Dancing in the Glory of Monsters (60 page)

“It would be a mistake to see this just as personal greed,” the former high-ranking RCD officer told me. “They were very organized; they provided military escorts to mineral shipments so that we couldn’t stop them at the border; they decided which businessmen could do business. But I also saw Rwandan officers jailed and beaten for having stolen money!”
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Indeed, according to one human rights report, despite the profits coming out of the Congo, civil servants in Rwanda were asked to give up to one month’s salary per annum as contribution to the war effort.
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For many Rwandans, from the presidency down to the school teacher, the war in the Congo was an ideological project, not just an opportunity to plunder.

The government set up a Congo Desk within the external intelligence office that dealt with all aspects of Congo operations. Anyone interested in doing business in the Congo would have to pass through the Congo Desk, which would help them with security and to obtain tax exemptions. “There were many Rwandan businessmen who came to the Congo to do business—this is true,” Patrick Karegeya, who as intelligence chief played a key role in providing protection, told me. “But it was all legal business, there was nothing illegal about it.”
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Nonetheless, many of these companies had close family or financial ties to the Rwandan government, employing army officers as directors or allotting substantial shares to the party. Rwanda Metals, a company that the ruling party controlled, was the main buyer of minerals from the eastern Congo, and the managing director was appointed directly by the presidency. There was also a host of smaller companies, such as Great Lakes General Trade, which was comanaged by Major Dan Munyuza, an influential RPA officer who worked for the external intelligence office. The chief of security for Rwanda in the Congo, Major Jean Bosco Kazura, was a partner in another Kigali-based company that imported coffee and diamonds from the Congo. According to UN investigators, General James Kabarebe himself would sometimes coordinate the purchase and transport of coltan, tin, and gold through Rwanda.
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“I was just doing business,” Pierre responded when I asked him if he had any regrets about working with the rebels and mining companies during the war. That is the usual refrain echoed by businessmen throughout the war zone. “In any case,” the burly pilot continued, “all the flights for the rebels we did were pretty much at gunpoint.”

It was difficult not to believe the good-natured pilot. He laughed. The subtext read: Of course you had to cut corners, bribe people, deal with dubious clientele. But this is the Congo—if we didn’t get our hands dirty once in a while, we would be out of business.

He had a point. According to a World Bank study, if you paid all of your taxes in the Congo—a full thirty-two different payments—you would be dishing out 230 percent of your profits.
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In other words, you can only survive by cutting corners. The tax system had lost its overall coherence, as revenue-collecting agencies had proliferated over the years, each using exorbitant tax rates as blackmail to obtain bribes. The tax code was never intended to be followed; the state had created regulations that begged to be broken and had dreamt up its own subversion, pushing a large part of the economy into the informal sector so that individuals could profit.

The individuals who profited were, obviously, those in charge. During rebel rule in the eastern Congo, the businessmen who prospered were, for the most part, those who curried favor with the political and military leaders. “We all had our friends in the rebel high command we could call up when we had problems,” Pierre Olivier said. “They needed us because we flew for them. We needed them because they were the bosses.” Did he feel uncomfortable about this symbiosis? “That’s the way things work. Did I have a choice?”

Business in the Congo required a healthy dose of pragmatism. For many, cutand-dry morality was out of place here. This conundrum became clear to international charities, as well, which set up their bases in Goma to provide food and health care to victims of the violence. Many rented the houses of businessmen close to the rebels, as they, of course, had the nicest compounds with sumptuous gardens, often overlooking the lake. Humanitarian groups also used trucking companies and shopped for groceries in stores linked to the military enterprise. It was almost impossible to avoid.

