"What if" History. Was peace possible for the newly independent Congo?

In this Blog Query I’ve been asked to play “What if” history, to imagine the possibilities for Lumumba had he not been assassinated in 1961.

I would like to say that I’m not really comfortable playing “What if” history. This challenge is one of the reasons why I decided to write on this query. I’ve only studied history enough to barely understand what did happen; I’m much less qualified to ponder what might have happened. I think it’s a statement about chaos theory that, in hindsight, virtually every outcome seems a natural, logical progression from preexisting (often known) factors, yet no one has yet devised a scheme or formula for accurately projecting the future. Even if all factors are known (which they cannot be, even in hindsight) how they work together to produce results remains a mystery. Often the outcome itself is up for debate. In a way, history itself might be said to be a study of the progression of cultural, political, and social causes and effects over long periods of time. One of the greatest reasons to examine the past is a desire to understand the present with an eye toward shaping the future. But it becomes very difficult for a rookie historian like me to look back on the same set of circumstances that produced an accepted outcome and theorize about how that outcome could be different.

All of these random thoughts bring me to Lumumba. It is a sad fact that this inspirational man was assassinated, but his death was the result of his situation. He seemed to have a real gift for oratory, coupled with a sincerity and clarity of vision that are the hallmarks of religious prophets more than politicians. Politicians must be savvy and often compromise. Lumumba was a bit naïve (who’s ready to be Prime Minister at 36?) and unwilling to work within the existing power structure. His clarity of vision uplifted his fellow citizens of the newly independent Congo, but alienated the entrenched elite in a nation where there were few people with the knowledge or education for national leadership. All of these circumstances existed within the larger context of a highly unstable, fragmented nation under the influence of world powers wishing to exert their authority too. It is no surprise that Lumumba was killed. It was certainly not a surprise to him.
But what if he hadn’t been killed? Could he have held the Congo together and established a working democracy? Would he have become a dictator like Mobutu? Where would he have led his country economically?

There is little I can say with confidence here, but I do have a few postulations. Lumumba’s desire for a unified Congo might have led him to become a dictator, but I doubt he would have been as ruthless or vicious as Mobutu would later be. Lumumba was too idealistic for that. He may have cut out basic freedoms in a trade for security, but what I know of him suggests that he was not one to lead his people to a slaughter. Also he did not seem to lust for power. I think he would have looked for democracy, but with the world set against him like it was, with great powers (the US among them) invested in seeing him fail, I doubt real democracy would have been much of an option for him.

He may have had to cut out freedoms for security, but most of his policies probably would have come from his idealism and lack of experience. With the West set against him, to establish order in the early sixties, he would have had to accept the help of the Soviet Union with all the strings attached. At worst, this arrangement could have resulted in a proxy war on Congolese soil because the Americans would have probably funded pro-Western insurgent groups. At best, socialist policies would run his economy into the ground. He doesn’t seem to be the type to treat the national treasury as his personal bank account, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t fall prey to the inefficiencies of central planning. Dr. Kwame Nkruma of Ghana comes to mind. Even though the rich resources of Congo would have put more resources at the disposal of Lumumba, all that mining requires heavy investment which Russia might not have been able to provide.

If Lumumba hadn’t cracked down militarily, his country surely would have fragmented, leaving perhaps three Congos or an independent state of Katanga. This outcome would have had serious repercussions for what would have been left for Lumumba. He would literally be stripped of most of his resources and basically left powerless without funds. Meanwhile, the entrenched rulers of Katanga would probably get rich with Western backing. After a while, reintegration might be possible with Katanga annexing the rest of Lumumba’s Congo. Then there would have been another cruel capitalistic dictatorship possibly on the scale of Mobutu’s regime. This outcome would have probably have been the worst for the Congo.

Really, it’s hard to imagine an outcome worse than what actually did happen with Mobutu’s rule. Ultimately, I don’t think Lumumba’s government would have been very successful, but I don’t think he would have put his people through what Mobutu did. Lumumba’s faults would probably have come from his best qualities; idealism with a free hand to rule tends to encourage well-meaning but destructive policies. Still, with the knowledge of the horrible rule of that warrior who left fire in his wake, one can’t help but wish for an honest naivety.

