I first visited Bangui in August 2013 hoping to roam the city in taxis, in search of rumours, social media use and communication patterns. Bangui had just survived a coup d’état and many still hoped the situation would normalize. The March 2013 Seleka coup was extraordinary in that it brought to power, for the first time, a Muslim president from the marginalized North. Thus, when I first visited Bangui, the presence of the North and of Islam was tangible: hearing Arabic and Sahelian music tunes was not uncommon, neither were armed militants wrapped up in olive green head scarfs. I arrived during the Eid al-Fitr, that marks the end of Ramadan, and met people who celebrated the end of fasting with a beer in hand while swaying to Congolese rumba.
It has been three years since I last visited Bangui and as I speak to colleagues and friends, they ask me how the city has changed. War has left visible scars, bullet holes and destroyed houses now covered by grass. War has left a dozen of IDP camps, of which the Mpoko camp at the airport is the most notorious, but certainly not the only, one. These camps of refuge are colloquially known as Ledger in reference to Bangui’s most exclusive hotel where a night in a single room goes well beyond 150€. War has forced Fulani herders to leave the country, meat in the capital is rare and its price has rocketed. A friend told me how petty thieves had tried to enter his kitchen at night in order to steal meat, a present he had received from Bozoum. Prices have rocketed elsewhere as well, eggs have almost tripled, and renting a house close to town has become virtually impossible. The arrival of dozens of NGOs in the last years has placed the Banguissois at a disadvantage; the former do not mind paying quadruple the normal price, forcing to latter out.
Moving around the city has changed too. During Djotodia’s time in power going to the areas known as Bozizé’s fief was not done, Boy-Rabe was off limits, Miskine and the 5th arrondissement, on the other hand, were permitted. The tables have turned and nowadays Miskine, 5 kilo and other neighbourhoods in the 3rd and 5th arrondissements have become no-go-areas, the fief of the Seleka is cut off from town, especially after working hours. NGOs 4x4 jeeps and white UN army tanks have become a constant décor of Bangui’s streets. The presence of pick-ups with armed men at the back has not changed though, only their uniforms have. The number of motorbikes has exploded too. Many friends discouraged me to take motor taxis, suggesting that the drivers were former anti-balaka youth. There is some truth in this – the red driver’s eyes testifying to the use of Tramadol, a common drug that is used as an opiate during war and work… At the same time, these motor drivers try to make a living by transporting people. The motor bike becomes a path out of unemployment, offering these youngsters an opportunity to fend for themselves.
The scars people carried left a more profound impression than those on the city; especially those scars that people carry underneath the skin. In order to illustrate this type of scar I would like to share the story of a good friend. When I first met him in Bangui in 2013 we would go for long walks around the city. At the time he used to be a part-time consultant/entrepreneur in Bangui, while working part-time in a small NGO across the border in Congo. He lived with his wife, his parents and his children in one of Bangui’s popular neighbourhoods. His peaceful nature hid a man with a lot of energy, curiosity to discover and willpower. During this visit, I had a hard time contacting him. Afterwards I understood he had taken a week off work in order to rest. Being the bread winner of the family he could not afford to fall ill and had to be back on his feet as soon as possible. He has a job as a support staff in the administration of an international NGO. His life has turned routinary: leaving the house early in the morning and returning home as soon as he finishes work. He has little time nor energy to do other things. He stopped strolling around the city. He stopped his entrepreneurial affairs. He is divorced and his children live most of the time with his ex-wife. He goes often to church now and does not drink a drop of alcohol. He walks shoulders hunched, looks disappointed and washed-out.
My friend is not the only one who has lost hope, others have too. People talked about fear, about not finding adequate jobs, about waiting, waiting for disarment, waiting for stability and economic opportunities. At the same time people are forced to live together and to maintain relationships with one another. Stating that the city is divided is not untrue, but it would be incomplete, the city is very much united–in sorrow. Solidarity is tainted by sorrow and poverty. As much as war divides, it unites and in Centrafrique it has created a common denominator: everyone has suffered, no individual is left untouched. Is this sorrow now part of a national identity?
I take a taxi back to my isolated guesthouse, on the radio a song by the French group Sexion d’Assaut:
Ça me touche mais je reste debout
Je suis touché je reste debout
J'essaie de joindre les deux bouts
Ça fait mal mais je reste debout
Remain standing, even if it hurts you, even if you cannot make both ends meet… The song encourages the listener in misfortune. The city has scars and the city speaks, despair aside, it tells a story of resilience and maybe hope. At the dean’s office in the university I read the following poem:
Même si tu sens la fatigue
Même si la douleur brûle tes yeux
Même si le triomphe t’abandonne
Start over again, even if you are tired and your eyes hurt... Maybe Bangui’s scars are not so much a sign of sorrow as of resilience; a vital force of survival. Resilience unites the Banguissois. By resilience I do not refer to the hijacked term that implies everything is ok because people are strong –no. Life in Bangui is difficult and it has weakened many. But it seems that resilience is the only way out. Bangui (once named la coquette) needs to keep flirting, despite its rockets (les roquettes); Bangui flirts with despair and sorrow and hope. The capital of the country that houses the most forgotten conflict on earth is still standing and its people are still fighting to make sense of their lives. There is no other way out: RECOMMENCE!
Children graffiti in a compound in Bimbo
