My names? There’s no such a thing!

By PHILIP OCHIENG
Posted Friday, May 8 2009 at 17:51

My name includes one word that should be close to my chest. Every Luo individual has such nying juok. In a Nilo-Saharan custom no longer in force, you kept it top secret lest a witch lay hold of and use it to plot your death.

I was called Ochieng because I was born “under the sun”, that is, around noon (from the Luo word chieng, “the sun”). Only at baptism did my mother choose Pilipo for me (“Philip”). She had no idea what it meant.

The important thing was that the British missionaries had ordained that you could not be a Christian unless you carried a Euro-Hebraic name (even if it be Hitler). What if she had known that Pilipo came from the Greek Philihippos and was no more heavenly than a “horse lover”?

If the Luo had had the “family names” institution, I would now be Philip Otani – Otani being my father’s name. Indeed, my people of Rusinga know me as Ochieng Otani or, more correctly, Ochieng k’Otani or Ochieng mak’Otani or Ochieng wuod Otani.

The Luo words “maka” (or mak’ if the next word begins with a vowel), ka (or k’) and wuod mean “of” or “son of”. Some well known examples are Ouma maka Dudi, Ochola mak’Anyengo, Otieno mak’Onyango, Ojwang K’Ombudo and Oludhe Macgoye (the k anglicised in the last one).

Other systems

Equivalents in other systems include Bruce MacKenzie, Marshall McLuhan, Sunniva O’Neill, Ella Fitzgerald, Charles de Gaulle, Vasco da Gama, Ludwig van Beethoven, Otto von Bismarck, David ben Gurion, Osama bin Laden, Ibn Battuta, William ole Ntimama, Daniel arap Moi and Ngugi wa Thiong’o.

Philip Ochieng, then – and the more than 10 endearing terms that you do not know -- is my own name. But note the singular verb “is” in that construction. It means is that, even if I chose to use all those names officially, I would still have only one name.

I reiterate that my name is Philip Ochieng. During the Kriegler inquiry, people constantly introduced themselves something like: “My names are Robert Ali Matatu, Wafula Kimani, Nyamweya arap Fulani.” I continue to hear this nonsense from especially our television screens.

When they borrowed the creator Goddess of the Nilotes – worshipped as far as Mesopotamia, India, Australia, Britain and Mexico – the Hellenes called her Myronymos because she had 10 thousand names. Yet she always insisted that she had only one name.

She would have said: “My name is Achieng Anath Aphrodite Artemis Asenath Aset Asherah Asiis Astarte Astoreth Athena Brigit Cara Chebet Dagda Dana Demeter Diana Enkai Ereshkigal Esther Eve Friya Gaia Hathor Hawwa Hebe Hera Inanna Iao Io Ishtar Isis Khasaya Leviathan Mary Medusa Minerva Mumbi Nyakalaga Neith Nephthys Ninhursag, Ninki Nut Oestre Onyame Pandora Persephone Rahab Semele Sophia Tefnut Tehom Tiamat Usha Venus and so on ad infinitum.”

By this, the divine sovereign Maat reminds you that in her system – which includes English – your name is always singular no matter how many words may compose it.

These G10 women are smarter than we think

By MUTAHI NGUNYI
Posted Saturday, May 2 2009 at 19:08

Last Sunday, I said a new political order is coming. And that we will recognise it when “stupid” ideas hit our politics. My point was simple: if an idea is not “stupid” it will not fly. If people do not laugh and tease it, it will surely die.

Then the “sex boycott” by G10 hit the market. We have done nothing but laugh at it. In fact, we see it as the only “stupid” idea in town. And because we are blind, we have failed to recognise its power. Now it has become a virus.

Unseen to all, it has entered our system without warning. It is spreading silently, slowly but viciously. Everywhere, people are talking about it. Some are irritated, others fascinated. Bottom line: we have been outwitted. These women are smarter than we think. Consider the reasons with me.

For starters, this boycott is not about biology. To think so is to miss the point. In fact, and to console the men, national “sex activity” went up because of the boycott. And what is more, maybe G10 likes it that way.

If this is true, we must conclude the following; they used reverse psychology on us. But how so? On a normal day, and according to statistics, a man thinks about sex 12 times an hour.

This situation degenerates if he is idle. Then it explodes if he is challenged sexually. The question, therefore, is this: Did G10 capitalise on this weakness?

Did they build their strategy around the possible explosion? Maybe they did. And if so, their intention was to irritate, annoy and frustrate. But as we responded in anger, they collected their desired results.

As we aggressed them, they built a profile. From our mockery, an unknown group gained recognition locally and internationally. My hunch? This is all they wanted.

But I am fascinated by three other “stupid” elements of the G10 strategy. One, these women do not understand politics. In Kenya, tribes do not mix. And to mix them is to be a heretic. G10 has mixed the tribes without “mercy”.

The Kikuyus are kissing the Luos; the Somalis are hugging the Luhyas. This unity of tribes is unacceptable: it does not have the permission of the principals! And if this is our thinking, we are damn lost.

Maybe the unity of our nation will be achieved by our women. I say so because “…people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who actually do it”.

These women are crazy to think they will unify us. And maybe they will. As they push their unity agenda, the complaining country should remember this: “…man who says it cannot be done should not interrupt man doing it!” If the G10 women are doing it, the cowardly men should not interrupt. After all, what have they done to save the country?

Two, and from the media reports, G10 is “stupid” because it does not have a leader. It does not have a strong woman like Martha Karua to push its agenda. It is just a coalition of simple mothers and their daughters. And it is this “simpleness” that makes it powerful and revolutionary.

Ms Karua is a lone ranger; a “one-manist”. But as the Luo proverb goes: “…if you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go with others”. Ms Karua will go fast, but she will not go far.

Formless movement

If maintained, the collective and diverse leadership of this G10 will take them far. Because they have no leader, they are formless. To a rigid mind, a formless movement is “stupid”.

But in realpolitik, it is powerful and scary. In other words, G10 is “guerrilla marketing” its politics. And so long as we cannot understand its formless, leaderless structure, the movement will grow.

Three, their strategy is “stupid” because it is raw and they are weak. I watched one of them break down in tears during a press conference. At first I was scandalised. But the more I thought of it, the more I was persuaded by their raw sincerity and weakness. It reminded me of a book known as Subliminal Seduction.

According to this book, we seduce people with our weakness, never with our strengths. Our weaknesses make others feel superior to us. And once this is achieved, defences are lowered and persuasion begins.

The fact that these G10 women are nondescript, non-threatening and weak is politically “stupid”. But given our conditions, it is seductive and powerful. More so, their use of feminine power!

The question, however, is: will they tire? Will they run the full course? I have no idea. But they have no option. And this is best illustrated by a story from the Holy Bible.

Four lepers were stuck outside the gate of a city called Samaria. They needed food badly. If they went back into the city, they would die. And if they sat at the gate of the city, they would also die. Their only option was to match into the enemy camp in Syria and gamble for food. However, this was also problematic.

If they matched into enemy camp, the Syrians would kill them. Then again, they might spare them. And so they decided to gamble.

As they headed for the camp, their footsteps sounded like a huge force of cavalry. This scared the Syrian king and his troops. He had to take off and abandon camp. When the four lepers reached the edge of the camp, it was empty. Their gamble had paid off!

This is what G10 should do. They can either retreat to the gate of the city and starve to death, or decide to soldier on. And, like the lepers discovered, once they took the first step, God made their footsteps sound like the roar of a huge force.

In sum, the enemy is not always as strong as we think he is. If this is true, the G10 gamble could just pay off. But will they tire and give up? I pray not!

Mr Ngunyi is a political scientist with the Consulting House, a policy and security think-tank for the Great Lakes region and West Africa; mutahi@myself.com

Acclaimed Sudanese novelist Al-Tayeb Saleh dies

The Associated Press
Wednesday, February 18, 2009

KHARTOUM, Sudan: Al-Tayeb Saleh, one of the Arab world's top novelists who excelled at portraying characters torn between East and West, died Wednesday in London, Sudan's official news agency said. He was 80.

Saleh was born in 1929 in the northern Sudanese town of Marawi to a poor family and was educated first in Islamic schools and then later British institutions. He left Sudan to pursue graduate studies in the U.K. and went on to live in various European and Arab capitals, rarely returning home.

His works reflected the Arab and African quest for identity, especially in the period of 1960s, which were marked by the end of colonialism and the rise of nationalism across the region.

His 1966 masterpiece, "The Season of Migration to the North," can be described as one of the earlier writings about the idea of a clash of civilizations.

"I have redefined the so-called East-West relationship as essentially one of conflict, while it had previously been treated in romantic terms," he said once in an interview in the Arabic press.

The novel was ranked among the 100 best works of fiction in 2002, according to a vote by 100 noted writers from 54 countries organized by the Norwegian Book Clubs.

The story is about intellectuals torn between the culture of their native Sudan and that of Europe, where they lived for a time.

One of the main characters in the story describes his time in the West, where he seduces and then dumps a succession of English women before finally marrying one in a stormy love-hate pairing that ultimately results in her murder at his hands.

Critics speculated that the novel drew heavily from the author's own life, however Saleh, who married a Scottish woman, always denied this assertion, maintaining it was only fiction.