Two Challenges for Understanding Rwanda

As the 1990s were coming to a close, Philip Gourevitch did what few writers could in his book We wish to inform you that tomorrow we will be killed with our families. Through several years of hard research, coupled with long visits to Rwanda, he wrote a well-rounded, fair, and just assessment of the Rwandan genocide less than half a decade after it happened. This is no mean feat. Writing a book about the massacre before the tide of history has provided adequate emotional distance or even, as some would argue, the larger civil war of which it was a part had yet ended, was an exercise rife with peril.

The Rwandan killings have always been a controversial topic. Just four years before the publication of Gourevitch’s book, when there was still time to stop the slaughter, the nations of the world, acting (or, rather, not acting) through a powerless and impotent UN, bickered over the meanings of words and their responsibilities to Rwanda in light of the commitments they made in 1951 with the passing of The Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. This document, inspired by the Holocaust, demanded action on the part of the international community to attempt to prevent the systematic extermination of any specific group of people, but the UN still chose not to intervene. In the face of such a complex human tragedy, still fresh in the consciousness of the small African nation, one might expect Gourevitch, in trying to explain the event, to use his unique vantage point to make accusations and place blame. With so much culpability to go around, some cynical readers might not be surprised if he chose to focus it on targets that might serve his own political ends or increase his own fame. Certainly oversimplifying the event in an attempt to fashion a logical explanation would have made his book easier to read, and a shoehorning of reality in to easily identifiable “victims” and “criminals” would have made his tale more palatable to a Western audience.

However, Gourevitch chose to take the high road and give his readers the story of the massacre that he received in the hundreds of different perspectives of the Rwandan people he interviewed for the book. His writing is curt, unemotional, matter-of-fact, and highly descriptive, his style reminiscent of Hemingway. He intersperses tid-bits of historical facts with the personal narratives of the Rwandans themselves. There is plenty of blame, but Gourevitch seems successful in meting it out fairly. He presents all points of view but is not ashamed to reveal his opinion when he feels he is hearing lies. But, by choosing to include the perspectives that he plainly thinks are false, Gourevitch reveals the deepest truth about the Rwandan disaster, namely, that there is no one reality, only perspectives. When the madness ends, both the killers and the victims must come to terms with it, even though no one believes that justice exists for such a crime. Readers should not expect any answers or great truths from Gourevitch because his opinion is that there are none to be gained. Still, his work ends with just the faintest glimmer of hope in the human race, though there is no hope for the ultimate end of the bloodshed.

An easy and sensible contrast can be drawn between “We wish to inform you” and the 2004 film Hotel Rwanda, directed by Terry George. Both works seek to foster greater understanding of the genocide in the modern West, but with completely different aims. Where Gourevitch gives often conflicting perspectives of many Rwandans from many different walks of life in an attempt to paint a broad and chaotic picture, George’s film focuses on one individual, Paul Rusesabagina, who was able to save 1,200 hundred Rwandans through bribes, subterfuge and influence in the Milles Collines hotel. The film packages his story neatly, if not always honestly, into a two-hour time frame for easy consumption by the audience. By changing details and oversimplifying characters and individual episodes, George ran the risk of trivializing the event. However, his direction, accompanied by the skillful writing of Keir Pearson and a great cast, highlighted by a fantastic performance by Don Cheadle as Rususabagina, all work together to create a successful film experience.

Gourevitch’s book gives the reader more to think about than Hotel Rwanda, and it is ultimately a deeper intellectual experience because it poses universal, yet unanswerable, questions. But for all its philosophical value, “We wish to inform you” does not have the emotionally cathartic quality of the film. George presents his audience with a character, a human, a person with whom it can relate, and Cheadle’s powerful acting allows the viewers to experience his struggle vicariously through him. Gourevitch shows his readers a situation in all of its anarchic viciousness and asks them to form an understanding of an event that they cannot possibly comprehend rationally. This challenge is indeed an important exercise for a Western audience that likes easy explanations. George presents his audience with the story of one decidedly realistic individual who is able to perform a heroic act in the face of extreme violence. His challenge to the audience is that he asks them to experience the torment that Rusesabagina must have felt which is, of course, also not easy for a Western audience so used to comfort and stability. Both works confront the audience, most of which was alive during the massacre, with its own ignorance and inaction in the face of unspeakable horrors. Even though the works differ in their fundamental approaches and goals, the experiences of both have important lessons for those who are willing to honestly engage with them.

