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Feature: In Goma's last refuge, medics fight for life under rebel rule

Xinhua
| May 18, 2025
2025-05-18

GOMA, DR Congo, May 18 (Xinhua) -- In Goma, a city in the eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC), where war has redrawn borders and scattered families, a hospital has emerged as a beacon of resilience amid the ruins. Now under the control of the March 23 Movement (M23) rebels, the city bears the scars of mortar fire and displacement, but also quiet acts of courage.

At CBCA Ndosho Hospital, doctors and nurses perform back-to-back surgeries, patients cling to life beneath bandages and resolve, and Red Cross workers brave checkpoints and shortages to keep the lifeline open. In a city trapped between fear and hope, the hospital stands not only as a place of healing, but as a symbol of endurance.

LAST SOURCE OF LIGHT

The resurgence of the M23 has plunged the eastern DRC into its gravest crisis in more than a decade. Once driven out in 2013, the rebel group reemerged in late 2021, steadily advancing across North Kivu Province. In January this year, after months of clashes with government forces, M23 fighters reached the gates of Goma, the provincial capital and home to more than 2 million people.

For days, the city shook under relentless artillery fire. On Jan. 29, Goma fell. The Congolese government reported over 8,500 deaths. Humanitarian agencies described the collapse as catastrophic, with displacement camps shelled, hospitals overwhelmed, and aid depots ransacked.

In a city battered by war and blanketed in darkness, CBCA Ndosho Hospital stood as the last fragile source of light -- flickering, but not yet extinguished.

Also known locally as Bethesda, the hospital remained open despite bombardments and blackouts. The facility, originally designed for 80 beds, became a frontline triage center for hundreds.

"We were admitting over 700 patients at the peak, but we only managed to expand our capacity to 148 beds," said Taoffic Mohamed Toure, a veteran with the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), recalling the siege's most harrowing days.

Patients spilled into corridors, courtyards, and tents. "We are the only hospital in this city equipped to treat war-wounded patients," said Witenene Kapinga Rita, the hospital's psycho-social agent. "Civilians and belligerents alike have no choice but to come to us. And we have a duty to heal them."

The wounded arrived in waves -- shrapnel embedded in limbs, gunshot wounds to the abdomen, trauma from nearby blasts. "We had to perform improvised surgeries, at least two or three on the same patient," said Sidibe Abdou Raman, a frontline surgeon.

Then, even the lifeline of supplies began to fray.

In late January, the ICRC reported that one of its medical warehouses in Goma had been looted, along with several local health centers. Power was cut, and water lines were severed. Vital supplies, including medicines, surgical kits, and protective gear, were stolen. "We lost critical stock at a time when we were treating hundreds of patients each day," said Toure.

HEALING ON EDGE

Inside the hospital's trauma ward, survivors recounted stories of violence that shattered their homes and families.

Amani Gerome lay quietly, recovering from abdominal wounds. "When the armed men broke into our house, my wife and seven children were there," he said. "After the shooting, my wife and four of the children were dead. I came here with the three who survived. One has been discharged, one is here with me, and the last was transferred to Bukavu (the provincial capital of South Kivu, also seized by M23 rebels)."

In the next room, Melanie Rubandika cradled her bandaged shoulder. A bullet pierced her chest and shattered her arm, which was later amputated. "They kicked down the door, opened fire, and struck me with a machete on the head," she said. "All I want is peace. But now, young men dress in stolen army uniforms. Banditry is everywhere."

Despite the M23's parallel governance, Goma descended into lawlessness. Residents reported widespread looting, carjackings, and break-ins, with little distinction between rebels, opportunistic bandits, and rogue fighters. "Criminals are everywhere. They even broke into one of our colleague's home the other night, which caused some panic here," said Rita.

Not all stories end in despair.

Kahindo Amina, who was shot seven times in the leg and hand during a night raid that killed her husband, smiled as she recounted her recovery: "I thought they would amputate my leg. But I can sit, eat a banana, and drink water. I'm still here. I'm hopeful."

BEYOND WOUNDS

In recent weeks, the number of new patients has declined and is now within the hospital's capacity. But the complexity of their wounds remains high. "We still do five bullet-related surgeries every day," Raman explained. "Some are infected. Many require multiple operations."

The hospital's physical therapy wing is crowded with patients relearning how to walk. Psychological care is also in high demand. "Some patients came in with their intestines outside their bodies," said clinical psychologist Grace Muyisa. "They were in absolute shock. Many thought no one could save them -- not even the surgeons."

Yet beyond the hospital's gates, the humanitarian mission itself is becoming more precarious. The ICRC, which has supported CBCA Ndosho Hospital since the early days of the conflict, faces mounting security risks across the eastern DRC. In militia-dominated areas like Masisi in North Kivu, where rival armed groups now control entire towns, humanitarian access is increasingly restricted. In February 2025, a staff member of Doctors Without Borders (MSF) was tragically killed in Masisi during a crossfire between armed groups.

Still, the spirit of the hospital staff remains unshaken.

"After this experience, I don't think I will ever be intimidated by any working conditions again. What we lived through here, with such an overwhelming number of patients, I doubt it has ever happened in any other hospital in the world," said Muyisa.

Even as the trauma endures, so does the commitment.

"Sometimes I feel discouraged, seeing and reliving the pain every day," said Rita. "But when I put on my uniform, I hold my head high. Because I know someone needs me to show up." Enditem

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