Though not officially banned, the Sudanese government in late 1990s attacked the novel as pornographic and said it violated Islamic teachings. But most believe the government's displeasure with the book stemmed from its harsh description of the political and cultural conditions in Sudan.

Saleh also wrote "The Cypriot Man" and the "The Wedding of Zein," which was turned into a film that won a prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 1976.

He also contributed to a monthly London-based Arabic publication, Al-Majalla.

Gamal el-Ghitani, editor in chief of the Cairo-based literary weekly Akhbar al-Adab, described Saleh as "irreplaceable."

"Saleh is one of world's top novelists," el-Ghitani said. "On personal level, he was a modest, wise and brave man who carried the essence of Sudan's culture outside its borders."

Saleh is survived by his wife and three daughters.

Egyptian Political Dissident, Imprisoned for Years, Is Suddenly Released

February 19, 2009
By MICHAEL SLACKMAN

CAIRO — Egypt’s most prominent political dissident and a one-time presidential candidate, Ayman Nour, was unexpectedly released from prison on Wednesday after the United States and European governments had pressed for years to have him set free.

Mr. Nour, a charismatic political leader who challenged the governing parties’ monopoly on power, said his more than three years in prison came to an abrupt end when he was taken from his cell late in the day. He was driven to his apartment building, took the elevator to the eighth floor and rang the doorbell. Soon he was in the arms of his 17-year-old son, Shady.

An hour later, as he greeted a crowd of reporters, photographers, family and friends in his living room, Mr. Nour said: “It is a surprise! There was no prior plan for it and there were no negotiations over anything.” He seemed fit and trim, stunned and unbowed by his experience. He said he planned to help rebuild his political party and push for democratic reforms in Egypt.

“Prison,” he said, “makes heroes and symbols out of men.”

In a one-line statement, Egypt’s attorney general, Abdel-Meguid Mahmoud, announced late on Wednesday that nine prisoners, including Mr. Nour, had been released for “medical reasons.” For more than three years, the courts repeatedly refused Mr. Nour’s request to be released because of poor health, and President Hosni Mubarak said he could not interfere with the judicial process.

Mr. Nour was convicted in 2005 of forging signatures on petitions he had filed to create his party. The case was widely seen as politically inspired. He only needed 50 signatures, but turned in thousands.

He would have been eligible for parole in July. His early release was interpreted by his family, his supporters and political analysts as a purely political gesture. It came at a time of mounting pressure on Egyptian officials over their handling of the Gaza crisis, and the summary arrest of protesters, bloggers and Islamists. While his release was welcomed, it was also seen as evidence that Egypt’s justice system was ruled by decree, not law.

“I am happy he is out, but I am sad that the executive power and the president can interfere directly in judicial outcomes,” said Alaa Aswani, a writer and sharp social critic of Egyptian society. “The president can put someone in jail and can pardon him and then look for a legal pretext. This is the sad part.”

Mr. Nour’s imprisonment ended Egypt’s brief experiment with allowing opposition politics to flourish. His Al Gahd Party had become the only legal opposition with a growing, anti-establishment following. In 2005 Mr. Nour garnered 600,000 votes in his bid for the presidency, placing a distant second behind Mr. Mubarak in a race controlled by the president’s governing party.

Mr. Nour’s wife, Gamila Ismail, said she had been running errands on Wednesday when the doorman in her building called and told her to rush home. He put her husband on the phone and he said, “I need the keys, I want to go home.” Absolutely stunned, she asked how he had got out. “ ‘I didn’t jump the wall,’ ” she said he replied.

In an interview two days earlier, Mr. Nour’s wife held prison documents in her hand that she said proved that the government was planning to keep her husband behind bars beyond his earliest possible parole date, July 21. She said they had accused him of attacking guards and prison doctors.

“They want to keep him until he surrenders and gets broken,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s endless.”

On Wednesday, she was happy, but also dumbfounded. “Nothing can be expected from this regime, good or bad,” she said, with a frozen smile and glazed eyes. “Even when it involves you personally.”

The Egyptian government refused to budge on the Nour case when international pressure was strongest. Mr. Nour had served in Parliament for 10 years, but he gained prominence after his arrest. Condoleezza Rice, secretary of state at the time, postponed a trip to Egypt to protest his imprisonment.

President Bush mentioned Mr. Nour in a speech in 2007.

The Egyptian government bristled at the pressure and dug in.

There was speculation on Wednesday that Mr. Nour’s release was delayed until after Mr. Bush left office, in part as a swipe at his administration and in part as a good-will gesture to the Obama administration.

“All the pretexts for his release today are unacceptable, and no one can believe it,” said Salama Ahmed Salama, editor of an independent daily newspaper, Shorouq. “It can be seen in the framework of improving relations with the United States.”

During his time in prison, Mr. Nour’s wife was his greatest advocate, traveling the world, fighting to keep his party alive and attending rallies, all in an effort to keep up pressure on the Egyptian government. She was also left alone to raise two sons. The state responded by filing charges against her and threatening her with prison.

Then suddenly it was over. Mr. Nour rang his doorbell late in the day. No one answered, so he put his bag down in front of the door and went down to the doorman. His son, Shady, had been sleeping. He eventually got up, walked over to open the door, saw the bag and smelled his father’s cologne.

“I called my girlfriend and said, ‘I think my father is free,’ ” Shady recalled. At that moment, the elevator door opened and Mr. Nour walked into his son’s arms.

Within an hour, he was dressed in a neat charcoal suit with a peach tie and surrounded by dozens of reporters, photographers and cameramen. The crowd was frenzied, knocking over lamps and climbing on furniture, but Mr. Nour seemed happy, content to talk, to be jostled, to be free.

“Jail changed me in that I read more in those four years than I have read in 40 years, and I have written more in those four years than I have written in 40 years,” he said. “I do not regret anything.”

He then drove off to appear on one of Egypt’s most popular late-night talk shows.

Mona el-Naggar contributed reporting.

Grandparents bearing the burden of AIDS orphans

By COSMAS BUTUNYI and OUMA WANZALA
Posted Monday, December 22 2008 at 20:17

Ms Fridah Makokha sat pensively in the audience, her chin cupped in her palm. Her eyes were fixed on a gigantic screen, where a movie was being beamed.

She was starring in the local movie that was “premiering” at Namboboto Secondary School in Samia District.

Though the launch did not have the flamboyance that accompanies movie premieres in Hollywood, Mama Makokha, 70, had the pride of a star.

The film, Grandmother’s Tribe, is about her life — her struggles to make ends meet for herself and her grandson, Emanuel Wafula, who was orphaned by Aids.

“I’m happy to be used as a messenger in the fight against this disease because I have lost five children to it,” she said.

She added: “I used to hide in my house and cry, but since I played a role in the film, I have drastically changed and I no longer fear to speak about Aids, which is claiming our children”.

The film, which was partly shot in 2006 at her Mudoba Village home in Samia District, chronicles the plight of the grandmothers. Part of the film was shot in Kibera, Nairobi.

It was produced and directed by filmmakers from New Zealand and Canada with help from the US government.

During the recent launch, in the depths of Funyula constituency, residents were accorded the rare luxury of watching a film on big screen.

And it was not just film with an alien story line and characters — it was about an all too familiar back yard, starring their relatives and neighbours.

“We intend show the movie to a wider audience,” said the cultural officer at the American embassy, Ms Ellen Beinstock, who was the chief guest.

Ms Beinstock said that her office was determined to screen it to the whole world in order to support the organisers’ commitment to telling the story.

The strategy, she said, was to show it to smaller groups, communities, churches and youth groups.

“We hope that people will learn from the film,” she added.

The ultimate goal of the film project, Ms Beinstock said, was to ensure that someday, grandmothers would be relieved of the burden of caring for their grandchildren orphaned by Aids.

Area MP Paul Otuoma, who attended the launch, said the film was an eye-opener as it had taught many Kenyans what was happening and yet had been ignored.

“We need to take up the challenge and face the fight against Aids, which seems to be wiping out our society and leaving many orphans to be cared for by their elderly,” the minister said.

The brain behind the film was Mr Felix Masi, the director of Voiceless Children in Kenya, who drew from personal experiences, having lost his mother when he was only eight.

Later, working as photojournalist, Mr Masi would come face to face with orphans left under the care of their grandmothers.

“In the course of duty, I saw many grandmothers going through similar struggles and this inspired me to tell the whole world that this is how a grandmother lives after the death of her children, caring for her grandchildren single-handedly without employment,” he added.

This is the eventuality that many grandmothers in Samia District have had to grapple with. While old age is usually the time when one relaxes and enjoys the sunset years, this has not been the case for the senior citizens.

Frail shoulders

Additional responsibilities are thrust on their frail shoulders as they take up the task of raising grandchildren orphaned by Aids.

These orphans comprise about a tenth of the population in the district that has been ravaged by the disease.

Dr Otuoma says the disease’s prevalence in the district stands at 16 per cent.

“This is about three times the national prevalence rate,” he says.

Three years ago, a 23 per cent prevalence rate was recorded in the district.

The situation is aggravated by high poverty levels estimated at up to 71 per cent. With their advanced age, the grandparents are unable to engage in strenuous economic activities.

Dr Otuoma says that about 10,000 people in the district are permanently on food aid. He blames the loss of young people to Aids in Samia District on cultural practices and irresponsible sex.