Raise the Red Lantern

Art vs. History / Perspective vs. Fact

Every human being’s point of view is restricted by certain aspects of upbringing and experience that differ fundamentally from the aspects of upbringing and experience that inform the perspectives of others. This fact is an inescapable characteristic of the human experience and is part of the reason why members of the human race will always fall victim to violence caused by conflicting misinterpretations of reality. What’s worse, any attempt to transcend the barriers of misunderstanding through personal expression is usually met with venom and accusations where there should be dialogue and simple disagreement. As a result, no matter how hard a filmmaker tries to remain neutral, any movie that attempts to examine a violent breakdown of relations between two or more groups is bound to be attacked and criticized by any party portrayed in the film or, more likely, any person that feels he or she can benefit by convincing a group that it has been misrepresented. This effect is only amplified when the groups in question align themselves by virtue of ethnicity or religion. I will always prefer dialogue to outraged accusation, which is why I agreed more with Ansari than with Wallia in their conflicting reviews of Earth, a 1998 film written and directed by Deepa Mehta.

Wallia is too hung up on the historical accuracy of the film and, because of this fact, misses the point of the movie almost entirely. He is, however, a better writer than Ansari and raises a few excellent criticisms that I must address. For example, I agree wholeheartedly with his assertion that “Mehta’s rendering of the horrendous tragedy of the partition of India in ‘Earth’ is simplistic.” This observation is correct, but the simplicity is fitting because the story is told from the point of view of a nine-year-old girl, Lenny, whom we might expect to see complex events in overly-simplistic terms because she is a child. Also, Wallia criticizes Ms. Mehta’s writing and character development. I concede these were only acceptable and definitely not first-rate; however, I am disappointed that Wallia, a professor with a PhD in Communications, expends so much energy criticizing Mehta’s writing without commenting at all on her excellent direction, which I felt made a creative use of color and angles, often giving the camera the personality of a child fitting into tight spots or peeking around corners for clandestine observation. Wallia does speak of the “impressive” cast, but fails to give Mehta any credit for the skillful performances she brings out of them, performances that often smooth out the rougher parts of her script. The worst flaw in Wallia’s analysis comes when he says that Earth “fails as a film.” It is true that it may fail as an accurate account of historical events, but as a film, a piece of art incorporating plot, music, and acting in a visual medium, it is a success.

By contrast, Ansari’s review is less developed but more accurate than Wallia’s. At least she sees the film as a work of art and understands that the plot is not supposed to be historically accurate but “a story of a child’s confusion about the partition, which embodies the confusion of the millions who are eventually affected by it.” Also, Ansari mentions the aspects of the film that make it so great: the direction, the music, the cast. She echoes my opinion about Mehta’s angles when she dubs her ability to give the camera a childlike point of view a “voyeuristic quality.” Perhaps I was most impressed with her observation that Earth walks a fine line between accessible Bollywood entertainment and deep art-house craft, a characteristic I feel some of the best films share.

Earth was a very rewarding film, I thought, a piece that was greater than the sum of its parts. It was historically simplistic, but it was emotionally pure as well, two fitting characteristics for a film with a child’s perspective. Plus, Mehta’s skillful direction and the excellent acting were a pleasure. The movie was a little short, but held my attention from beginning to end, which is more than I can say for most films with half its depth. Ultimately, the film’s experience as a whole is much like the final scene. There is nothing unexpected; the viewers see the tragedy coming from a mile away, yet, when the moment finally arrives, the plot’s transparency takes nothing from its emotive power.

Lamerica Film Review

I chose to watch Lamerica mainly because Netflix did not offer Before the Rain. For those students who did not see the film, it is about a young Italian, Gino, who goes to Albania to run a get-rich-quick scam with his father’s old business associate as part of the reconstruction of the region after the fall of Communism. To carry out their scheme, they must enlist the help of an Albanian straw man to sign forms as the President of the company. Unfortunately for them, the “Chairman,” who is not at all what they took him to be, runs away. Gino must chase him through the Albanian countryside where the young Italian is faced with the harsh realities plaguing the people of the region. As a result, he learns a valuable lesson about privilege and identity.

