LVH Ch. 3 (Congo) - Part 1: A Reprise

Some things in life don’t seem to change, like this part of the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Known as the African Riviera, it is beautiful, abundant in resources, productive and full of good people. The lake calms after the steady breeze, and this is surely a paradise. A fisherman paddles by singing his rhythmic tune. My surroundings are peaceful. If only the view matched the interior of my mind and the vast volcanic landscape which sweeps westward.

I’m sitting on a lakefront balcony reflecting on my recent return to the eastern DRC. Seven years ago I was a younger aid worker, sure that if humanitarians did their job properly, then better if not good programming would be possible. Lives would improve, less people would die and we could leave the eastern Kivus in a more humane and hopeful state than the horror they had known since the Rwandan genocide spilled over and gave rise to the First Congo War. That was the humanitarian imperative and we believed at least in doing no harm. I wonder what I will find on this aid mission. 

In 2013 I wrote in this blog about my initial impressions of the DRC in a piece called ‘NGO Graveyard’. Seven years on and so little has changed in terms of the fundamentals. Armed groups still run wild in the rural areas, donors demand layer after layer of compliance measures which rarely bring the increased accountability intended and good intentions still abound in the rhetoric of NGO publicity while the cynicism or wilful ignorance of their expat employees deepens. Local mechanisms for gaining wealth from international NGOs have become more and more sophisticated in terms of kickbacks and fraud, not to mention the dependency that has been built up over nearly three decades of employment and basic provision of WASH (water, sanitation & hygiene), shelter, infrastructure, healthcare, nutrition and food (read: proxy state structures). For a snapshot of this industry in DRC read this link: https://www.thenewhumanitarian.org/investigation/2020/06/12/Congo-aid-corruption-abuse-DFID-DRC-UN-NGOs

The recent remark by the senior UN official responsible for humanitarian  aid coordination in Congo, Mr Inganji, is risible. He is quoted as saying, in response to a major review of fraud and corruption risks which highlights the loss of over half a million dollars of aid money intended for vulnerable, conflict-affected people: “Everyone will be shocked.” This is either totally disingenuous or he is deluded. It is simply not possible to spend even a short time in a context like DR Congo and not see the failure of the system to achieve it’s stated goals, the sexual abuse and exploitation of beneficiaries and employees, mostly women and girls, and the determination and success of large swathes of the state, businesses and communities in defrauding those who have come ostensibly to assist the poor and marginalised Congolese masses who continue to suffer in this troubled place.

So, I no longer believe in the sector’s dominant narratives. I wonder how I will engage honestly with the people whom I now live amongst. I have changed so much since the days in South Kivu when I believed in a fantasy-fuelled identity as an aid worker. That person died long ago. Now it is a job and one that does not define me. I love the platform it provides to observe interesting, cross-cultural realities, and ways to relate to parts of humanity who have retained dignity, a desire for a better life and even joy in the face of some of the worst atrocities and hardships witnessed by humanity in the past 30 years. The question on arrival is not whether the aid industry is broken, but how badly. Can we still help those in genuine need in spite of the messy and complex reality? Or, is reality here something totally different?

On a personal note, I wonder what will become of me as I swim in these murky waters infested by Aid’s many-tentacled Leviathan with it’s three heads - corruption, violence and exploitation. Fed by its colonial overlords, disempowerment and self-interest prevail and I know that I am powerless. As Mother Teresa said so well, “we can do no great things, only small things with great love.”

C’est la vie humanitaire.

LVH Ch. 3 (Congo) - Prologue: 29 Napalms

Until recently I’ve been on the run. As Portland, Oregon was locking down due to COVID-19, my American wife and I fled south against the flow of people increasingly fearful, staying at home and not comprehending Covid. Nearby Seattle was in upheaval due to civil unrest and positive cases were increasing in Washington, the state at the forefront of the American outbreak. Our goal was to get to Los Angeles so we could fly to my boyhood home of New Zealand (which seemed to be handling the pandemic responsibly) so we could base ourselves there and return to humanitarian work far from America. That didn’t happen due to travel bans and border closures. So began a period of exile in the southern-Californian desert near Joshua Tree. In fact we spent most of our time in 29 Palms, a poor town that serves a massive military base where the US prepared especially for its invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq. Desperately needing space to myself, I began constructing a contemplative labyrinth on the large property where we were staying. I found myself needing ways to be alone and simply accept my circumstances. I felt trapped and lonely in a foreign land, one which heavily influenced my decision to become a humanitarian and  work towards a more humane world where people so often suffer at the hands of America and whose many atrocities are indisputable.