He says that in the run up to this year’s KCPE, he visited a school in the district, which had 11 pregnant schoolgirls.

“This is a worrying trend since they are underage,” he adds.

Even with the disease’s high prevalence in Samia District, care for those infected is wanting. Dr Otuoma says that out of the 16,000 people living with the virus, only 1,800 have been put on anti-retroviral therapy.

Access to facilities where the disease can be tested is also abysmally poor, with only three voluntary counselling and testing (VCT) facilities serving the district.

“More health facilities need to be set up in this district,” he says.

Probably, this is one of the reasons for the low awareness about testing, especially among fishing communities along the shores of the lake and on the islands.

Now, the MP is calling for an urgent behavioural change, arguing that some of these practices go against efforts to counter the disease.

Dr Otuoma said it was saddening that many people were suffering in the villages due to Aids and called for a combined effort to address the situation so that those affected and those who are infected can lead normal lives.

“While the other players could help us in dealing with the disease, we are the only ones who can stop its spread,” he says.

Ms Beinstock says the country has been one of the main beneficiaries of the US President’s Emergency Plan for Aids Relief (Pepfar), which targets mitigating effects of the disease in Africa.

So far, the country has received over Sh100 billion in the four-year life span of the fund.

How could you do this to me?

Updated 13 hr(s) 34 min(s) ago

Deka Hassan Abdi*

The room is chillingly silent. All eyes are fixated on a tiny TV screen. A six-year-old girl is about to undergo the female cut the Somali way. She closes her fear-filled eyes and helplessly tries to pull her legs away from her mother, as the cutter approaches with a razor blade in hand.

All eyes turn away from the screen for a brief moment as the magnitude of the horror that this little girl is about to undergo sinks in.

I rush out as the razor makes its first slash, because I could not stand re-living the terror.

When it was done to me, I was a five-year-old nursery school pupil, part of a group of five little girls.

I can’t remember if it was a school day or a weekend. I just remember my elder sister telling me, "You will be circumcised."

I have died!

She enticed me with two sachets of mabuyu and juice since that is what I loved. I was curious to know what circumcision was about as I had heard other girls brag that they had been circumcised.

I was the third person to go in and when I heard the screams from my cousin who was older than me, I was afraid. She was screaming, "I have died! I have died!"

I wanted to run away but my sister tied my hands to herself. She told me, "You will be a nice girl when you go through this. I have passed through the same. Your older sister has passed through it, your mother…" and she clicked her fingers to mean that it was an eternal chain backwards.

There was only one razor for the five of us. The woman would cut one of us, apply herbs on the wound, then dip the razor in water and proceed to the next. If you did not cry, the women were jubilant. But I cried. My sister tells me that I was screaming, "Have you finished? Have you finished? My heart is coming out!"

Although my wound healed in two weeks, it was only the beginning of the physical pain I am still experiencing. I underwent Type III Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) where the clitoris and both the inner and outer lips (labia minora and majora) are slashed off and the wound sewn almost shut, leaving only a tiny multipurpose opening the size of a matchstick head, for passing urine and the menstrual flow.

It was difficult passing urine as my legs were tied together and I had to lie on my side. Because of the wound, the urine burnt me and I found myself suppressing the urge to urinate.

When my periods began, I underwent unbearable abdominal pain. Since the opening is small, the blood clots trying to pass through make periods extremely painful. They do not come normally. For seven days every month, I do not go to work. Even if I am in a matatu and I feel the first pains, I get out, run to the nearest pharmacy, get painkillers and take them on the spot. Whenever I feel the first pains, I start sweating because I know the next several days I will not be going to work. I think the pain is similar to labour pains. It is the same for most of the girls from North Eastern Province. When we were in high school, the doctor was often unable to handle all the girls writhing and throwing up on the dispensary floor. In most cases, we were taken home.

Every month, I was down for seven days and when my father saw me throw up, he wondered what kind of worms I had that made me sick every month.

The saddest thing is that women and girls undergo this painful mutilation for men, who will never understand the trauma that marks our lives from then henceforth. Even when they know of hard work and pain of the wedding night for both the bride and groom, not many are ready to do something about it or even speak out.

But I don’t blame my parents. I blame ignorance and illiteracy. All the women believe that if you are married, the pain will cease. I saw the woman who cut me up and asked her why she did that to me. She told me to go get married and my problems will be over. It hurts me that she is still doing the same thing even now — stitching girls like a piece of cloth.

Unstitching


I would not consider getting surgically unstitched to save myself from all the pain because I fear the stigma of being opened up. People may not know about it but my husband will. A man would rather take a girl to hospital for unstitching on their wedding night than marry a girl who has been ‘opened’. He fears being stigmatised too.

Marrying a man from a community that does not value FGM is not a solution, because my culture restricts me to marrying a Somali man. So my seven-day horror will continue every month until I am married. Then I will have to grapple with being a wife and mother. I know sex and childbirth will be excruciating, if not life threatening, but I would rather not think about them now. I have enough problems living with FGM, and cannot fathom facing the future with it.

* As told to Brenda Kageni

Congo's tragedy: the war the world has forgotten

Friday, 31 October 2008

In a country the size of Western Europe, a war rages that has lasted eight years and cost four million lives. Rival militias inflict appalling suffering on the civilian population, and what passes for political leadership is powerless to stop it. This is Congo, and the reason for the conflict - control of minerals essential to the electronic gadgetry on which the developed world depends - is what makes our blindness to the horror doubly shaming. Johann Hari reports from the killing fields of central Africa

This is the story of the deadliest war since Adolf Hitler's armies marched across Europe - a war that has not ended. But is also the story of a trail of blood that leads directly to you: to your remote control, to your mobile phone, to your laptop and to your diamond necklace. In the TV series Lost, a group of plane crash survivors believe they are stranded alone on a desert island, until one day they discover a dense metal cable leading out into the ocean and the world beyond. The Democratic Republic of Congo is full of those cables, mysterious connections that show how a seemingly isolated tribal war is in reality something very different.

This war has been dismissed as an internal African implosion. In reality it is a battle for coltan, diamonds, cassiterite and gold, destined for sale in London, New York and Paris. It is a battle for the metals that make our technological society vibrate and ring and bling, and it has already claimed four million lives in five years and broken a population the size of Britain's. No, this is not only a story about them. This - the tale of a short journey into the long Congolese war we in the West have fostered, fuelled and funded - is a story about you.

I Rapes Within Rapes

It starts with a ward full of women who have been gang-raped and then shot in the vagina. I am standing in a makeshift ward in the Panzi hospital in Bukavu, the only hospital that is trying to deal with the bushfire of sexual violence in eastern Congo. Most have wrapped themselves deep in their blankets so I can only see their eyes staring blankly at me. Dr Denis Mukwege is speaking. "Around 10 per cent of the gang-rape victims have had this happen to them," he says softly, his big hands tucked into his white coat. "We are trying to reconstruct their vaginas, their anuses, their intestines. It is a long process."

We walk out into the courtyard and he begins to explain - in the national language, French - the secret history of this hospital. "We started with a catastrophe we just couldn't understand," he says softly. One day early in the war, the Unicef medical van he was using was looted. Coincidentally, a few days later, a woman was carried here on her grandmother's back after an eight-hour trek. "I had never seen anything like it. She had been gang-raped and then her legs had been shot to pieces. I operated on her on a table with no equipment, no medicine."

She was only the first. "We suddenly had so many women coming in with post-rape lesions and injuries I could never have imagined. Our minds just couldn't take in what these women had suffered." The competing armies had discovered that rape was an efficient weapon in this war. Even in this small province, South Kivu, the UN estimates that 45,000 women were raped last year alone. "It destroys the morale of the men to rape their women. Crippling their women cripples their society," he explains, shaking his head gently. There were so many militias around that Dr Mukwege had to keep his treatments secret - the women were terrified of being kidnapped again and killed. He became an Oskar Schindler of the Congolese mass rapes.

As we walk down to watch 200 rape victims being taught to sew under a large, dark bridge, he tells me what they can expect now. "When the rapes begin, the husbands and fathers often just scarper and never come back. The women never hear anything from them again. Other times, the men blame the women and shun them. It's very hard for us to persuade the women to leave the hospital, because where are they going to go?"

He introduces me to Aileen, who is 18 but looks much younger. She holds her hands tightly in her lap. Her story is stark, the details sparse. Her village was raided by a militia on 10 October, and "they beheaded people in the central square". Her voice is high-pitched; she is almost squeaking. She was seized and taken back out into the forest by the militia where they kept her for six months. "I was raped every night. The first night my body really ached and hurt because I was a virgin," she says. She would be passed on from one man to the next. It is only as she speaks that I notice the large protruding bump sagging into her lap. The baby is going to be born next month. She says she has spoken to her family, but Dr Mukwege tells me later this is a fantasy. "What," she asks me with wide eyes as we leave, "do you think I should do? Where can I go?"

It is coldly appropriate to start here. The rape of Aileen and the rape of the thousands of women who stagger into the Panzi hospital are, I soon discover, merely part of a larger rape - the rape of Congo.

II The Last of the Belgian Colonialists

Bukavu is a cratered, shattered shack-city in eastern Congo that lies on the edge of Lake Kivu. In the street markets, people trade scraps of food for Congolese notes worth a few pence. In the houses, they stagger along without water or electricity. Wandering through this cacophony, I find a lone white woman, a lingering remnant of the origins of this war. She can reveal how all this began.

