Friday 27 August 2010

Protecting it, Guiding it, Losing it

Protecting it, Guiding it, Losing it

The police in the DRC are the subject of much discussion at the dinner tables and office corridors of Kinshasa. Not much of the comment is favourable. The conventional analysis is that since they get paid little and late they can only survive through corruption. To legitimise their predatory behaviour they jump on the tiniest infraction and then squeeze the victim to cough up. The amount demanded will be directly proportional to the perceived wealth of the squeezed. But that’s not the full story, and here are three police vignettes to supplement this somewhat one-dimensional picture.

Protecting it

We are in front of the Commune’s modest offices, waiting to meet the Bourgmestre, (a Belgian word to describe the political head of a commune which, in this case, has a population of about 70,000). The problem is that he’s not there, and no one knows where he is. The meeting is due to start any minute now and he’s not answering his phone.

But on the dot he arrives on a little motor bike, belching oily exhaust fumes. He is a small man, and hops off to greet us warmly. He’s dressed in a natty shiny silver (yes, definitely silver) suit, with a scarlet shirt and matching tie.

Formalities over, he walks across to the front door of the Commune offices where three policemen are standing at attention. Abruptly a well-rehearsed play commences. The Bourgmestre stands facing the policemen. The Sergeant Major barks out orders. The policemen present arms. That is to say that one in the squad presents arms as the other doesn’t have a gun. The ritual over they turn round, take one smart step, and then break into a casual amble towards their plastic chairs into which they flop with evident relief. Protecting the Bourgmestre is a tough job.

Guiding it

The scene – a road junction in Bandundu. A town with few cars (about two per hour on normal days) and many bicycles. At this junction are five traffic policemen. One stands in the centre of the road, whistle in mouth, with great precision directing the traffic. Whether the bicycle traffic needs directing or not, he’s there, and takes pride in his job. At the side of the road are his four colleagues, eyes peeled for traffic offenders.

We draw up at the junction, but our vehicle has apparently crossed the place where the white line might have been. We are given a severe talking to, and told to reverse the car until it is in an acceptable position. As we wait the three or four minutes until it is considered fair to allow us to proceed we see a taxi bicycle, with a passenger sitting on the luggage rack, turning left apparently without the approval of the man with the whistle. All hell breaks loose. The bicycle’s luggage rack is seized and the riders are forced to dismount. One policeman embarks on fierce dialogue with the driver, while another takes the bike into custody. That’s all we saw before we were given permission to move and left the scene.

But one hour later we passed the same spot. No sign of the arrested bicycle or its driver; no one with a whistle, and only two policemen remain. They are chatting idly under the trees, eyes fixed on nothing more than the ground beneath their feet. But something catches the eye of one, and he walks over to where a small boy in tattered clothing is waiting to cross the road. My heart melts as I see the policeman taking the little boy by the hand, and walking him across in safety.

Losing it

His eyes flashed, not with righteous indignation, but an evil anger, even hatred. If we had done something wrong it would be different, but our offence? To drive into the Ministry car park without his – the policeman’s – permission. We had only got half way through the gate when he pounced, machine-gun at the ready, to evict us.

“But Monsieur,” I protested, “I have a meeting with the Minister.” Neither that, nor the fact that our car had diplomatic plates, made any impact. He was impervious to all pleading. As he made us reverse out, and to shut us up, he pointed to a notice that stated that the Ministry was closed from 2 – 4 p.m.

Since the time was 2.45 and my meeting was at 3.00 this was A PROBLEM.

Our protestations must have attracted the attention of another policeman. He was taller and seemed to have an even bigger gun, so he could override the first one. Eventually I was ushered in and courteously escorted to the correct room where the meeting took place with not just one Minister but seven, not to mention the World Bank, IMF, EU and the rest of them.

Now what puzzles me is what triggered the first policeman’s bitter anger. Maybe his ultimate nightmare is humiliation, and maybe, at the hands of the hierarchy (superior officer maybe, but most likely the big bosses – Ministers and their cohorts) he is subject to perpetual squashing. So what can he do to purge himself of this humiliation? Why, squash other people, especially people in smart suits and fancy cars. Thus the bullied bully, and the cycle of abuse continues.

It’s a sad fact of social relations in the DRC that verbal abuse of people deemed to be lower in the social order is a matter of routine, and I marvel at the degree of equanimity with which people suffer this nastiness.

One wonders whether the so-called Big Men who abuse their underlings might be sowing the seeds of rebellion, rape and pillage. It has happened before and will probably happen again. For me, the absurdity of this particular man’s behaviour was more annoying than frightening. But one can’t help worrying that one day he will snap, and use that gun which the state has so unnecessarily given him.

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