Yesterday we downsized, moving into a small apartment from the large home we have rented for the past year. Though the distance between our old and new homes is small, it has been a stressful week. I woke up this morning physically sore and mentally spent. I don’t think that many people enjoy the experience of packing and unpacking all of their worldly possessions.
Thinking about our move made me consider others who change their residence under less controlled conditions. In 2009-2010 I worked for MSF/ Doctors without Borders, and was assigned to the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo. MSF ran four primary health care centers in the area. My job was to travel between them, maintaining clinical quality control. I saw patients alongside the Congolese health care providers, supervised the pharmacists, teaching them how to order supplies so they would never run out, and trained the staff performing patient triage. It was great.
The eastern DR Congo is a place of chronic unrest. The four health centers I supervised were located in geographical areas controlled by differing armed military groups. The health center farthest from Lubutu, the central town where I lived, was Mungele. Mungele was really a big village. Mud houses had thatched roofs. There was no electricity, running water, sewage, or paved roads. In the town center the health center was easily identifiable. Though made of mud it had a corrugated metal roof, the only structure in town with such a luxurious architectural touch. Inside, two infermièrs consultants (similar to nurse practitioners) saw patients 5 days per week. Working together, I taught them the ways that MSF practiced medicine. In exchange they taught me the dozens of ways that malaria and tuberculosis are manifested in the human body. I always visited on Monday and brought chocolate. M&Ms were a special treat that didn’t melt in the equatorial heat.
The geographical area in which Mugele was situated was rebel-held. The border was stable and when I began my visits the area had been quiet for months. During our one hour commute, the thick jungle was constant, always pressing to the edges of the 1.5 lanes-wide pavement. Our vehicle passed through several checkpoints. We were usually waved through.
One early morning in the fifth month of my stay, it was a normal Mungele Monday. Shortly before 7 a.m. we set off for our day-visit. Ten minutes from our destination, we reached one of our usual checkpoints but saw a column of smoke in the distance. Armed Congolese soldiers stopped us. We could go no further. The previous night, Mungele had been invaded by a competing faction. The entire village population, including all of our clinic staff, had fled into the jungle. Scattered fighting was ongoing. “Please turn around.”
The entire village population, including all of our clinic staff, had fled into the jungle.
Two days later our co-workers were located. MSF sent people into the surrounding jungle and through word-of-mouth the staff were located. No one had been injured during the invasion.
A week after occupying the town, the invaders abruptly departed, leaving behind looted homes. The health center was destroyed, its roof stolen. When I spoke to the staff, they informed me this was not the first time such an event had occurred. The border shifted and when it did, they were displaced. Surprisingly, no one complained of having to spend a week in the jungle. And no one thought this was the last time such a thing would happen. The local population’s only transgression was continuing to live in the village of their birth. For that they intermittently, temporarily moved and lost all of their possessions.
As I thought about my chocolate-loving resilient co-workers, my complaints about my own move were embarrassing. Though moving is no fun, imagine how I would be feeling this morning if, in the middle of the dark night, I had been driven from my home by an invading army, hurriedly scooping up anything I could find and realizing everything I left behind would be stolen, burnt, or destroyed? On reconsideration, yesterday’s exhausting peaceful move was a gift for which I will always be thankful.