So many Americans I know hate their country’s foreign policy and rightfully awful reputation for hypocritically declaring their belief in democracy and freedom while actively undermining it or even fighting against it wherever it does not serve their national self interest. That has been the dominant geo-political reality of my life. Each time I descended the hill to the place where I was living, the lights of the base shone with an abrasive napalm glare which filled me with a deep sadness and sense of helplessness. In a land full of guns it seems collectively the citizens of the United States are incredibly disenfranchised and caught up in a capitalist system that has religion but no heart. The 2nd Amendment of the American Constitution gives the right to take up arms against a tyrannical government yet no one seems to think we are living in such a moment. Not that force would be the answer. This morning I saw pictures of Portland burning and finally I was able to write down thoughts that have been brewing for decades. The positive potential of the US has been evident for generations but its failure at home and abroad makes it more divided by the day. The regular mass shootings and murders of unarmed black people by police point to the deeply unjust and racist country this place remains. This is unsurprising as it wasn’t originally intended that all people be treated as equals here. A revolution is required if things are to change. Civil war may be coming.

I walked around the sandy path, well-trodden after weeks spent meandering along its meditative route marked out by old tires, chain, rocks and scrap iron. The rusty nails and weatherworn cross in one part remind me of the suffering we all experience and the powerless condition of most people, regardless of the country we find ourselves in. How do we stand up collectively as homo sapiens and inhabit the fullness of our humanity?

So often I want to walk away into the wilderness and rid myself of society and the cultural and political environments that poison us. Although there have been incredible developments both for good and evil in how we live, the basic conclusion I have reached after 46 years is that we have lost our way as a species. The driving motivations of the systems we have created operate in such a way as to kill us even as we are breathing. Consider the money spent on deliberately destroying life of every sort on our planet. America has a special place in this devastation and it seems very little will change. If there is a cataclysm approaching (which many agree there is), denial and comfortable self-preservation seems to still be the order of the day for late-stage capitalism. 

In my new home in the Congo, I have closer proximity with the way the majority of the world lives. There is simple appreciation for breath and daily bread. The lakeside birds busy themselves with the necessities of the day, singing their vibrant tunes. This brings me joy and peace, pointing to lessons for us all in nature.

C’est la vie humanitaire.

 

Brewgodly - Part 2: Trappist Traditions

The monks of Mt Angel Abbey make great beer. Their dubbel, St. Gabriel 2.0, is a strong, dark ale balanced beautifully with dark malt character and classic Belgian yeast esters. You don’t find many trappist breweries outside of Europe and yet they do exist. Some like Benedictine Brewery started brewing only seven years ago despite the abbey’s creation in 1882. They make beer to be enjoyed “in gatherings of food and fellowship, nourishing both the body and the spirit.” Self-sufficiency has been at the heart of monastic communities for centuries and normally they  produce only enough to help support their basic needs and use ingredients they grow themselves and water found on site. They are simply not motivated to make more money regardless of the material wealth or market share that might be gained. Their priority? “Beer with a higher purpose.”

But it’s just beer right? Well, not in their world. Or mine. For me, brewing in the depths of rural Congo (and the hardships of high ambient temperatures) or London (and the travails of hard water and the gritty city), it has always been about more than just good beer. These days, especially in Portland, Oregon, if you throw a stone from anywhere in the city, you will hit at least one brewery and it will be serving great beer. I guess that could be enough. But should it be? Something tells me that a sated craft beer lust isn’t enough. What of deeper purpose and community?

Mt Angel beer is not the best by world standards and certainly can’t match the finest breweries in this part of America, but that’s not the point. It has a quality which makes it excel in ways difficult to define. It is connected to tradition and sustainable ways of living which are profoundly good (even as the Catholic Church is sullied by paedophilic disgrace). There is an evocative incarnational aspect which means it transcends the approach taken by most breweries. Some might say it has heart.

What goes in comes out somehow. Can you taste a prayer? Does motivation matter? The monks believe it does. I agree.

For the love of beer,

brewgodly

Brewgodly - Part 1: Betty Beaverton

Betty Beaverton riffs off Beavertown’s Black Betty (Black IPA, 7.4% abv) like Logan Plant in the footsteps of his father. The immense Led Zeppelin frontman’s son toured as a rocker across the US with Sons of Albion, but beer is where he found his groove. My take on Black Betty (forget obvious pop references about ramming lambs) is a bigger version of this wonderful beer and brewed stateside in Beaverton, Oregon. A larger bill of the same grains was used and followed by an aggressive hop regime using the same varietals. The result is a solid beer brewed with a dark, robust malt structure of which my London counterparts would be proud. 

As much as it grieves me that Beavertown would accept money from  big, multi-national beverage producers, until recently largely disinterested in high quality or tasty beer, their control of tap lines means that if Black Betty replaced a mediocre lager, it would be a win for good beer. Big isn’t always bad, but when it comes to beer (and a great many other things), ownership by international corporations is very rarely good news for the product or people who drink it. But maybe a new brewery could only be paid for by a huge conglomerate. Only time will tell if the soul of Beavertown will live on and whether those who love their beer will continue to do so now that Heineken is under its skin. It may infect everything or a beautiful hybrid strain may emerge. It will certainly not remain the same but such is life my friends. I guess record companies always held sway over the manufacturing of music and so I wonder if brewing beer is really much different.

For the love of beer,

brewgodly