In the film I recognized several themes that are common in movies about the ravages of war (as opposed to war itself), poverty, and ethnic identity. Chief among these themes is transformation. A common characteristic of this type of film is that the story is told from the point-of-view of a privileged person who slowly metamorphoses into a member of an oppressed group through sharing in the experiences of the members of that group. These experiences are usually compartmentalized by way of an episodic plot structure, what Berardinelli labels “vignettes,” in which a specific layer of the protagonist’s identity is stripped away, often symbolized by the loss of a material possession: a car, a watch, a pair of sunglasses. When the protagonist is fully transformed, sometimes shown by his or her death, the film is over. This structure assumes that the audience watching the film will be members of some privileged class and will gain a greater empathy toward the oppressed group by sharing in the experiences of the protagonist.

Lamerica fits into this structure very well. Gino expects to be treated well by Albanians because he is an Italian. In fact, the Albanians do show an air of reverence for all things Italian, from shoes to the football team, and they treat Gino with respect as long as he can maintain his Italian identity. As his identity slowly slips away from him, the Albanians treat him more and more as an equal. Sometimes, this change is bad for him, like when his sunglasses are stolen; sometimes it is good, as when the Albanians help him onto a moving truck. Fortunately for Gino, he does not have to die to experience full transformation, but, in essence, his privilege does die when he is arrested by the Albanian authorities and thrown into a hellish cell reminiscent of the prison where he and his partner found their “Albanian” straw man earlier in the film. The tables have been turned at this point. Where Gino was originally going to exploit the Albanians to get what he wanted, he now is used as a means to an end for the Albanian officer who wants to obtain evidence against the corrupt official involved in Gino’s scam. When his papers are taken from him, Gino effectively becomes Albanian, and he must “immigrate” to his own native Italy aboard a rusted ship packed full with souls yearning for a better life.

On the surface, Lamerica’s visual style speaks volumes about the poverty in Albania in the early nineties. Everyone and everything is filthy and broken, but yet retains an aura of familiarity. The director, Gianni Amelio, did a great job of keeping the onscreen dirt realistic. The Internet Movie Database (IMDB) lists three filming locations for the movie, all in Albania. Filming there was probably the best decision that the director made. The audience gets a real sense of a dying society, crumbling in the ruins of former modernization and perhaps even stability. For example, there are quite a few modern-looking buildings, but they are all collapsing and marked with crude graffiti. The people, who I assume to be true Albanians, look familiar, but a lack of food, proper medical care, and good hygiene has left them scarred and often broken. It is precisely this sense of skewed familiarity that breaks both Gino and the audience out of their comfort zones and readies them for their transformations. At first, as in the early jail scene, the Albanians can be ugly, even frightening, but at the end of the film, their beauty is allowed to shine through, as in the series of what Goldsmith termed “filmed portraits” in the final scene. In fact, Goldsmith’s comparison of the boat portraits at the end of Lamerica to Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans’ filming of the rural poor in the Great Depression further emphasizes the familiarity of the Albanians plight by reminding the audience that a great many middle-class Americans are only two generations away from abject poverty.

Perhaps Lamerica’s portrayal of poverty is its greatest triumph because it is able to make poverty simultaneously metaphorical and realistic, both a product of oppression and a marker of identity. The film shows its subjects’ total destitution while allowing them to maintain their dignity and humanity. By peeling back the layers of privilege that Gino brings with him to Albania, the audience is able to see, through his new-found poverty, the excellent characteristics he possesses underneath his formerly polished exterior, mainly his humility. Ultimately Lamerica should be enjoyed in the same way; it is a rewarding film, if not a terribly entertaining one, but its rewards only shine through if the members of the audience are willing to peel back the rough layers of its desolate setting and action-less plot, contemplating all the value that they find underneath.

Want to read a better review? Try this one:

Maslin, Janet. "Scheming Italians in Troubled Albania." "New York Times." 04 Oct. 1995.
Link