Dispatches from the Congo – A Journey of Love (Part 24)

In my last post, I talked a bit about Andrew’s birth and foster families. My relationship with them is complicated at best. I’ve been told that the little boy in the picture is Andrew’s older brother, Baracka or Barack (his foster mother calls him Barack, his father calls him Baracka). While it’s certainly crossed my mind that it could be a lie, I’m inclined to believe that it’s true. I first learned of Baracka in August, when I asked Andrew’s foster mother for a picture of his birth parents. She sent three: two from their wedding day, and one with Andrew’s father holding him and a small boy standing at his feet. Both Andrew’s birth father and the little boy were wearing shirts of the same fabric that his birth mother wore on their wedding day.

Maliro, his birth father, is wearing that same shirt in the picture above. It came about organically; I asked who the boy was, and his foster mother answered that it was Barack. I continued questioning her until it came out that Barack is Andrew’s brother. Of course, I don’t really have any way to verify the accuracy of that information, but I do know that is Andrew’s birth father; it’s clearly the same man as in the wedding pictures, and Andrew is the spitting image of his birth mother (a very beautiful woman).

It breaks my heart to think of Baracka (Swahili for “blessing”) still in Goma, hungry and not in school, while Andrew has his every need (and most wants) met. Whoever his is — his brother, a cousin, a friend — it’s clear that he has some relationship to Andrew’s birth family, and I do wish that I could take care of him as well.

It’s not as easy as that, of course. I’m dubious about a lot of what Andrew’s birth family tells me, like that his grandmother had liver cancer and was “chased away” from the hospital because she couldn’t pay for treatment. When I suggested Medecins Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders), I was told that it was MSF that had chased his grandmother away for non-payment. When I suggested to his foster mother that she apply at the local Women for Women International office, I was told first that they had closed that office (untrue), that the office was closed for the day (no idea if that’s true), and lastly that they wouldn’t accept her into the program (I doubt it). Obviously, some of their stories aren’t as well thought-out as others (like needing school fees, or that they only ate one meal a day). Honestly, I would rather them just directly ask me for money than make up stories that are pretty transparent attempts to guilt me into a trip to Western Union (the grandmother with cancer, if she ever existed, died a few days ago, I’m told. I’m still skeptical about the entire story, given that I seriously question the ability of any facility in Eastern DRC to diagnose cancer at all, let alone liver cancer specifically. If such a facility exists, I cannot imagine that a desperately poor family could pay for the kind of work-up required to make that diagnosis).

I cannot send money to them for a variety of reasons, with the most important reason being that it would foster a dependency that isn’t healthy for either side of the equation. Ideally, I’d love to set up a trust to provide for his birth family’s basic needs and to keep his brother in school, but I don’t know if it’s even possible — or that the money would ever go to its intended purpose. I send pictures and updates on a weekly basis, and promise that when I come back to visit the Congo, I will bring Andrew Yefuta to see them. At this point, it’s the best that I can do.

On my last email from the Congo, I stated that I never wanted to go back. At that point, I was utterly disgusted with the corruption and lack of basic services in the country, and I couldn’t wait to get back to the States. Within a few weeks, my tune had changed. I desperately want to go back to the Congo, and I’ve actually been jealous of friends traveling to the Congo for adoption and other purposes (the community of people adopting from and doing work in the Congo is relatively small, so you do get to know a lot of people with the same interests). I’ve even looked at foreign aid jobs in various parts of the country, although I don’t think it’s a very realistic plan of action at this point (and it’s also not very fair to Andrew, who is already very Americanized).

~Shoveling snow for the first time. Andrew LOVES snow!

I am committed to the country, though, and I consider it a part of me in a way I never could have imagined before my time there. The Congo is in my blood; I am forever changed because of my time there. Once I am back on my feet financially, I will go back — to do volunteer work, to adopt again, or just to visit. When Andrew is old enough, he will join me. I can only hope that the country is stable enough for visits to Goma by the time he’s reached an appropriate age to travel there.

The only books that I read these days are those about the Congo. It’s different now; when I was waiting to get Andrew, this kind of knowledge filled me with an all-encompassinging dread and anxiety for the safety of my baby boy. Now, it’s just fulfilling my need to know everything that I can about my son’s homeland. The more I learn, however, the more pessisimistic I become about the future of the country. Under Mobutu’s “leadership,” the Congo (Zaire) became mired in corruption. Cronyism was the only way to get things done. This system seems to be so firmly entrenched in the culture of the country that I’m not entirely sure that it can ever change.

Just this week, several high-ranking Rwandan officers were arrested for their roles in smuggling minerals from the Congo across the border; former NBA star Dikembe Mutumbo was also recently implicated in a gold smuggling scheme in his homeland. When corruption, intimidation and bribes are the only way that this country has ever worked, how will a leader ever be strong enough to break that cycle? Of course, recently re-elected President Joseph Kabila doesn’t have much incentive to do anything about this problem; the entire Western world and the Catholic Church in the Congo has all but accused him of stealing his re-election.

Corruption is far from the only problem in the Congo. Ethnic tensions were exploited by Mobutu to keep the country under his control; they continue to this day, particularly in the East (as an aside, I did learn Andrew’s ethnicity from his birth father, which I promised to keep secret. After studying the various ways in which ethnicity was used to start wars and control people, I was exceptionally curious to know more about Andrew’s heritage). Of course, violence is still rampant in the DRC, despite the supposed end of the civil war in 2003.

The people of the Congo are desperately poor, even though they live in one of the most mineral-rich countries in the world. Much of that wealth has been bartered away for relatively small returns, such as in Kabila’s deals with the Chinese to develop roads in exchange for a substantial stake in mining proceeds. International aid is big business in the Congo, although there isn’t much stomach for military action to end the militia problem in the East (which is a bit problematic, in my view; the UN and other organizations spend far more in humanitarian aid than they would to intervene militarily and stop the violence, which would likely allow the Congolese people to return to supporting themselves if militias weren’t ravaging their crops, stealing their animals, and committing unspeakable acts of violence against them). In short, the Congo is a mess.

~New Year’s Eve

Despite all of this, I have a lot of hope for the future of the DRC. I look at my son — so smart, so handsome, so perfect — and I see that things can change. Maybe I’ll raise an activist who will one day go back to help lead his country out of the darkness. Or maybe I’ll raise an innovator who will come up with a solution to one of the many problems plaguing the poor of his country, like malaria, lack of clean drinking water or malnutrition. Or maybe I’ll just raise a strong, capable man, who will show people through his example that the Congo is a worthwhile country and that we should care and be involved. The biggest problem I see right now is apathy: if more people knew what was happening in the rest of the world, I believe that they would get involved. And so my son, my sweet, adorable little boy, can perhaps be that spark that eventually shines light on the problems of his country. But until then, he’ll just be my baby…the most perfect gift and the person I love more than anyone else in the world. My Andrew….worth every bit of it, and then some.

~Andrew in Kinshasa, the first day I held him.

~Andrew recently after Sesame Street Live!

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