Leaving IWPR

There are few jobs that can change you the way my work with IWPR changed me. When I started interning at the London office, over three years ago, I was not just inexperienced. I was also insecure about who I was and my abilities to be a good journalist, self-centred and oblivious to the real reasons for which journalism truly matters.

I have wanted to be a journalist, a foreign correspondent, since I was about 15 years old. I wanted the travel, the adventure, the exhilaration of uncovering, discovering, and living on the edge, perhaps. There was a thirst in me for this job. Some will call it a vocation, but it was more like a desperate need, a crave for transcendence through a noble cause. What the cause itself was did not really matter, it only needed being noble and justify my existence on some kind of level. It was about me.

When I was offered the position of radio producer in The Hague office, after my six months internship in London, I was ecstatic to get a first job in journalism at a time when the economy had just crashed and the media industry had been in a bad shape for some time already. I had been preparing for a struggle and I was handed an amazing job on a silver plate.

A year in The Hague, covering the International Criminal Court taught me a lot in terms of doing the job. I learnt how to conduct difficult interviews dealing with complicated legal issues, how to cover a trial, how to produced a radio programme and most importantly I learnt what it means to rigorously pursue a story. I could never be grateful enough to the amazing IWPR editorial team that has never overlooked an inconsistency, an approximation or an unchecked fact in my articles and thus taught me what journalism school never really did. I gained the confidence and the experience I needed.

Face à la Justice, the radio programme I was hired to produce, in collaboration with a Search for Common Ground journalist based in Kinshasa, was a show about justice and human right, initially focusing on international justice and broadcast all over DRC. But after a year of this partnership, we decided to restart from scratch, on our own, in North and South Kivu in order to focus on training women journalists through the fortnightly production of the show. In June 2010 I went to Goma to train 15 women in radio journalism and build a production team.

I met Passy, Constance, Marie, Sarah, Régine, Godelieve, Nicole, Espérance, Lucie, Rehema, Denise, Arlette, Euphrasie, Joséphine and Récente who were soon joined by Clarisse, Francine, Kamerli, Christine, Jacquie, Pierrette, Solange, Magguy, Consolée, Rose, Esther, Gloria et Alboni. Some left, most stayed, and the team we’ve formed has become more than just a team, it is a group of friends who look after each other.

The project has grown over the years too. I was lucky to be given the freedom to shape it largely the way I wanted. We added mobile phone video reporting to the radio and print production. I co-developed www.uhakinews.net and I taught the journalists how to manage it and use social media to promote their work. We transformed our office in Goma into a resource centre for women journalists.

I am proud of having led this project to what it is today. The website is a success and the radio program is a model in many local radio stations’ newsrooms. Many of our journalists have been promoted to reporter positions in their radio station. We highlighted issues that were under reported such as the plea of soldiers’ families, and started debate on issues such as whether women should be allowed to work without their husband’s permission. Though I won’t delude myself into thinking that it is all thanks to me, it is incredibly moving and rewarding to see how grateful the journalists are for all the support and the progresses they have made in their career as a result. Karmeli, who from the expat house where she was working as a cleaner I took to our office one day and signed her up for one of our trainings, is now one of the best journalists we’ve had. Passy, who was struggling between two freelance jobs, is now our star presenter and has taken over Face à la Justice production now that I am gone.

It has been an honour to work with these women, a privilege to be given the chance to nurture such deep relationships with a group of individuals who are not just good journalists, but also beautiful, brave and inspiring human beings. It is a cliché to say, but the truth is they taught me more than I taught them. They taught me humility, the importance of the community, what it means to care not just about a story, but also about the people who are part of the story. While I only taught them how to hold a recorder and write a script, they taught me the real value of journalism.

Taking the decision to move on was hard, and going freelance is daunting, but I am taking with me the greatest lesson of all: that the story will never be about me, and therefore there will be no failing. There will only be possibilities for change.

