Yet all too often this root cause of conflict is overlooked, with attention focused on the symptoms of conflict. Nowhere is this more the case than in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) where discussions of the conflict tend to focus on its many tangible facets, including the role of minerals in exacerbating conflict; high levels of militarisation; and the chronic use of rape and sexual violence. All of these factors are extremely important and need to be addressed. Yet ultimately, they are symptoms of root causes that are driving the conflict. And if those are not addressed, peace and development cannot take root.

Recent research carried out by the International Refugee Rights Initiative and the Social Science Research Council (Who Belongs Where? Conflict, Displacement, Land and Identity in North Kivu, Democratic Republic of Congo) illuminates some of these root causes. The research among those displaced from the conflict in eastern DRC’s North Kivu province suggests that ongoing violence remains rooted in a lack of clarity over the critical question of citizenship in the region, and specifically over the relationship between national identity and ethnic allegiance. The war is seen as both an external conflict that is being played out on Congolese soil, and one that draws upon pre-existing localised divisions. Both of these aspects relate to disputes over the definition of who legitimately belongs as a citizen in DRC, and are mostly expressed in ethnic terms. The fact that this dispute over citizenship has persisted throughout the recent fighting emphasises the fact that the cyclical forces that drive the conflict have not been broken. It is therefore apparent that the ebb and flow of the war – reduced hostility leading to increased optimism for sustainable peace followed by renewed bouts of fighting – could persist indefinitely unless root causes of conflict are addressed.

So how can ethnicity be accommodated within this highly charged environment? For many of those interviewed the solution to ethnic-based fractures within communities, and therefore to violence, was to construct a Congolese national identity that could over-ride ethnicity. If properly realised, national identity represents political systems working in ethnically neutral ways that would offer genuine protection – an antidote to the ethnic allegiances that are seen to be the cause of conflict and suffering. As a displaced man in Rutshuru said, “This thing could be settled by making us feel that we are one people and are Congolese.”

However, there was something of a paradox at the heart of this discussion: on the one hand there was a strongly anti-ethnic and pro-nationalist emphasis. Yet at the same time it was clear that the basis for national belonging was inextricably tied to ethnicity. While Congolese identity might offer an alternative to violent expressions of ethnicity, in practice the links between Congolese identity and ethnicity are hard to separate and disputes over their relationship is at the root of much of the violence. This paradox is further reflected in a new law on nationality adopted by the country’s transitional government in November 2004. This law is an improvement on previous legislation. It is generally inclusive and offers the possibility of asserting citizenship to most of the contested populations. However, it keeps the philosophy of ethnicity as the basis for national membership alive, ensuring that ethnicity retains its linkages with citizenship – and, therefore, remains a potential source of violence.

In particular, the extent to which groups and individuals have apparently identified along ethnic rather than national lines during the conflict has revealed a level of split allegiance that is considered unacceptable within a strong nationalist discourse on Congolese identity. For instance trans-national ethnic identities – in this context, Hutu and Tutsi – are seen to negate national allegiance and to be the cause of violence that has been exported from Rwanda. In other words, those who show ethnic allegiance that crosses borders are seen as somehow un-Congolese. This subjective interpretation of nationality shows the huge gap between law and the lived reality of citizenship. As a displaced woman living in Masisi said, “there are those we refer to as Banyarwanda. These ones feel they are Congolese, and yet at the same time they have that feeling that they are Rwandan – at least they know that they had an origin from Rwanda. Others even keep going and coming back.” Those who went voluntarily to Rwanda in the aftermath of the 1994 genocide are viewed as particularly suspect: their “return” to Rwanda is seen as evidence that they were never truly Congolese.

However, many interviewees also suggested that Kinyarwanda speakers could be legitimately recognised as Congolese if they renounced their cross-border ethnic ties. In this respect, Congolese identity was seen not only as a potential antidote to violence – an alternative to the destructive articulations along ethnic lines – but as a means for individuals to distance themselves from what is taking place. As one refugee woman living in Uganda said, “this war can only end when the Tutsi agree to stay under the government of Congo and leave tribalism.”

These perceptions reflect the extent to which those living in North Kivu (or displaced from it) see the potential, even if not the reality, of a functioning Congolese national identity – an identity that somehow supersedes the current fragmentation and parochialism that is proving to be so destructive. Yet because the state to which this nationality is supposed to be attached has fundamentally failed, ethnicity remains vulnerable to manipulation. And so the whole cycle of violence begins again.

So what is the way forward? If proper functioning of political power based on a fair understanding of Congolese national identity is, indeed, part of the solution, what does this show us with regard to moving towards this end – however idealistic this outcome might seem? The failure of the Congolese state is a well rehearsed fact. Yet its theoretical value is somehow recognised by those who, in reality, have been a victim of this failure. Somewhat perversely, this offers a degree of hope.

However, citizenship needs to be built on something more substantial than what is, effectively, a weak state – as experienced through partisan power structures and widespread displacement caused by a lack of state protection. Indeed, the challenges currently facing DRC are immense: weak institutions, a demoralised and ill-disciplined army, a cornered militia hiding in impenetrable forest, and hundreds of thousands of civilians displaced and traumatised. In addition to the immediate need to de-militarise the region and restore law and order, long-term stability will only be ensured through state reconstruction at both a local and national level: local power bases must become genuinely democratic and interact with national processes – and vice versa. This will create the context in which citizenship can be de-ethnicised and allow for ethnic identities, and other forms of localised allegiance, to function freely alongside national understandings of belonging.

