at him, or at least had a skin thick
enough to keep on walking toward my destination. But I’m a newcomer, and as a
newcomer, I always take precaution. It was still light out when I left the
hotel, but the sun would be falling soon and there was no reason to have an
incident to remember for the rest of my life. It was another dinner at the
hotel for me. The life of a woman abroad.
It’s true. Men do rule DR Congo. But I guess that’s not so
different from most of the world. Here, it just seems more pronounced. They are
the politicians, the investors, the bankers, the leaders, and even the nurses
in many of the communities where we work. They are the drivers, the
housekeepers at the hotel, and a large portion of the servers. They are the
majority of our country office staff, although our few strong women make up for
the dearth in numbers. They are the reason for the 5 million deaths that took
place in various DR Congo’s internal and regional conflicts from 1996 until
2003 and into present day. They are why more than 200,000 women were raped during those wars and why
gender-based violence is still such a huge problem in the country.
I know there are good men in DR Congo. There are good and
bad men everywhere, but in the book I’m reading, Dancing in the Glory of Monsters, it is evident that men have the
power and the sway in DR Congo. They are the root of the country’s many
problems. In fact, I want to write a letter to Jason Stearns, the author of
that book, to please write a second account, one that tells the history of DR
Congo from the female perspective. In his book, it is just one man sabotaging
the country after the other. I wonder what the women were saying during those
wars, if they had the chance to say anything at all. I’d like to write that
book, actually, but then I would need to live in the DR Congo, that man’s world, for long enough to gain the trust of Congolese women. And that would be near impossible.
Jason Stearns, in fact, was back in the DRC when I was, reporting on violence in the north east of the country. I just read that as I was packing my bags to return to the US, the government expelled him from its soil. I do not need to find out what the government might do to a disagreeable woman like me.
***
I never wrote about my “friend” from the flight I was on
from Paris to DR Congo. He knew Jason Stearns and was anonymously interviewed for his book.
He not only knows Jason, but he is also a close comrade of President Joseph Kabila’s. He is the
Congolese elite: the money and the power and perhaps, but I can’t prove it, la corruption.
The first night we landed in Kinshasa he had asked my
colleague and I to get a drink with him. But I had declined. I was just too
tired. I didn’t think any more of it.
After I returned back from Mutshatsa, there he was, hanging
out in the chic lounge with the other Congolese elite. He was with two friends
who looked a lot like him. Big, solid, tall, Congolese men dressed to the
nines.
I had sat down in the chic bar to read my book for a while
before heading back up to bed and he approached me. “Bonjour, Laurel!”
Oh boy.
He summoned me to the table with his friends. I didn’t want
to be rude, but I also didn’t feel like engaging. I approached the table to
introduce myself, hoping the conversation would be short. It was, to some
extent. I had a short argument in my broken French with one of his friends, a
Pentecostal pastor, about family planning. He asked why “us family planning
people” tell women how many children to have. I told him, nicely, that that is
a misconception. Our work is based on fertility preferences, which means, a
woman (with her partner) can decide how many children they want to have and
when, when offered access to contraception. A woman can choose the method she
wants, if she wants one at all. I told him we support contraceptive access, in
turn to support the health of women and
their families.
“But what about the men?” he asked. “What do you do for the
men?”
Oh boy.
I told him that whenever possible we engage men in decisions
about family planning: a) to win their support for allowing their wives to
choose the contraceptive she wants (because women in this country and many
others do not have the social power to make decisions on their own); and b) so
that they too might use contraception, most importantly, condoms for further
protection, particularly from sexually transmitted infections.
Soon after the little discussion, his friends disappeared
and it was just me and the Swiss man. And soon after that, a glass of red wine
was traveling toward our table. He wanted to continue our discussion, but
without his friends. I decided in a public place it would be fine to have a
glass of red wine, maybe even nice, and he hadn’t done anything to make me
mistrust him, yet, so what was the harm?
About five minutes into our conversation, he began hitting
on me. I learned the word for seductive in French and he pleaded with me to
meet him for dinner the next night, dancing out at a club, or at least breakfast
in the morning. I said I didn’t think I had time, and that I had to work, and
that I just wasn’t interested, not even in the most remote sense of the word.
I went back to my hotel room and thought about what I had
been reading in my book, about his friends in high places, and maybe even about
him. They buy their way to power. They finance killing and corruption that
keeps them in high places while the majority of their fellow Congolese live in
abject poverty. They take what they want. They control the destitution.
It is no wonder Mr. Swiss likes Mr. Trump. They have a lot
in common. They are rich. They are aggressive. They are misogynistic. They are
everything that makes me a proud, righteous feminist.