How I almost missed the DRC elections results

“Cheers to the Unresults announcement”, we toasted on Tuesday night with a couple of vodka bottles and tequila shots. Like the mad tea party in Alice in Wonderland, there was nothing to celebrate that day since the results announcement had been postponed for 48 hours, but with nothing to expect the day after, there was little reason to hold back on the tonic. As if we need an excuse anyway.

I have felt like Alice in Wonderland for weeks now actually. Nonsense and fake realities, unelections for all I know.  So I wake up on Wednesday morning to work on a radio report about something that did not happen, follow Twitter updates on the situation by people who are mostly not in Congo and have unconversations with sources who can’t talk openly to the media. Thursday was a lot of the same, with the extra twist that results were postponed again, which by then wasn’t a twist anymore.

On Friday morning, a little bored, I decided to go to a mine with a freelance journalist friend I’ll call C, thinking that the results would probably be announced late that evening and -anyway- would probably be postponed again. We got up at 6.30 to leave around 7.30, except this being DRC we in fact left at 9.00 after a lot of drama involving the driver asking for a lot more money than we agreed on. Why not.

I won’t delve on how bad the road was, at this point I think I’ve lost a few centimeters from spine compression, but anyway, we made it to Karuba, a small town in the hills of Masisi. There, a few people warned us that “there is no road” to where we’re going. C, who is Spanish and speaks excellent French but gets a little confused sometimes with Congolese French, is shocked. “What do you mean there is no road?”, he said before turning to the driver who had already hinted that he did not know the way to the mine THAT well. “Are we on the wrong road?”, he asked him, annoyed.
“No, no we’re on the right road, there was no other road on the way”, the driver replied.
“But how can we be on the right road if there is no road to where we are going”, replied C.
“We are on the right road, but the road is not there anymore”, explained the driver, which only confused the hell out of C.

Vanishing roads in the land of vanishing ballots, that started to make absolute sense to me. Convinced that our own determination to visit the mine would magically make the vanished road reappear, we forged on anyway. Wishful thinking gets you a long way sometimes, but surely enough we stumbled upon a massive hole in the mud.

Vanished road ©Mélanie Gouby

Vexed but with no other option, we made our way back to Goma, stopping at a market on the way so that our driver could buy potatoes.

Back home in Goma, the driver doesn’t like my 10$ note. It’s not pretty enough, no no no, there is a small tear. I offer to pay him in Congolese francs instead, the local currency. The notes I hand him over are brown with dirt and lacerated, but with unyielding logic, he accepts them.

Exhausted I go to bed, the results announcement long forgotten. It’s 2pm and I’m looking at a long nap before getting back to work.

I wake up at 4pm, after hearing my friends screaming my name from the top of their voices. So its official, everyone has gone mad. Mad mad mad, I think.

As I reach the terrace I can hear Daniel Ngoy Mulunda, the president of the Independent National Electoral Commission, on the radio delivering a speech and I realized that I have ALMOST just missed the elections results! I run back to my room, grab my notebook, run to the terrace, crash on a chair, tell my friends I had completely forgot and thanks for waking me up, try to turn the volume up, mess up, the radio squeaks and dies.

Thanks god we had butter to repair it and not jam to-morrow like the Congolese.

Kabila reelection, Goma mitigated celebration in pictures

The elections results were postponed for three days and when they finally came out, I think people were already either bored or indifferent. Goma at least has been very quiet, save for a little celebrating yesterday evening, but hardly any protest. Below are pictures of mostly Kabila supporters exulting in the streets, until rain came pouring down and sent every one home.

Celebration results Goma 2011 ©Mélanie Gouby

Celebration results Goma 2011 5 ©Mélanie Gouby

Celebration results Goma 2011 7 ©Mélanie Gouby

Not everyone in the street was happy about the results however, some people came up to me asking to tell the world that their victory had been stolen.

Celebration results Goma 2011 8 ©Mélanie Gouby

Celebration results Goma 2011 9 ©Mélanie Gouby

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