As we sit over lunch, Tina Van Malderen says, skimming the menu: "I don't drink water - only wine." Her hair is greying but her smile is warm. "I came to Bukavu as a little girl in 1951 when my father came to work for the Belgian administration," she explains. "It was paradise. There were only Europeans then. No Africans. Black people lived in the surrounding areas. It wasn't like South Africa, they weren't forced. They didn't want to live with us. They came into the town to work. They had their own market." She speaks of the days of the Belgian empire with a soft-focus sepia longing. "I have four sisters, and we would swim in the lake all day. It was like a non-stop holiday."

Her family owned a chain of shops, and the only castle in Congo. She is incredulous when I ask if there was any cruelty towards black people back then. "Absolutely not. We loved our blacks. When they had children, we gave them gifts." Perhaps sensing my scepticism, she adds: "Maybe on the plantations they were a little bit rude to them." The Belgians unified Congo in the first great holocaust of the 20th century, a programme of slavery and tyranny that killed 13 million people. King Leopold II - bragging about his humanitarian goals, of course - seized Congo and turned it into a slave colony geared to extracting rubber, the coltan and cassiterite of its day. The "natives" who failed to gather enough rubber would have their hands chopped off, with the Belgian administrators receiving and carefully counting hundreds of baskets of hands a day.

This system of forced cultivation continued until the Belgians withdrew in 1960, when Patrice Lumumba became the first and only elected leader of Congo. "He was a stupid man," Tina says swiftly. "On the first day of independence, he said we had beaten and humiliated the blacks. He signed his death warrant by doing that."

She's right - he did. Lumumba claimed to be a democratic socialist who wanted to overcome Congo's ethnic divisions. We will never know if he could have fulfilled this dream, because the CIA decided he was a "mad dog" who had to be put down. Before long, one of its agents was driving around Kinshasa with the elected leader's tortured corpse in the boot, and the CIA's man - Mobutu Sese Seko - was in power and in the money. Tina's family sold their castle to the dictator as he renamed the country Zaire. "People always ask if he paid. Of course he paid!" she laughs. Mobutu became another Leopold, using the state to rob and murder the Congolese people.

Tina's family started to worry in the 1970s when he announced a programme of "Zaireanisation" - a Mugabe-style transfer of the resources of foreigners to his cronies. "My mother arrived at work one day and there was a black man come to take possession of everything, including her car. She had to walk home," Tina says, glugging red wine.

"Everything began to fail after that. The food became disgusting. Even our dog didn't want to eat it." This is Tina's first visit home - she still calls it that - since they fled. "I saw the house we lived in. From outside it still looked nice but when I went inside..." she shakes her head. "The black people cannot live properly. If I had to compare Congo, I must say it hasn't changed at all. They are not naked any more, but they are still savages." Tina's countrymen established the nation-state in the Congo, and they designed it to be a vampire-state. The only change over the decades has been the resource snatched for Western consumption - rubber under the Belgians, diamonds under Mobutu, coltan and cassiterite today. "Cheers," Tina says, downing her wine.

III The War for Games Consoles

If you want to glimpse what all this death has been for, you have cross Lake Kivu and drive for four hours, on pocked and broken roller-coaster roads, until you reach a place called Kalehe. Scarring the lush green hills are what seem to be large red scabs that glisten in the sun. The term for these open wounds in the earth is "artisinal mines", but this dry terminology conjures up images of technical digs with machines and lights and helmets. In reality, they are immense holes in the ground, in which men, women and children - lots of children - pick desperately with makeshift hammers or their bare hands at the red earth, hoping to find some coltan or cassiterite to set on the long conveyor belt to your house, or mine. Coltan is a metal that conducts heat unusually brilliantly. It is contained in your mobile, your lap-top, your son's PlayStation - and 80 per cent of the world's supplies sit beneath the Democratic Republic of Congo.

As I crawl down into the mine - its cool, damp darkness is a strange contrast to the raging Congolese sun - the miners laugh. The idea of a muzungu - a white man - in their mine seems to them impossibly comic. But they soon get back to picking away at a roof that looks like it could collapse at any moment. Ingo Mbale, 51, explains how the West's hunger for coltan is fed. "We were enslaved three years ago," he says. "An RCD captain [from one of the militias] arrived and forced us to mine for them at gunpoint. They gave us no money, it was slave labour. There is nothing left in many of these shafts now, they exhausted them. They killed many people. Our gold and coltan and cassiterite went out to the world via Rwanda."

Watching these men, the shape of Congo's recent history becomes clear. There is an official story about the war in Congo, and then there is the reality, uncovered by a trilogy of bomb-blast reports from the UN Panel of Experts on the DRC. The official story is convoluted and hard to follow, because it does not ultimately make sense. But its first chapter is true enough, and goes something like this. In 1996, a Maoist with an eye for money called Laurent-Désiré Kabila grew tired of simply running his little fiefdom in eastern Zaire, where he peddled ivory and gold with a nice sideline in kidnapping Westerners. Kabila decided to depose Mobutu, the omnipresent and omni-incompetent tyrant, and seize power for himself. He cobbled together a ragtag army of child soldiers known as the Kadogo and, with the support of neighbouring Rwanda and Uganda, the edifice of Mobutuism collapsed even before their tinny, tiny advance. Kabila installed himself as another Leopold-alike, banning political parties and bathing in corruption.

But then in 1998 Kabila asked the Rwandans and Ugandans to withdraw their troops from Congo - so long, and thanks for the armies - and the official story begins to drift away from reality. The Rwandans pulled back for a fortnight, but then mounted a massive invasion of Congo, seizing a third of the country. The public reason for this assault sounds reasonable. After the 1994 genocide in Rwanda - a slaughter that made even Auschwitz look slow-paced - tens of thousands of the Hutu Power machete-wielders fled across the border to Congo and set up long-term bases. How could any country rest with its murderers armed and crazed on its borders? "We must prevent the génocidaires from regrouping," said Paul Kagame, the Rwandan president, with the supportive Ugandan military following in tow.

From his palace in Kinshasa, Kabila appealed to his friends for help resisting this Rwandan-Ugandan attack. Zimbabwe, Namibia and Angola obligingly sent armies marching into Congo to fight back, and Africa's First World War began. The armies and militias marauding across Congo then became rebels without a cause, fighting each other because they were there and because pulling out would be a humiliating concession of defeat. In this version, the war in Congo is a mess, started with the best of intentions - the Rwandans' desire to track down génocidaires - only to spiral out of control. It presents the mass slaughter as a giant cock-up, a cosmic mistake. This is strangely reassuring. It is also a lie.

Once the Congo was drenched in death, the UN commissioned a panel of international statesmen to travel the country and uncover the reasons behind the war. They found that the Rwandan government's story hid a much darker truth. The Rwandans had a clear intention, right from the beginning: to seize Congo's massive mineral wealth, to grab the coltan mine I am standing in now and thousands like it, and to sell it on to us, the waiting world, as we quickly flicked the channel away from the news of this war with our coltan-filled remote control. The other countries came in not because they believed in repelling aggression, but because they wanted a piece of the Congolese cake. The country was ravaged by "armies of business", commanded by men who "carefully planned the redrawing of the regional map to redistribute wealth," the UN declared.

The UN experts knew this because the Rwandan troops did not head for the areas where the génocidaires were hiding out. They headed straight for the mines like this one in Kalehe, and they swiftly enslaved the populations to dig for them. They did not clear out the génocidaires - they teamed up with them to rape Congo. Jean-Pierre Ondekane, the chief of the Rwandan forces in Goma, urged his units to maintain good relations "with our Interhamwe [génocidaires] brothers." They set up a Congo Desk that whisked billions out of the country and into Rwandan bank accounts - and they fought to stay and pillage some more. The UN found that a Who's Who of British, American and Belgian companies were involved in the illegal exploitation of Congolese resources. The ones they recommended for further investigation included Anglo-American PLC, Barclays Bank, Standard Chartered Bank and De Beers. The British Government - while boasting of its humanitarian goals in Africa - barely followed up the report, publicly acquitting a few corporations like Anglo-American whose subisidary AngloGold Ashanti has been shown by Human Rights Watch to have developed links with a murderous armed group in the region, and leaving others like De Beers in an "unresolved" category.

Oh, and the reason why this invasion was so profitable? Global demand for coltan was soaring throughout the war because of the massive popularity of coltan-filled Sony PlayStations. While Sony itself does not use Congolese coltan, its sudden need for vast amounts of the metal drove up the price - which intensified the war. As Oona King, one of the few British politicians to notice Congo, explains as we travel together for a few days: "Kids in Congo were being sent down mines to die so that kids in Europe and America could kill imaginary aliens in their living rooms."

As I climb back out into the hard sunshine, the miners turn to me. "Could you send us a hammer? We really need one. The militias took all our equipment."

IV The Tyrant's Jeer

On the long journey in an armoured UN vehicle, the questions seem so obvious, so trite. How could a government led by genocide victims suddenly commit its own epic crime against humanity, for nothing more than money? The answer lies across the border, through the rainforest, towards Kigali. I meet Charles Muligande, the Rwandan foreign minister, on the top floor of the Hotel Des Milles Collines, the real Hotel Rwanda. This is where hundreds of Tutsis hid out the holocaust while their brothers and sons were hacked to pieces on the streets outside.