Similar moral dilemmas affect affluent western consumers, as well. It wasn’t just Congolese and Rwandans who made a fortune. The minerals were transported, processed, and consumed by companies and consumers elsewhere, especially in Europe, Asia, and the United States. In some cases, these companies had close relationships with rebel groups. For example, the Belgium-based company Cogecom bought tin and coltan directly from the RCD monopoly, sending money into RCD coffers. Another joint venture by American and Dutch businessmen, Eagle Wings Resources, engaged Paul Kagame’s brother-in-law as its local representative, which gave it easier and cheaper access to the Congolese minerals. These companies then sold their minerals on to large processing companies, including U.S.-based Cabot Corporation, Chinese Ningxia, and German H. C. Starck. The transport was assured by multinational logistics companies such as the state airline of Belgium, Sabena, while financing was supplied by large regional banks and, in one case, by Citibank.
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This supply chain was unearthed by UN investigators and other analysts, triggering an immediate reaction from international business circles. Some denied allegations outright; others protested that there was nothing illegal about buying or transporting minerals from the eastern Congo. This is partly true. International law does little to regulate human rights abuses associated with trade. The Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) put forward Guidelines for Multinational Enterprises, but these are voluntary, and violations have few consequences. Some countries, like the United States, have domestic laws that can be used to hold companies based there responsible for their conduct overseas. A wave of lawsuits, for example, was filed in U.S. courts in the 1990s and 2000s based on the Alien Torts Statute, but plaintiffs have to prove that companies had not only knowledge of abuse but also intent, which is difficult to prove even about companies directly involved with rebels, let alone those four steps removed along the supply chain. Some international lawyers argue that companies can be held liable under international law for buying misappropriated goods, much the way one can be charged in domestic courts for purchasing stolen goods, but this logic has not gained much traction outside of UN tribunals.
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In other words, consumers are not held responsible for the conditions under which minerals are produced. In the Congo, despite the occasional hue and cry raised by the media, corporate responsibility has been largely ignored—the supply chain is more convoluted, passing through traders, brokers, smelters, and processing companies. The tin and coltan that come from the Congo are mixed with those from Brazil, Russia, and China before they make it into our cell phones and laptops. There is a burgeoning consensus in international law that we should care about the conditions under which the products we consume—sweatpants, sneakers, and even timber—are produced. If we can hold companies accountable for their business practices, we will give an incentive to the Congolese government to clean up the mining sector. The “conflict minerals” legislation signed into law by President Obama in July 2010 is a step, albeit a small one, in the right direction.

PART IV

NEITHER WAR NOR PEACE

20

THE BEARER OF EGGS

KINSHASA, CONGO, JANUARY 2001

There are several versions of the story of how Joseph Kabila was chosen to succeed his father. A popular one goes as follows: The day after Laurent Kabila’s assassination, the inner cabal of the presidency meets to decide who would become president. Around a table are the Who’s Who of Congolese power politics: Katangan strongmen, the high brass of the army, and the regime’s economic kingpins.

A cacophony ensues as the group argues over who is best suited for the job. Gaetan was Kabila’s favorite, one claims; Victor has the best ties to Angola and Zimbabwe, another suggests.
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Finally, as the tensions reach a climax and the country teeters on the brink of civil war, General Sylvestre Lwetcha, the old, frail commander of the armed forces and a renowned witch doctor, bangs his fist on the table.

“Silence!” The general, who had fought side-by-side with Laurent Kabila during the bush rebellion, pulls out his side arm, a Magnum nine-millimeter pistol, cocks it to his temple, and shoots himself six times. Smoke billows up around his head, filling the room, as his colleagues cough and wave their hands in disbelief.

When the smoke clears, the bulletproof general slams his pistol down on the table, slowly clears his throat, and says, “I have decided that General Joseph Kabila will become president of the Democratic Republic of the Congo!” He looks around the table slowly and asks calmly, “Are there any questions?”

Of course, this is not what really happened. The truth is buried under hundreds of competing rumors and may never be entirely uncovered. But according to various people who took part in the meetings, the following is as accurate as we might get.

On the morning following Mzee’s death, his closest associates met at the City of the African Union, a sprawling complex of government buildings overlooking the Congo river. Edy Kapend, Laurent Kabila’s powerful military advisor, presided over the meeting.
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The president’s taciturn son Joseph had flown in the previous night from Lubumbashi, still in shock.

Kapend began by reminding everybody of an oral will that the deceased president had given his close associates several years earlier, when he was suffering from a severe illness. “He told us that in case he died, his son Joseph was supposed to take power,” Kapend reminded the small group. Several people nodded. Others contested the will, claiming that Joseph was only supposed to take command of the military, while the political leadership should be handed to someone else. Let’s set up a special committee to study the matter, someone else suggested.

A debate ensued in the air-conditioned rooms, which Kapend cut short by pulling down a military map of the eastern Congo. Bold, red arrows marked where the Rwandan offensive was threatening Lubumbashi and Mbuji-Mayi. “We can debate this all night if you like, but if we are weak and divided, our enemies will take advantage. We need to decide now.”

After some squabbling, everyone in the room realized there was little choice. They needed someone who could command the respect of the army and their allies alike. If they chose anyone else besides Joseph, the government was at risk of collapsing into internecine fighting. Joseph was young, shy, and practically unknown on the political scene, but this could be a good thing. “The logic was: The weaker the person we chose, the less he was likely to be contested, as they thought they could influence him,” one of the people who attended the meeting told me.
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