*Dr. Lucy Hovil is Senior Researcher, Citizenship and Displacement in the Great Lakes region, a joint research and advocacy initiative of the International Refugee Rights Initiative and the Social Science Research Council.

So what drives this strong linkage? The immediate answer, of course, is that land is a vital economic commodity in a land-dependent country such as Burundi – and it is also in chronically short supply. As a government official told us, “This is a small country with a big population. And people are cultivators.” (Bujumbura, 17 06 09). Yet economically, the return process is proving to be a huge challenge. Those who do now know where their original land was – or worse, whose land is now being used for government enterprises – are being relocated into “peace villages”. Designed by UNHCR and others within the humanitarian machinery as a convenient way of relocating people onto available land – a great idea in theory, but profoundly unpopular in practice as they are seen as a further form of marginalisation. For returnees who do know where there land is yet find other families living on it, government policy dicatates that they share the land.

While sharing is a pragmatic response to a complex problem, from an economic point of view the solution is palliative at best – it is unlikely that many of the families currently sharing land are going to be able to meet the immediate basic needs of their family for long let alone essential costs such as medical and school fees. With neither party receiving any form of compensation, everyone feels that they have lost out and the challenge to generate a livelihood for their families has only got harder.

But land, of course, is much more than an economic commodity, and the redistribution of land is not just an economic and pragmatic exercise: it relates to issues of justice, reconciliation and sustainable peace, and has enormous consequences for wider issues of reintegration and notions of belonging and inclusion. These broader issues are what beat within the heart of the current process, and were dominant throughout the research: if their significance is overlooked, the implications are far-reaching and potentially dangerous.

Access to land – and access to a specific piece of land – was intimately connected with people’s understanding of identity. For many in Burundi, identities are, literally, rooted in the soil. The fact that displacement has created such a fundamental disjuncture between territory and belonging has only heightened the interconnectedness of the two. Those who are returning from exile after decades of alienation, are searching for continuity with their past, which is most tangible through physically returning to the land from which they fled, and on which their ancestors lived. As one informant said, “land connects the current generation to their ancestors… Land, and especially family land, is priceless; it is a gift you get from the ancestors and it is a gift you have for your descendants. Land keeps the extended family together and as such it is like a clan umbilical cord.” (Rutana Province, 02 07 09). As a result, numerous interviewees, when asked if they would be happy to be given an alternative piece of land, said that they would not, as “family land… gives you a name.” (Makamba Province, 12 07 09)

But land also has wider, political implications that relate to notions of political citizenship and re-engagement of the relationship with the state. The political forces that kept them excluded as legal aliens throughout their time in Tanzania are seen as being reversed by the process of returning to Burundi and re-asserting their legitimacy to belong within a national context. The findings show that the realisation of citizenship for returnees is centrally contingent upon fair and effective repossession of land – and specifically family land — signifying an end to the causes of flight that broke their citizenship bond in the first place.

As such, the current process is linked into wider issues of governance and justice and to the way in which people perceive the necessary attributes for (re)assertion of their Burundian citizenship. When asked what it meant to regain their citizenship, repeatedly returnees talked of recovering access to their family land as a primary indicator that they were once more “Burundian” and no longer in a state of exile. Conversely, those who have not gained access to their land talked of how they felt that they had not yet become Burundian once more. As one woman who has been unable to claim back her land said, “We cannot feel that we are citizens as long as we are not treated as Burundians in what should be ours without discrimination. We are currently discriminated against.” (Rutana province, 02 07 09)

Specifically, gaining access to land represents the renewal of a political relationship with the state. The role of government (albeit realised in numerous configurations over the past decades) was seen as both the source of injustice that caused flight in the first place, and the current force behind the redistribution of land: numerous interviewees talked of the unfair distribution of resources by government, and the injustice that this represents, as lying at the heart of the cycles of war and displacement that have dominated the country’s recent history. By the same token, the fair distribution of land was seen as an antidote to such cyclical patterns of violence.

All of this presents a huge challenge for a country that is beginning the long and painful task of reconstruction after decades of violence, political turmoil and displacement. The challenges it faces are hard to exaggerate. The fact that half a million people are able to return to their homes, some after more than three decades in exile, is extremely encouraging and symbolises optimism for the country’s future. Yet the effective reintegration of those who have been displaced is also probably the greatest challenge facing the country.

In order to prevent creating the conditions for future violence, the government is having to grapple with meeting two somewhat competing demands: the fact that land is seen as a critical marker of identity and belonging, and that it is a dwindling resource for livelihoods in Burundi. On the one hand, therefore, systems for resolving disputes over competing claims for land need to be constructed in such a way as to acknowledge and, to the extent possible, address the serious human rights violations of the past. If they are not seen to be just, they risk sowing the seeds of further conflict. At the same time, there is a need to address factors that are imbuing land with such critical importance, and alternative forms of livelihood that are not dependent solely on land must be promoted.

*Dr. Lucy Hovil is Senior Researcher, Citizenship and Displacement in the Great Lakes region, a joint research and advocacy initiative of the International Refugee Rights Initiative and the Social Science Research Council.