Muligande has a strange combination of a youthful, unlined face and graying hair (with matching moustache), and he carries with him the unimpeachable moral stature of the victim. The sadness around the eyes, the haltingly recounted story of being driven across the border to Burundi as a child refugee, the relatives slaughtered in the genocide - they are all cruelly present. How can I challenge him? He speaks softly about the trauma counselling that is happening in Rwanda, and the fragile attempts at reconciliation. And then it comes - the chuckle.

I ask him about Congo's future, and he lets out a strange, hard-to-place laugh. "The DRC is a country that for the last 45 years has had pockets outside the control of central government," he says. "Even on the eve of the election, there will by places that are beyond the control of central government. This shouldn't be a cause for concern." And again with the chuckle.

What about the people who pay the price of the instability he waves away so casually? How does he sleep at night, knowing Rwanda has inflicted on its neighbours suffering akin to the horrors he and his family endured? He chuckles harder now, almost coughing. "This is rubbish. If we do a balance sheet, we incurred a lot of losses in fighting that war."

He says it with such airy conviction I have to grope in my mind for the right response. Why then does the UN's report say that Rwanda's pillage was "systematic" and "deliberate"? "That is an invention," he snaps. By the UN, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch? "Yes. It doesn't become true just because it is repeated. If you have such a blind faith in Amnesty International," - he spits the words - "and the UN and Human Rights Watch, there is nothing I can tell you. It is like you are asking me to believe Jesus Christ is not my saviour come to change my soul. It is a faith-based position." No amount of probing will shift him. When he talks about the genocide, he is compassionate, honest, brave. When he talks about his own country's crimes against Congo, he sneers. Their trauma, it seems, is worth nothing. As he speaks, I wonder - does he believe this, or does he, in midnight sweats, think about the children driven from their homes just like a baby Muligande was all those years ago?

The more I probe, the more his face contorts into the tyrant's jeer. I have seen this before, in Iraq and in Israel/Palestine - the furrowed brow and the rote claim that the evil UN and Amnesty have it in for us. Blood? What blood?

V Thomas Hobbes was Right

The victims of the war - of that laugh - are scattered everywhere in eastern Congo. By the roadside the next morning, I find the living remnants of Ramba village, a home to 15,000. They make up a clump of 400 starving people building a makeshift camp by the roadside. Maneno Mutagemba Justin, their chief - a young man with sore, reddish eyes - explains what happened. "The Interahamwe came into our village. They killed and they raped our women. Now they have stolen our houses and told us never to come back." People fled in all directions, losing their husbands or children. Nobody is quite sure how many relatives they have lost forever. "We have no food here, and we left everything behind. We have no pots, no pans, no water." These people live a long drawn-out postscript to Thomas Hobbes, the 17th-century philosopher who warned that in the absence of a state, life will be: "Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."

Yet the most piercing image of pain I see in Congo is not in places like this. It is not in the pygmy village where children with sweet distended bellies sleep with their families in the tea-bushes because they are terrified of being beheaded by the militias. It is not even in the eyes of the man Oona King and I see being casually beaten to death by a mob on the road one moody afternoon, another unrecorded Congolese write-off that we swiftly speed away from. No, it is the women carrying more than their own bodyweight in wood or coal or sand, all day, every day. By every Congolese roadside, there are women with ropes tearing into their foreheads as they bind a massive load on to their backs. With so few horses, so few cars and so few roads, starving women are used here as pack-horses, transporting anything that needs to be moved on their backs for 50p a day. They are given the quaint title of "porters".

Francine Chacopawa is 30 but she looks much older, her faced lined and cratered in a complex topography of pain. Her spine is curved, her skin is rough and broken, her hands calloused. When she laboriously puts down the wood she is carrying, she has a red canyon in her forehead where the rope was, rimmed with sores that weep from the rubbing. "This is the rope that keeps my household alive," she says. It is the war that has reduced her to this state. "Since the war started, you can't farm in peace, and the children are starving, so I prefer to die in this work... My husband cannot get a job, so this is what I have to do. I leave at five o'clock in the morning and get back at seven o'clock at night. I am worried my children are running away to look for food, because we only get to eat once a day. When I get home, my husband gets angry and asks why I have been away so long. We have suffered so much. The children we bring into the world are forced to be porters as well. We are the most unhappy people in the world."

She tells me the pack she is carrying weighs 200lb, and I write this off as understandable hyperbole. Then my translator and the UN driver load her pack on to my back (with great difficulty). I immediately fall to my knees. I stagger up and manage to stumble a few feet before falling over again. I am almost crying in pain; my back aches for weeks. This is Francine's life. She does not even stop on Sundays. "How can I? We must eat," she says. Portering has made her miscarry twice, and Francine says she has seen women die by the side of the road, buckled under their loads. I ask her when she will stop portering. She shrugs, and says nothing. Her eyes say: "When I die." The wood is heaved back on to her back, and she staggers away, the rope rubbing against her sores.

VI The Head of State Without a State

Joseph Kabila is surrounded by crocodiles. We are standing by the back wall of the White House, the slimline presidential palace in Kinshasa, and the rippling, reptile-infested Congo river rings around us. His house looks like a well-kept municipal library in an American town, a world away from the psycho-kitsch of the Mobutu era. The President's eyes have narrowed. "How long have you been here, to think you can write about Congo?" he asks, unsmiling. I say I have been here a fortnight. He nods slightly. "Then that's OK."

Kabila does not like talking to journalists. Indeed, he does not like talking to anyone - he has conspicuously failed to turn up at his own election rallies over the past few months. I have been smuggled in at the end of his meeting with the All-Party Parliamentary Group on the Great Lakes Region, a collection of decent British politicians who have come to try to erode the worst humanitarian crisis in the world by inches. "I want to see some quick wins [for the Congolese people] from the presidential election," he says, assuming he will win the looming polls - the first in Congo since 1960. He then rattles off a list of improvements he hopes to implement to prove that democracy works - better water supplies, better schooling.

He offers up these platitudes in absent English, his handsome face covered with a light sprinkling of stubble that seems to be greying in the sun. He became President at the age of 29 when his father was pinned down and executed in a failed coup in 2001. At that moment the reluctant son of the Big Man was thrust from a life of army drills and watching martial arts movies to being in a charge of the world's biggest war zone. Neckless and nervous, he says his two minutes' worth of stump speech now and then closes up. He signals to his Versace-suited security guards that it is time for him to leave. My five minutes of questions - more than any other journalist gets - have been greeted with a polite stonewall of banality.

The White House has a feel of unreality. It is a hologram of power, the simulacrum of a functioning country. Kabila is in the surreal position of being head of state without a state, President of the Democratic Vacuum of Congo. He has no levers of power to pull. As I discovered later in my journey, he has no army worthy of the name, he has no police force, he cannot guard his own borders or build his own schools. From the sealed calm of the palace, I look over a wall and see the real Congo walking past - people slumped against walls or busy doing nothing or frantically fending off hunger any way they can. The fantasy of a functioning country dies outside his own brickwork.

Since his father died, Kabila has been trying to glue together a nation from the shattered fragments. In 2002, he negotiated the Lusaka Accords, in which the invading countries promised to remove their armies. The global price of coltan had collapsed, so Rwanda's interest was waning. Besides, the withdrawing countries realised they could suck the mineral marrow from Congo without the costly business of occupation, simply by setting up Congolese militias as their proxies on their way out the door. Kabila tried to out-bribe powerful militia leaders by offering them a place at the heart of government. That's why, of his four vice presidents, three have their own private armies. To watch over this "peace process", the UN sent in 17,000 peacekeepers for a country the size of Western Europe.

At the core of Kabila's project to make Congo into one nation with one government is brassage - the integration of the militias. At squalid camps across the country, the militiamen who have been raping and murdering are invited to hand in their weapons and join the new national army. I head for Camp Saio, a camp outside Bukavu where men with Samuel L Jackson sunglasses and cheekbones that could cut butter are milling and mulling as they wait for "reintegration". Places like this are the key to Congo's future. The country's success stands or falls on whether the militiamen can be coaxed to come here and slowly build a state. Dr Adolphe Tumba, the head of the camp, takes me trudging through the mud on a tour.

In the first room I see, there are nine stinking beds. Men are sitting, rotting plaster covering their wounds. In the corner is a soldier shivering in his bed, his face covered with the lesions that come with the final stages of Aids. He opens his eyes - they recoil, wounded by the light. They close again as he curls wearily into a tight ball. I ask the men what life was like on the front line. "We ate. We had food there," they snap back. I ask again, assuming they misunderstood. "We had food at the front line. It was better. Why did you come here without something for us to eat?" They last ate two days ago. They have not received their $5-a-month wages for 40 days. They are starving.

A UN source warned me: "The people in that camp are going out and rampaging into the nearby villages. They do it for survival. They steal to get by. Yesterday they killed a man, the day before they killed a woman and some kids. It's all done by men in uniform coming out of that camp." Joseph, a 22-year-old, tells me he joined up when he was a teenager because his village was attacked by the Rwandans. "They killed my father, my grandfather and my little sister. So I decided to join Mai-Mai [a Congolese militia]. I can't count how many people I killed. I did it for six years."

