It had taken about five months and multiple date changes, but on Nov. 9, 2017, the trial of a member of Congolese parliament named Batumike and 18 of his men — the Kavumu rapists who’d abducted and sexually assaulted nearly 50 girls aged 18 months to 11 years old — was finally starting. And it would be a circus of epic proportions, at least on the side of the defense.
Two NGOs — Physicians for Human Rights and TRIAL International — had worked for years with local prosecutors to create a fair and safe trial, which meant coming up with protections for the witnesses, mainly mothers of the girls. (More about that in a future post — what they wore to disguise themselves … you have to see it to believe it.) The lawyers and advocates had determined that it would be too traumatizing and dangerous to have the girls testify about their own attacks, even via video. A psychologist was on hand for the mothers each day.
The fact that these men had even been arrested was remarkable, but the very fact that they’d remained in jail, neither escaping nor bribing their way out, was nearly unheard of.
Conditions in Congolese prisons are horrifying: Prisoners often starve if they don’t have visitors bring them food, and malnutrition is common. In 2016, a prison in Kinshasa, the capital, which is about 900 miles to the west of Kavumu (as the crow flies — there is no road system that allows you to get from one side to the other of the massive country), had an official capacity of 1,500 people but housed 8,000 prisoners, according to a London-based organization called World Prison Brief. And this kind of massive overcrowding is the norm across the Democratic Republic of Congo.
The prosecution was going after a conviction for crimes against humanity, which includes murder and rape.
Such a conviction is a rarity in a broken place like DRC. But international and national legal and advocacy groups had managed to get the trial moved to the military justice system — a victory, because it is marginally better than the civilian one, giving many of those of us involved a modicum of hope.
“The importance of Kavumu extends far beyond the impact on survivors and their families,” TRIAL International said a week before the start of the proceedings. “This trial punctures the code of silence and undermines the judicial inertia that often surrounds sexual violence cases in South Kivu. That authorities are now fully reckoning with this issue head-on is a huge step forward for Congolese justice.”
But before we would get there, we’d have to deal with repeated displays of fake outrage and bogus reasons for delays from the defense.
And, on this very first day, there also would be overheard talk of how to help Batumike escape prison — aka, now or never.
After I discovered that I could not attend the trial of the Kavumu rapists for fear of being killed (yes, killed), I went ahead and hired a stringer in Bukavu named Yves Kulondwa. (Here’s a Q&A with him on what it was like for him to report from the courtroom, and about his incredible art and the art school he runs for kids. The end of the Q&A shows how you can donate toward the school.)
Because Yves had never done any reporting before (though he worked as a newspaper cartoonist), I had no idea what to expect from him, and I was more than a little worried. But I asked him to observe everything. I was relying on him to tell me whether the courtroom smelled weird or someone maybe clapped during the proceedings — everything. And I asked him to send me his notes each day.
It turned out I’d had absolutely nothing to worry about.
But, it was extremely anxiety-inducing to have to depend on someone else to be my eyes and ears at the one place I most wanted to be. I’d waited years for this. And a six-hour time difference between Bukavu and New York meant I was rarely sleeping — whether waiting for Yves’s notes, processing them or being nervous about what I was missing — although I truly hadn’t been sleeping well in more than a year because of this story.
Even writing about this now, I feel like the atmosphere in my mind when I think about this part of what happened in Kavumu is … thin, if that makes sense. Not having experienced things directly leaves me feeling detached and sort of blind when I write, unable to clearly see a place. Everything feels drained of color.
On Nov. 9, 2017, Yves sent me his first document, which should give you an idea of the utter insanity of the trial to come. I’d been relatively freaking out all night and day waiting for his write up, or any updates he could give me. I was also desperate to see the courtroom itself. But Wi-Fi is a luxury there, and I didn’t get his dispatch until late that night. I did, however, spend the day in touch by text, email and phone with people at multiple NGOs around the world who were also following the trial.
People gathered outside the courtroom. Drawing by Yves Kulondwa.
Day 1
It is Thursday 09 November 2017. It is around 8:30 a.m. in Kavumu Center.
It rained last night. Steam escapes from the still damp ground of the great courtyard of the old LUSHAMBA room, because the sun has already risen and is now burning slightly. This room, renamed EFFO PERSO, is located a few meters from the Tribunal de Grande Instance of Kavumu.
The opening hearing of the trial was scheduled to begin at 9 a.m., but it is already 10:20 a.m. and there is still no one in the courtroom apart from the building manager, who gives instructions to a man who is crouching, cleaning the walls, which are stained with mud from the rain the day before.
At 11:30 am, still nothing. I am afraid there is a further postponement. Worried, I call the president of the local civil society [Felix], who tells me that he is not aware of any postponement. We must therefore be patient.
Another hour passes ... To kill time, I walk around and talk to some locals to try to get their views on the trial.
[This was when I knew that Yves was not only an excellent writer, but that he knew how to report, despite never having done it before. Talk to anyone and everyone, I’ve always said, because you never know what might come up.]
