The return of the Banyene family to Sake, a town in the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), was anything but a jubilant homecoming. If one expected a warm embrace from familiar walls, a comforting breeze whispering stories from childhood pasts, they would find only disappointment. What greeted the Banyenes in January was desolation—a crumbling wall, a sagging metal roof, and the cold, metallic remnants of violence. It seems absurd to refer to such a bleak tableau as ‘home.’
Their yard, now more battlefield residue than playground, was strewn with shell casings, grim reminders of clashes between the Congolese army and the M23 rebels, allegedly supported by Rwanda. This conflict had pushed much of Sake’s population, the Banyenes included, into a displaced persons camp near Goma—20 kilometers of road separating a shattered past from a bare present.
Kimoka, a woman from Sake, faced her own tragedy in such an environment. In a heart-stopping moment while simply tidying up her plot, she was shot in the cheek. A miscalculation of fate, or an illustration of the perpetual danger? Her tale, captured in an image with her family on February 27, 2025, speaks volumes more than any sentence could hope to deliver.
Then came February, with M23’s swift capture of Goma; and a command like a cruel joke—return to your homes. Hundreds of thousands were thrust back, huddled together in tumultuous uncertainty, towards vestiges of their former lives.
Tumani Feresi, an elder in the Banyene family, found a sober kind of relief in their return. He shared, “It’s better to be at home than in the camps,” illustrating humanity’s odd instinctual pull towards the familiar, even amidst ruins. Yet, hardship remains the day’s order; “We have difficulty eating,” he shared, a stark testament to their ongoing struggle.
Amidst these ruins, Sake crawls back towards life. The town’s wooden homes—scarred, fragile, nestled among grey volcanic rock—stand as testamentaries of conflict. The Banyenes, with tarpaulins and makeshift tents, strive to house their twenty-strong family. As farmers, they yearn for fertile fields, yet they step cautiously, haunted by leftover ordnance. Kivuruga, another Banyene brother, reflects on the relentless fears: unexploded bombs, lurking militias loyal to the DRC, and the specter of violence.
Yet, like green shoots through charred earth, normalcy creeps back. Businesses cautiously reopen; markets buzz with activity, their vitality tethered to the fertile hills’ produce.
Motorcycles from Masisi Ngungu whir into Sake’s vibrant market, loaded with sacks of potatoes. Yet darkness carries threats of its own. Kivuruga notes insect-like thieves, M23 fighters, vanishing into night’s shadows after pilfering from the townsfolk.
Travel away from this precarious revival reveals the same song sung in different tunes. In Shasha, poised by Lake Kivu’s grandeur, Sarah Kahindo recalls a bittersweet homecoming in January. “Happy” finds a hollow echo when one’s house is looted.
The United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA) tells a grim tale—nearly half of those returning to Kivu’s embrace find their fields occupied, more than 10% see strangers settled in their homes. Yet, Kahindo paradoxically feels safer under M23’s shadow, saying, “Since the M23 arrived, there has been no problems with security.”
The specter of economic stagnation, however, looms as tenaciously as ever. Banks remain closed by government decree, with accusations against M23 acting as Rwanda’s proxy clouding the financial landscape. Kahindo, among many, voices the conundrum: “We can sell things, but it’s difficult to find a buyer because there’s no money.”
Minova port, a linchpin for regional commerce, reflects this economic malaise. Traders, pinched by declining business volumes, witness stalls grow more deserted as the sun sets. Sylvie, a local shopkeeper, voices a sentiment pervasive among her peers. “There is no more money for business,” she shares, as her gaze drifts over her once-vibrant neighborhood, now edged with silence.
What is home, then, in a place where safety is illusion, and prosperity, a distant recollection? Perhaps, it’s an eternal question—one grasped at with the heart rather than the hand, lived more in hope than certainty.
Edited By Ali Musa Axadle Times International–Monitoring