His friends gather round, and some of them are more eager to brag about their kill rates. They remind me of kids on some estates I have visited, bragging about their Asbos. Are they telling the truth, or is this teenage display? As they become more and more animated describing their killing sprees, as their eyes become wider and their stories more vivid, our UN escort begins to panic and tells us we must leave. "Quickly!" he calls.

As we drive away, I realise it is not enough that our greed for resources started this war - it is vandalising any chance of bringing it to an end. While these state-building camps can offer only starvation and a sometimes-never $5 wage, Unicef says the militias are offering the same men $60 a month to carry on seizing and raping and killing. They can afford it because they still control most of the coltan, gold and diamond mines, and Western and Chinese companies are still snapping up the sparklers they offer. So long as the militias can continue to use our money to outbid the national government, there will never be a unified state in Congo, and life will continue to be a live-action replay of Thomas Hobbes' bleakest descriptions.

And yet, even the best case scenario - effective brassage, a unified army, a coherent state - carries with it blood-drenched risks. What if once Kabila gets control of the country, he morphs into a Mobutu or a Mugabe? Then all this nation-building will turn out to have been an exercise in capacity-building for a murderer. Who is this man with a neckless, nervous gaze? A rogue source at the British Embassy who has high-level dealings with the regime ponders over dinner: "There are essential two theories about Kabila," he says. "The first is that he is a good man surrounded by shits. The second is that he is one of the shits. Let's assume the first is true - what difference does it make? He is surrounded by Rumsfelds and Cheneys, friends of the father who would kill him if he stepped out of line. There is a large group around him whose finances and even their impunity from charges in the Hague depend on him staying in power. Would they allow him to lose power, or even to share it too much? Really?"

At times, it seems Congo is lost in a fog of moral ambiguity. Everybody agrees the state needs to be unified, and there seems to be only one state on offer - Kabila's - given the near-certainty he will win the election. An aid agency head says: "In this country, all you can ask about a politician is - is this person corrupt and self-seeking and doesn't give a damn about Congo, or is this person corrupt and self-seeking but wants what's best for Congo too? Of course Kabila's circle is corrupt. To have power in this country you must be corrupt. It's a corrupt system." The best hope, it seems, is to drag Congo up from being a broken stateless war zone where millions die to a bog-standard corrupt state. To the starving soldiers of Camp Saio, watching open-mouthed and hungry as we drive away, even this sunken ambition seems optimistic.

VII Spiritual Warfare

The coven of witches is dancing and cackling in the water. They have a hose-pipe and they are spraying each other's naked bodies, squealing and laughing. One of them comes up to me, wearing a worn-out Barney the dinosaur T-shirt, and splashes some water at my face. I am in a children's home, Chez Mama Coco, an hour's drive from Kinshasa, and the place is filled with starved witch-children who have been thrown out by their parents for displaying signs of being under the influence of Satan. Some have been burned and slashed, and some mutilated. One of the workers introduces me to a child - they do not know his name because he has not spoken since he arrived, but they call him Fidel - and tugs down his trousers. Where his penis once was, there is nothing but an angry red scab. "His mother cut it off during the exorcism," he says.

This is another consequence of our war. Herve Cheuzeville, the outgoing Head of Mission for Warchild, explains: "The idea of withcraft has always existed in Congo, but it is new to accuse children of it. It never happened before. It is a result of the terrible traumas of the past six years."

The Combat Spirituel church in Bukavu consists of an immense veranda filled with benches, with a neat white building attached. These churches have been pioneers of Congo's 21st-century witch-hunts, and when I arrive at their Sunday service, they greet me with whoops and hallelujahs. The evangelical preacher at the podium has a kind of Christian Pan's People dancing behind him, and he exclaims: "We salute God by dancing!" The congregation contains over 1,000 people, and they look more like the crowd at a football match than at a dreary Church of England ceremony. They blow whistles, jump up and down, and dance wildly. A man with a miraculous story about how he was cured of Aids through the power of prayer takes to the platform. I am told that if I want to talk witchcraft, however, I need to return late on Thursday, when the purgings and exorcisms happen.

I come back, and Papa Enoch Boonga - the "spiritual co-ordinator" - is waiting for me with a 14-year-old witch. I am led into the little house. The lights are switched off, and Papa Enoch produces a lantern that lights his face and casts a long shadow. In his slow, rhythmic French, he begins to tell me how: "Satan is waging war on the Congolese people. He comes to kill and hate. The answer to Satan's campaign against us is spiritual combat." That is his cue to drag out Clarice. She is a small girl wrapped in a big woollen cardigan. In a low, blank rote, her eyes cast down, she says: "I was taught sorcery when I was 12. My grandmother turned me into a witch by giving me a doughnut to eat."

Enoch looks at me triumphantly. "This is how it works! They give evil food!" He takes over from Clarice's halting speech. "Then the grandmother came at night in spiritual form and said, 'I gave you the doughnut to eat, now you must give me your little sister to eat.' She was so frightened she said, 'OK, OK,' and the next day her little sister fell ill and died. Then her grandmother demanded she break the leg of her mother, so when he mother was out gathering wood, she fell and broke her leg. Now the girl started to feel the power of sorcery and began to transform herself into a dog or a cat."

I keep looking at Clarice in disbelief, but then I realise she thinks I am glaring in condemnation and I look away. As Enoch speaks, the chanting behind us from the main service is getting louder and louder - "Out Satan, out!" hundreds of people cry, clawing at invisible demons in the air. He continues, "Her father is an artisinal miner and he stopped being able to find anything because of her sorcery. They fell into poverty."

I have to interrupt. I ask Clarice, softly: "Do you really think it is your fault your little sister died?" "Yes," she says. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor. "It was actually her parents who realised she was a witch," Enoch says. "They were very worried about their lives going bad, and they went to church and prayed and God told them what the problem was." He says they conducted an exorcism of Clarice, and, yes, it was tough. "When you cast Satan out, you almost destroy the person, but they come back with Jesus Christ in their heart."

As I look into Clarice's downcast eyes, I realise it is not only the physical landscape of Congo that lies in ruins. The psychological landscape has been trashed. The war has left girls like her in a society littered with superstition landmines that will not be cleared away for decades. She limps away, back to a life soaked in self-hate.

VIII - Packing Out the Albert Hall

The last time there was a holocaust in Congo, British and American people reacted with a great national revulsion. Books like Arthur Conan Doyle's The Crime of the Congo topped the bestseller lists, millions petitioned parliament to act, and the Royal Albert Hall was packed out with mass meetings detailing the Congo's long nightmare. A century on, the words and analyses of that great campaign still ring true. Joseph Conrad called it "the vilest scramble for loot that has ever disfigured the human conscience" - words that would make a perfect introduction to the reports of the UN Panel of Experts now.

But today, these four million people have died in the dark, unnoticed and unmourned. The generations living in the West today have said nothing while the country has been reduced to near-Leopoldian levels of desperation by the scramble for loot, conducted on our behalf and for our benefit. The average life-expectancy in Congo is 43 and falling. I did not see any elderly people on my journey; they do not exist. In a country where the war is laughably referred to as "winding down", a World Trade Center-full of people is butchered every two days, and in the lost rural areas I could not reach, bubonic plague has made a triumphant come-back. A health minister says in despair: "I have been told by the UN to prepare a plan for avian flu. I had to write back and say I am powerless to deal with the plague, so what am I supposed to do about chickens?"

This war was launched by nations that sensed - rightly - that our desire for coltan and diamonds and gold far outweighed our concern for the lives of black people. They knew that we would keep on buying, long after the UN had told us time and again that people were dying to provide our mobiles and games consoles and a girl's best friend. Today, we still buy, and the British Government - along with the rest of the democratic world - obstructs any attempt to introduce legally enforceable regulations to stop corporations trading in Congolese blood. They ignore the UN's warnings that: "Without the wealth generated by the illegal exploitation of natural resources arms cannot be bought, hence the conflict cannot be perpetuated," and insist that voluntary regulations - asking corporations to be nice to Africans - is "the most effective route".

In Bukavu, a 29-year-old human rights campaigner called Bertrand Bisimwa summarised his country's situation for me with cruel concision. "Since the 19th century, when the world looks at Congo it sees a pile of riches with some black people inconveniently sitting on top of them. They eradicate the Congolese people so they can possess the mines and resources. They destroy us because we are an inconvenience." As he speaks, I picture the raped women with bullets burying through their intestines and try to weigh them against the piles of blood-soaked electronic goods sitting beneath my Christmas tree with their little chunks of Congolese metal whirring inside. Bertrand smiles and says, "Tell me - who are the savages? Us, or you?"

Let edible plants enrich your scenery

Updated 14 hr(s) 10 min(s) ago

Hosea Omole

Edible landscaping is the use of food plants to construct your landscape. It is a good alternative to conventional residential landscapes that are designed solely for ornamental purposes. Fruit trees, shrubs, vegetables, nuts and believe it or not, edible flowers can be incorporated into your garden to provide an alternative source of food in the wake of rising inflation.

