I dismantled my blog on Day 2 of this trip because I realized I needed some time to acclimate before attempting to describe what I was seeing.  That night, as I sat in a lack-of-sleep daze in the restaurant of our hotel in Goma, I took in the surroundings and could feel a sense of unrest creep into my head.  Better to focus on imagery alone, drink in the rich visuals and leave the writing to the expert of the trip, Mercy Corps writer, Roger Burks, until some time has passed.

My eyes took in army tanks, UN trucks, men with rifles, lava encrusted "roads", people standing with blank stares, polio-stricken adults and children, outdoor furniture stores where the heavy rains penetrated the soft couch cushions, and the color gray, gray and more gray.   In Goma, there is no easy spirit whatsoever, or at least from my early observation.  Even buying carrots at a market seems more of an act of haste to move on than a common deliberation over which carrot is the best.  Indeed, this city is a cultural challenge for the soul.

I was told right away that I could not bring my camera out in the city, and that if I was going to photograph anything, it is best to have a letter from the government stating that I was permitted to do so.  This seems fair enough.  We all know how complex this area is, so why would they want attention focused regarding what is going on here?  There are layers upon layers of intertwined corruption, with any given point in time the players switching sides and/or aggressively pursuing the "other side".  It is mind-blowing how confusing every moment is.  There simply is no infrastructure or order.

The Congolese army and government is "weak, ineffective, corrupt, aggressive".  The rebel fighters are "weak, ineffective, corrupt, aggressive".  Everything both matches and contradicts the other and just when you think you "got it", you get another passionate view of any given side.  If you are not deliberate in your thinking every second of the day, you can start to feel a bit out of control.

Not feeling comfortable in leaving the hotel on our own, Roger and I retreated to our rooms for the next two days as it was a Sunday plus Monday holiday and no one was working.  (I was not about to walk around to find a bag of chips in this environment.)  We had been briefed that we needed to 1. expect negotiations at any given point in time from any official and 2. to give them what they want if pressed.  We also needed to carry small, recently printed and non-torn US bills (the predominant currency) hidden in various locations in case we needed to pay our way out of a situation.  I also had to hide my camera equipment, as banditry was frequent.

As I travel more often in Africa, I regret that my second language is not French, which thus requires me to become dependent upon anyone who can utter a few French words to communicate needs.  It was at this point that I realized that I was basically immobilized in this city.  Since I had time on my hands, I decided to read up on the history and current conditions (which radically change from day to day) of the area and proceeded to spend hours surfing the web.

I started spiraling into personal story after story of the brutality that exists here.  How in humanity's name do we have a culture that is capable of raping babies and displaced women who are foraging for food?

"Hopeless" came to my mind when I thought of the lives of innocent civilians in the DRC.  How could these people ever find hope when they are forced from their homes, tortured, intimidated, beaten, forced to beat family members under a soldier's eye, brutally raped in front of their chldren, buried alive, deliberately infected with HIV, subjected to the theft of their offspring to be made into child soldiers, and their relief food consistently stolen?

I could see all of these things in the eyes of our waiter at the hotel and in others' faces as I tried, in vain, to engage contact.  The relief of a smile was not easy coming. The hotel staff seemed to be gliding as though tied to some electrical mechanism, waiting for something to flare up or shut off.

How could this be anything but a hopeless place?  I believe that is what comes to mind for many of us when we think of the Congo.  And I had extreme pressure from many not to come here.  Why would we want to look at it this closely?

At dinner that night, Roger and I discussed how Mercy Corps stands for hope, and we were here to focus on that.  Perhaps the world is weary of the intensity of the Congo and we have given up trying to stop its barbaric practices.  Multi-rebel inter-fighting culture that it is, who is strong enough, and willing, to step in and effect change?  My mind reaches for a semblance of understanding.

In the dizzying merry-go-round of these first few days while in the Congo, I try to grasp it all:  The Hutu Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR) is made up of people who were responsible for genocide in Rwanda?  The native Congolese Army is barbaric and ineffective whose members switch sides constantly?  The UN has thousands in the Congo but they stand idle and permit the atrocities to occur?  The Tutsi National Congress for the Defence of the People (CNDP) support the Congolese crossing their lines?  And in addition to all that, Rwandan forces some estimated 7,000 strong were, in such a polite terms, "invited to observe" the flushing out of some 6,000 FDLR troops this week.  And what is going on with the ***** army, comprised of childhood-bred soldiers, the most brutal armies of them all?

