The Democratic Republic of Congo is hugely vast, and perhaps that’s what gives it half it’s mystique. Crossing in for only one day does not warrant as properly understanding it, but I went for a reason. The family I’d ended up staying with in Rwanda had spent 3 years running from one refugee camp to another during the years 1994-97: A pretty harrowing experience by all accounts, but a very common story among my Rwandan friends. We were attempting to find some information on the disappearance of their father while returning from the camps in DRC (then known as Zaire) in 1997. If nothing else, it would be a way to give them closure and feel like they’d done something to try and trace him. With video camera in hand, we made it as far as one of the old refugee camps in Goma, but couldn’t get any genuine information on their missing Papa. As suspected, nobody wanted to talk. Filming was incredibly tricky, and as a result there are no photo’s from the day, but here’s a couple of grainy video stills while waiting to see if I can make anything of the footage we obtained.
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