If the idea of edible landscaping sounds a little far-fetched, you are not alone. Until recently, such applications were limited to crop fields and orchards. But edible landscaping dates back to ancient Egypt where flowers, grapes, arbours, vines and fruit trees were incorporated into the garden. However, during the renaissance era, things changed. Gardens became more formal and segregated so that fruit trees, orchards and vegetables were planted in separate areas.

Attractive landscapes

Today, edible landscaping is fast regaining popularity as people are striving to do more with their land. Many people also realise that edible landscapes can just be as attractive as purely ornamental gardens. Whether you are starting from scratch or planning to add some edible plants into an existing garden, here are a few tips to take the guess-work out of edible landscaping.

Understand your plants

There are numerous edible plants that you can incorporate in your garden. Perennial herbs can be used as ground covers while smaller fruiting plants can be used as shrubbery. Many trees function in multiple layers — as shades, bloomers and as edibles. These are favourite candidates for your edible landscape.

Take some time to understand the plants you want to use. The mature size of the plant is particularly important. This will help you to know not only where to plant but also how to mix and match with other plants. A number of fruits and vegetables do best where they receive at least six hours of full sunlight a day. Most also thrive in well-drained soils.

Parts of your yard that satisfy these conditions are good places to have edible plants. Nevertheless, find out the optimum growth conditions of each plant; their preferred soils and climatic conditions. Such information can be obtained from your nearest nursery.

Begin with the more permanent trees and large shrubs, then move to the smaller shrubs and eventually fill in with the herbs and ground covers. Avoid the temptation to plant in shamba-like rows.

Where space is limited, consider container planting or go vertical using climbing herbs such as passion fruits. You can also put an arbour or some other structure to support your climbers.

Richer diverse mix

Whenever you can, interplant edibles with ornamentals for a richer and more diverse plant mix. This way you also control pests by somehow confusing them. However, for the more seasonal edibles that are harvested frequently, it may be necessary to plant in a garden solely devoted to their production. This allows you to maintain and harvest them without interfering with the more permanent plantings.

Plant Maintenance

Edible plants, just like ornamental plants, require maintenance. To enhance maintenance requirements, plant the "right plant in the right place". In other words, be sure to match a plant’s growing requirements with your garden’s conditions. When growing vegetables, consider the season as well — some plants grow only at specific times of the year. Overall, all plants require some pruning, fertilising, and watering, as well as monitoring for pest problems. Take special care to select pesticides and fertilisers that are appropriate and safe on plants meant for human consumption.

Torture claims against officers surface

Updated 3 hr(s) 10 min(s) ago

By Mutinda Mwanzia and James Ratemo

The joint military operation in Mandera District has come under sharp scrutiny after allegations of torture surfaced.

And this after the operation was criticised by Muslim leaders in Nairobi who called for the withdrawal of military officers sent to quell the inter-clan fighting.

The National Muslim Leaders Forum (Namlef) said the operation had spread terror in the district, with Namlef chairman Abdullahi Abdi claiming on Wednesday that military personnel were rounding up and terrorising innocent civilians.

At dawn on Tuesday, army and police officers are reported to have invaded Elwak and Wargadad areas, flushing out residents with whips and kicks while demanding weapons.

Tears and agony abound as those rounded up were flogged and forced to walk on their knees over long distances as part of torture to produce illegally held arms.

At Elwak District Hospital, which has a 32-bed capacity, 112 people were admitted with injuries. According to Dr Fred Otsyena, most suffered soft tissue injuries to the back and buttocks inflicted by whipping.

Pupils narrated how teachers were whipped in a bid to force them divulge the location of hidden guns. A woman, six-months pregnant, and two others narrated how officers allegedly raped them in the dawn raid.

Claims denied

But North Eastern PPO Stephen Chelimo denied claims police used force, stressing that the operation would continue until they disarmed all militias.

Chelimo showed journalists 48 firearms, 1,224 rounds of ammunition and 6 grenades, 3 communication sets, one rocket propeller, military uniform and assortment of unidentified drugs allegedly recovered from the operation.

Thousands of residents have fled into the interior fearing further terror from the officers now camped in the area.

Meanwhile, the Kenya Red Cross (KRC) has sounded an alert over a humanitarian crisis in Mandera.

On Wednesday, KRC Secretary-General Abbas Gullet said the district was also facing severe drought, which has left more than 115,000 people dependent on relief aid.

He said the military personnel and attacks by bandits had hampered operations of his team in the district.

"Most aid agencies have suspended operations due to security concerns," noted Gullet.

He urged security teams involved in stemming the clan conflicts to respect personnel from aid agencies, who are impartial and independent.

"We, therefore, call upon the Government to halt the military operation and let religious leaders initiate peace talks," he said.

Some residents claimed the military had injured many during the operation to recover arms.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/africa/organic-farming-could-feed-africa-968641.html

Traditional practices increase yield by 128 per cent in east Africa, says UN

By Daniel Howden in Nairobi
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
New evidence suggests that organic practices - derided by some as a Western lifestyle fad - are delivering sharp increases in yields, improvements in the soil and a boost in the income of Africa's small farmers

Organic farming offers Africa the best chance of breaking the cycle of poverty and malnutrition it has been locked in for decades, according to a major study from the United Nations to be presented today.

New evidence suggests that organic practices – derided by some as a Western lifestyle fad – are delivering sharp increases in yields, improvements in the soil and a boost in the income of Africa's small farmers who remain among the poorest people on earth. The head of the UN's Environment Programme, Achim Steiner, said the report "indicates that the potential contribution of organic farming to feeding the world maybe far higher than many had supposed".

The "green revolution" in agriculture in the 1960s – when the production of food caught and surpassed the needs of the global population for the first time – largely bypassed Africa. Whereas each person today has 25 per cent more food on average than they did in 1960, in Africa they have 10 per cent less.

A combination of increasing population, decreasing rainfall and soil fertility and a surge in food prices has left Africa uniquely vulnerable to famine. Climate change is expected to make a bad situation worse by increasing the frequency of droughts and floods.

It has been conventional wisdom among African governments that modern, mechanised agriculture was needed to close the gap but efforts in this direction have had little impact on food poverty and done nothing to create a sustainable approach. Now, the global food crisis has led to renewed calls for a massive modernisation of agriculture on the hungriest continent on the planet, with calls to push ahead with genetically modified crops and large industrial farms to avoid potentially disastrous starvation.

Last month the UK's former chief scientist Sir David King said anti-scientific attitudes among Western NGOs and the UN were responsible for holding back a much-needed green revolution in Africa. "The problem is that the Western world's move toward organic farming – a lifestyle choice for a community with surplus food – and against agricultural technology in general and GM in particular, has been adopted across the whole of Africa, with the exception of South Africa, with devastating consequences," he said.

The research conducted by the UN Environment Programme suggests that organic, small-scale farming can deliver the increased yields which were thought to be the preserve of industrial farming, without the environmental and social damage which that form of agriculture brings with it.

An analysis of 114 projects in 24 African countries found that yields had more than doubled where organic, or near-organic practices had been used. That increase in yield jumped to 128 per cent in east Africa.

"Organic farming can often lead to polarised views," said Mr Steiner, a former economist. "With some viewing it as a saviour and others as a niche product or something of a luxury... this report suggests it could make a serious contribution to tackling poverty and food insecurity."

The study found that organic practices outperformed traditional methods and chemical-intensive conventional farming. It also found strong environmental benefits such as improved soil fertility, better retention of water and resistance to drought. And the research highlighted the role that learning organic practices could have in improving local education. Backers of GM foods insist that a technological fix is needed to feed the world. But this form of agriculture requires cash to buy the patented seeds and herbicides – both at record high prices currently – needed to grow GM crops.

Regional farming experts have long called for "good farming", rather than exclusively GM or organic. Better seeds, crop rotation, irrigation and access to markets all help farmers. Organic certification in countries such as the UK and Australia still presents an insurmountable barrier to most African exporters, the report points out. It calls for greater access to markets so farmers can get the best prices for their products.

Kenyan farmer: 'I wanted to see how UK did it'

Henry Murage had to travel a long way to solve problems trying to farm a smallholding on the western slopes of Mount Kenya. He spent five months in the UK, studying with the experts at Garden Organic a charity in the Midlands. "I wanted to see how it was being done in the UK and was convinced we could do some of the same things here," he says.

On his return 10 years ago, he set up the Mt Kenya Organic Farm, aimed at aiding other small farmers fighting the semi-arid conditions. He believes organic soil management can help retain moisture and protect against crop failure. The true test came during the devastating drought of2000-02, when Mr Murage's vegetable gardens fared better than his neighbours'. At least 300 farmers have visited his gardens and taken up at least one of the practices he espouses. "Organic can feed the people in rural areas," he says. "It's sustainable and what we produce now we can go on producing."

Saving money on fertilisers and pesticides helps farmers afford better seeds, and composting and crop rotation are improving the soil. Traditional maize, beans and livestock farming in the area have been supplemented with new crops from borage seeds to cayenne peppers and honey, with buyers from the US to Europe. Now he is growing camomile for herbal tea, with buyers from the UK and Germany both interested.

http://www.eastandard.net/mag/InsidePage.php?id=1143997832&cid=499&

The challenges of growing up different

Published on

By Timothy Aseka

I am the first born in a family of five siblings, and the only child with albinism in my family — in fact, in the whole village. Since my birth in 1987, life has been full of challenges.