People are already flocking to the room. They are numerous. Hundreds of people.
Around 13:40, a rumor circulates that the audience will be relocated to a municipal football field not far from a large square called Monument.
People head over there. When I arrive, I see a huge crowd. One would think that a great sports event was going to be held there. The population is impatiently awaiting the opening of the trial.
A few moments later, we see a truck with soldiers seated along the edges. It approaches the field. Three bound men sit in the middle of the truck, surrounded by the soldiers. They are believed to be a few of the accused. People are yelling at them.
[I realize now how crazy it sounds: Just, you know, a regular army truck transporting men tied up in its bed. But after years of reporting on the nightmare in Kavumu, nothing surprised me anymore.]
But the truck passes the field, and heads toward a military camp beyond.
Time is passing. It is already 3 p.m. Still nothing. Nobody. Not even a technical team to install any sound equipment.
I make a phone call to Janvier, a liaison for the court. He said that it is likely that the location that was initially planned, the LUSHAMBA room, will host the session. He also reassures me that the session will indeed take place. The delegation of officials is on the way. They are near Miti, a few minutes from Kavumu.
Returned to the room, it is already 4 p.m. Technicians run here and there to install their devices.
Pakistani peacekeepers are sent in and crisscross the space, inspecting the premises.
There is no electrical current, although the room is next to an office of the national electricity company, SNEL.
Outside, the sky is already darkening. It’s getting dark in the room too. Finally, somebody realized they should buy light bulbs, because nothing could be done in such darkness.
[Light bulbs. Reading this at the time made me vividly remember the true mess that is Congo.]
Twilight in Bukavu.
It is 6.30 p.m. Still nothing. People are getting impatient outside. They raise their voices to ask what's going on. The soldiers are also getting nervous. We can see it in their gestures. They are surely worried about being able to contain this crowd when the defendants enter the room.
At 6.33 p.m., the arrival of the van containing the defendants in the yard is announced. The soldiers exit the van to move the people at the door [to the courtroom] who have been blocking access.
At 6:35 p.m., the power is cut. Total blackness. A clamor rises inside, as well as outside. However, we can hear the voices of soldiers ordering (in threatening tones) people to move away.
Fortunately, a minute and a half later, the power is on.
6:53 p.m. For the moment, there are five journalists in the room, the composition of the court [Congo uses the French justice system, with multiple judges], the lawyers for the two parties, the soldiers in charge of order in the room, as well as some members of NGOs and people from civil society organizations.
Now the rest of the audience is allowed in. Everyone is systematically searched at the door. The room fills up very quickly. Space is lacking. A lot of people are still standing. Others stand outside, looking in through the windows. Those who stay outside are even more numerous.
6:56 p.m., the defendants enter the room, handcuffed, two-by-two. There are 19 of them. At the entrance of MP Batumike, a clamor rises in the back, on the left side of the room. Obviously, these are his supporters. They chant his name.
Very quickly, the defendants are put on their bench seats, all in front of the first president of the court and his team.
This one (the first president) calls for silence in the room.
Then he calls for the opening of the hearing.
19 men are charged with:
a) Crimes against humanity
b) Participation in an insurrectionary movement
c) Illegal possession of a weapon or ammunition of war
d) Murder
At around 7:09 p.m., the defendants are called to the bar. Once again, when it’s Batumike’s turn, his supporters cheer!
[Such an evocative detail. Thank you, Yves.]
Then, the civil party lawyers present themselves.
Then comes the turn of the collective of defense lawyers, which presents its members and the defendants.
MONUSCO has long been the largest and most expensive peacekeeping operation in the world. (Roberto Schmidt/ AFP for Getty Images)
The soldiers in charge of order in the room evacuate everyone, and only the press, some members of the court, and the defendants remain. They are then taken, under guard, outside to their van. Asked about their destination, an officer tells us that they are being taken back to the central prison in Bukavu.
As I walk to the parking lot to get a taxi back home, I overhear a conversation of a small group of men. One said, “If we have to figure out how to help the MP and his friends escape, this evening would be the right time. It is very dark, and it will be raining. Attacking the convoy wouldn’t be too complicated.”
Another man retorts: “Impossible. There are a lot of soldiers in the court, in addition to MONUSCO peacekeepers. It would be suicide!”
To be on the safe side, I don't linger any longer, and go to take my taxi.
I arrive home at 9:15 p.m.
What?
He did what?
I suddenly wondered if I was putting Yves in terrible danger. He’d gone above and beyond by listening to this conversation and writing it down, but it left me very, very scared for him.
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I'm reading this as I'm listening to the coverage of the bombings in Israel. Humanity will never stop trying to destroy itself, irrespective of technological innovations and Elon Musk's delusions of colonization of Mars. We are a fatally flawed species.
I'm reading this as I'm listening to the coverage of the bombings in Israel. Humanity will never stop trying to destroy itself, irrespective of technological innovations and Elon Musk's delusions of colonization of Mars. We are a fatally flawed species.