Until I visited the first Internally Displaced Person (IDP) camp, I had absolutely no idea the depths to which a human spirit is capable in reaching for a fraction of hope.

As the troops amass in Congo and the world watches continuous conflict in this area, we must face this reality.  How can we find avenues of relief for these relentlessly hopeful spirits that are at the hands of such a heinously reckless culture? And if we don't, are we not part of the situation?

Resource rich country that Congo is, it should be one of the richest places on Earth.  Instead, human suffering is at its utmost desperate level.

Sleep came quickly after days of not feeling tired in the least bit.  It hit me like a brick.  One minute I was reading; the next thing I knew I was waking from a book-in-hand slumber.   I only slept for a few hours though, and I am still in the dazed phase of crossing multiple international time lines.  When this occurs, my head can sometimes play trickery games with me, and I start thinking about all sorts of things.  Past experiences help me to know that this is happening, and I try to glide through it rather than attempt to understand, or act upon, my thoughts.  And I know I will think more clearly when I have had full rest.

When I feel like this, several things happen. One, I have enormous love for my family.  I feel so "awake".  I also find myself looking at small gestures, rather than the whole.  The rim of a black man's finger nail.  A thread that hangs from a waiter's shirt.  The edge of a crack in the wall.  One lone bean on my plate.

Part of this dreamy state is from lack of sleep, but part of it also comes from the feeling of displacement while experiencing a place so foreign.  I try to find comfort in a glimmer of something familiar.

The word "displacement" is found adjacent to "DRC" any time I read about the Congo.  Thousands of people are not only living in encampments, but also have to be transported, or they flee, to new camps, so even the camps are not a stable environment for them.  Add to that the horrors of rape, torture, and theft of what little food they acquire, and I can't imagine the psychologically challenging terrain they endure.

It is a very sad thing to be poor, hungry and thirsty.  But to be displaced over and over and over again and fearful for physical safety at every given moment while simply trying to survive is simply unfathomable.

Yes, there is corruption here in the Congo.  The constant political battling makes it difficult for aid to reach those in dire need.  Some organizations have given up hope on sending aid.  So what do we do?  Read this and move on with our days?  Mercy Corps and other NGOs relentlessly keep pressing forth in establishing avenues in bringing relief to those who cling to the most fragile line to life.

I am not here to ask anyone to save the world.  But I am here to ask you to stop a moment and reflect upon how it might feel to live under these conditions.  And I ask for this before I post affecting images.  An image is never a representation of the truth; it only shows one whisper of life, subject to interpretation and relativity to the viewer.  So before you see images here, read up on the DRC and conjure up in your mind what it must be like to live an existence here.

And I suspect that it is much worse than any of us can imagine.

Here is an entry from Mercy Corps' writer, Roger Burks:

Goma is proof that appearances can be deceiving.

This morning, we rode along winding mountain roads past bustling villages in Rwanda to reach the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo. There we caught our first glimpses of Lake Kivu, one of Africa's biggest - and, at nearly 5,000 feet elevation, highest - lakes. The entire body of water is skirted with lush green forest, some spectacular houses and flowers that are too beautiful to be believed.

Yet below the lake's placid waters there are deadly methane and carbon dioxide gases in quantities that will, one day, explode to the surface and displace oxygen across the entire area. The timetable for this event is unknown - but it will be catastrophic for the more than two million people who live within the lake's basin.

Lake Kivu is almost too fitting a metaphor for this part of eastern Congo, where nearby perils threaten the area and its people almost constantly. The prolific vegetation throughout Goma conceals jagged pieces of lava rock, hiding the scars of a volcanic eruption that nearly destroyed the city just six years ago. Rebel forces lurk in pristine rainforests. And all along the outskirts of the city, tens of thousands of war-displaced families huddle in whatever shelters they can construct from natural and donated materials - hoping to return to their villages but waiting for the next catastrophe.

As I type this, I'm listening to boisterous Congolese music coming from a nearby bar. Someone is having a birthday party. People are singing along, whistling, whooping and hollering.

There is some cause for celebration: news of a truce between one of the main rebel groups and the Congolese government. It was agreed upon right here in Goma just yesterday. There is skepticism. People don't quite know what it might mean - I will try to find out more tomorrow and let you know.

For now, though, there is music in Goma amongst the dangers hidden in one of the most beautiful landscapes I've ever seen.