Justice in the Congo, Part 9

Near-Riot in a Congolese Prison

The prosecutor now returns to the front of the courtyard before the still-seated inmates and convenes an impromptu question-and-answer session.  One prisoner raises his hand and stands to speak.  “We are fed up,” he says.  The prosecutor begins to respond, but the prisoner continues:  “I have been here for a long time, suffering.”  The prosecutor interrupts the man and speaks to the whole audience, saying that he will see if he can fix some of their problems.

More hands are raised.  More inmates stand up.  One shouts:  “We are fed up -- staying here in these conditions!”  “We need also to get outside,” says another.    

The crowd becomes unruly.  Still more inmates leave the formation and stand up. They shake their fists and point.  Some talk; many shout.  My interpreter is overwhelmed and doesn’t know whom to translate.  

Amidst the growing unrest, I notice a young-looking boy standing near the center of the courtyard.  Shoeless and visibly dirty, he wears a tattered tight blue shirt with English writing.  His baggy tan pants have been torn haphazardly into shorts at mid-thigh.  The boy stands with his elbows near his ribcage, hands extended outward, palms up.  He is silent amidst the sea of bodies as the voices around him grow louder.  His expression conveys more than the shouts do.  I have seen it often in children and adults in this country:  he is hungry and miserable.  

“How old are you?” I ask through my translator.  “Fourteen,” he responds.  He says that he has been here for two years, but we cannot communicate further through the chaos.  

The prosecutor repeats that he will be back to talk to everyone, and then we are ushered out -- fast.    

The UN has supplied money for a new, separate women’s wing of the prison.  We walk through it quickly.  It is still under construction.  When will the women move in?  “Next week.”  “Or next month.”  Listening to the litany of things that must be done before the wing is inhabitable -- there are no doors or toilets, for example -- these estimates seem ambitious, if not impossible.  

Walking toward our car, I ask the prison nurse if there has been any violence in the prison.  He says that a girl under the age of 12 was raped.  The nurse is not sure what happened to her.  The second-in-command later verified that the rape occurred, but said that the prosecutor was still “trying to analyze the case.”  The girl has not been returned to the general prison population.  No one has been charged.  

Thanks to his recent promotion, the chief prosecutor is on his way to the big city to enjoy more resources and to confront a new set of problems.  These people and these problems will remain right here in Kamina.