So the Democratic Republic of Congo has finally taken Rwanda to the International Court of Justice. About time, one might say. The charge: plundering coltan, gold, and other minerals that fuel the conflict in eastern Congo.
This is a farce dressed up as justice. We are meant to believe that a handful of judges in The Hague can untangle the web of greed, ethnic grievance, and post-colonial chaos that has defined the Great Lakes region for decades. The real crime is not the mining.
It is the demand. Every laptop, every smartphone, every sleek little device in your pocket is a stake in this blood-soaked ground. The court will deliberate.
Rwanda will deny. Congo will rage. And the minerals will continue to flow.
Because they always do. The Victorians knew this. They called it commerce.
We call it progress. But the result is the same: a trail of bodies and a glint of profit. This case is a distraction.
It allows us to feel righteous while we swipe our screens. The only verdict that matters is the one we refuse to deliver: that our comfort is not worth another child soldier. But we will not deliver it.
We never do.