As a kindergartener at the village day school, I had to bear with children who stared at me continuously as I walked to school, played at break time and went about my chores. Many would greet me in a fake English accent.

Timothy: Government should protect citizens against discrimination. Photo/Maxwell Agwanda
Whenever I walked in public, huge crowds of children would follow me. Surprisingly, even adults would halt their work and stare until I disappeared around the corner or into the horizon.

My father advised me to make friends with the villagers. Whenever they followed, I stopped and shook hands with them. This served me well because soon they stopped whispering and greeted me by my name. Primary school was a nightmare. Albinism is characterised by short sightedness. I couldn’t see the black board. The teacher, being ignorant of my condition, would beat me up and even kick me out of class for what she termed as rudeness and laziness for ‘refusing’ to do her assignments.

To make matters worse, I did not know that a person could sit in the middle of a classroom and still be able to read the board. I did not know how I could make the teacher understand.

I was six years old and all I could do was persevere, be patient and bear the brunt of other people’s ignorance. This continued until a neighbour told my parents about Kibos School for the Blind in Kisumu. I was transferred there.

Supportive parents

A Kiswahili saying goes "uchungu wa mwana aujuae ni mzazi" (the mother knows the pain of her child).

But neither the teacher nor my parents knew the problems I was facing. To them the only difference between me and other children was the difference in skin colour and my difficulty in seeing in bright sunlight. Period.

This may sound weird, considering my father is a university graduate who had grown up with a cousin with albinism.

My mother, a primary school leaver who had never met an albino before, was less ignorant, much kinder and more understanding.

A child with albinism needs supportive parents. My parents’ ignorance led them to respond slowly to my needs. For instance, it took them a long time to realise that I needed a cap, sunglasses and sunscreen lotion. My father, a macho man, discouraged me from using lotions saying they were for women.

Inferiority complex

I had to disobey him sometimes. For instance I had to refuse work that he allocated me in direct sunlight. At times he would beat me, but I stood my ground. I did not know how to express the difficulties I was facing to him, but I knew the consequences of staying in the sun too long.

I am ever grateful to my mother for ensuring I stayed out of the sun and got caps and long-sleeved clothes.

Other challenges, I must admit, have been self-imposed. I have suffered greatly from an inferiority complex. When I joined college, I was acutely aware the institution had never had an albino student. As I pursue my educational goals and try to make friends, I continue to fear rejection, even though I know I should be bigger than that.

I hold great hopes and big dreams. Despite the challenges that I have faced as an albino, I hope society will appreciate people with albinism as normal human beings. Indeed I dream of a future where descendants with my traits will not be stared at, where ignorance shall not dictate how they shall be treated. Albinos who have beaten all odds, such as, Dr Wanyonyi of Kenyatta University, Mr Mwendwa of Kagumo Teachers’ Training College, Ms Mumbi Ngugi, a lawyer and activist and Hon Al-Shymaa Kway-Geer, a Tanzanian MP, inspire me.

I would love to let you know of our project in our community its a slum area but we try to correct young people through sports and Talent Identification
Any one Intrested in joing us is most welcome

Kampala Junior Team is a community based Youth Football Team for Orphans disadvantage and street children, situated in Kisenyi II parish, Kampala central division.

It was formed in 2003 to develop talent identification for kids aged 5 to 18 years old boy /Girls for both . We started with eight children and currently we have three hundred seventy five (375) children throughout Kampala. Participating in different activities.

We have a total of 115 Orphans without parents and 160 with single parent plus 100 with both parents Kampala Junior team is registered by the registrar of companies and also affiliated with Uganda Youth Football Association under Federation of Uganda Football Association (FUFA) and National Council of Sports (N.C.S).

The kids collected are orphans, collected from all parts of Uganda. We organized them into football and other activities to avoid crime, AIDS/HIV, and to promote their education. We have been successful in integrating them cultural into society.



ACTIVITIES
1. Talent Identification
2. Talent Promotion
3. Counseling
4. computer training
5. Music dance and drama
6. Acrobatics
7. Art & Crafts

AIMS AND OBJECTIVES
The main objectives of the Team / Organization.
1. Helping disadvantaged and needy children through sport
2. To remove children from street and transform them into productive citizens.
3. Offer school bursaries to them through contacting the respective schools
4. reduction of drugs addicts
5. To pay an active role in promotion of youth and women empowerment, economically, socially and politically.
6. To create public awareness of their human rights and civic responsibilities through seminars, workshops conferences and publications.
7. To carryout public health awareness
8. Do all such other things that are incidental of conductive to the attainment of the foregoing objectives of any of them.
9. work hand in had with parents and schools, to facilitate children to learn
10. To facilitate orphans, street kids and children from poor families to get sponsors for their studies.
11. To keep the children busy during holiday in order to avoid children to learn bad manners and being in the bad group when they are not with their parents.

PROBLEMS
a) Accommodation
The director reside with more than 20 orphan, street children in one single room especially the street kids and the children without parents.



b) Feeding
Feeding is also our major problem as we do not get sponsor ship and if we get lunch supper become a dream.

c) Sickness
Some children get affected with sickness infections and treatment becomes a problem as some are familiar with street life

d) Transport
We do not have our own transport facility which makes transporting the team very difficult

e) Equipments
The team lacks uniform, boots, training bibs soccer balls ,computers
Body games equipments, Music/Drummer instruments, Acrobatics equipments and many others.
f) House Rent
We get a problem to look for money to cover the cost of house rent
g) Office rent
We get a problem to look for money to cover office rent.
h) School fees
Many of our members are orphans, Street kids we are supposed to look for sponsorship to cover their school fees. They are in both primary and secondary school. Not all of them Know Football that they will get half or full bursary they are only engaged in different activities like Tennis, Basketball, Arts and music and drummer, and many others which are not so much attractive to schools for Sponsorship so they need much help for their education.
i) Training grounds
This is our major problem in Kampala where by all pitches are sold off and to train in still available ones, you have to pay for the time to be used.

We do approach schools /institutions such that the children can attains education through bursary sponsorship in order to have future well behaved and good citizens.

The team / organization has been participating in both local and international youth competitions and winning trophies


WARDS
 2004 we participated in Nyamilambo Cup in Rwanda and won two trophies for under 12 and 14 years old.

 2005 we participated in Uganda holiday youth camp and won two trophies under 13 and 15 years old.

 2006 we were invited to participate in Ligi Ndogo Nairobi International Cup
Where we won two trophies for under 10 and 15 years old

 2007 we were invited by Michezo East Africa International Cup Nairobi Kenya where we won 4 trophies for under 8, 10, 12 and 14 years old

 2008 we were invited by Ligi Ndogo Nairobi International Cup where we won 3 trophies under 8, 12 and 14 years old.



This has been due to the good will from parents and well wishers after registering that consecutive success.
We have identified a contact person in Norway his address is Nyeveien 28D, Barkåker. Norway. my email, +47 95205706.
to promote your cause Mwandha John Barkaker IF. Our teams have a project to work together with Football teams in Norway Barkåker IF U13,Horten U13 and Eik Tønsberg.
We organized in an organization which soon being registered in Norway, Mwandha Human development Foundation. This organisation has been of much help in equipment through the Mwandha family in in Bårkaker Norway. Before the Norway cup we plan to play some friendly matches in Horten, Barkåker and Tønsberg

Therefore we would like to inform you that we have been invited to participate in an International Youth Championship in Norway in July 2009.
Our major constraint is transportation and accommodation of the Team in Norway for the whole period of Two weeks.

We have written to the Embassy for the support as per attached for the proposal budget for our trip to Norway.
We shall be very grateful for your kind sportsmanship support for our dream to be a reality

The world has lost a prolific, talented poet and writer. Mahmoud Darwish, the Palestinian poet, passed on yesterday, August 9th, 2008, aged 67 years old.

A candle goes out,
A legacy left behind
For the younger generation to carry on.
May God bless him,
Rest his soul
In peace.

In Jerusalem
by Mahmoud Darwish
Translated by Fady Joudah

In Jerusalem, and I mean within the ancient walls,
I walk from one epoch to another without a memory
to guide me. The prophets over there are sharing
the history of the holy . . . ascending to heaven
and returning less discouraged and melancholy, because love
and peace are holy and are coming to town.
I was walking down a slope and thinking to myself: How
do the narrators disagree over what light said about a stone?
Is it from a dimly lit stone that wars flare up?
I walk in my sleep. I stare in my sleep. I see
no one behind me. I see no one ahead of me.
All this light is for me. I walk. I become lighter. I fly
then I become another. Transfigured. Words
sprout like grass from Isaiah’s messenger
mouth: “If you don’t believe you won’t believe.”
I walk as if I were another. And my wound a white
biblical rose. And my hands like two doves
on the cross hovering and carrying the earth.
I don’t walk, I fly, I become another,
transfigured. No place and no time. So who am I?
I am no I in ascension’s presence. But I
think to myself: Alone, the prophet Mohammad
spoke classical Arabic. “And then what?”
Then what? A woman soldier shouted:
Is that you again? Didn’t I kill you?
I said: You killed me . . . and I forgot, like you, to die.

CNN did an interview on the subject a couple of months ago. To watch it, click here.

http://edition.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/africa/05/15/gay.kenya/index.html?iref=newssearch#cnnSTCVideo