There is an old saying that goes, ‘be careful what you ask for; it just might be given to you.’ Well, I dreamed for years that one day I’d be deemed worthy enough to get embedded in a Rwandan security mission somewhere in Africa, and guess what? Dreams do come true. Right now, I’m in Cabo Delgado, Mozambique. What am I doing here? Observing just how much progress has been made, by both the RSF (Rwanda Security Forces) and Mozambique’s army and police, to bring peace to the formerly insurgent-infested region.

Alongside local, regional, and international media, I arrived on Friday afternoon, landing at Afungi airport. In armoured buses, and with armed military escorts, we headed to Palma, a town that, barely a year ago, was a no-go area. In fact, I learned that it was among the first major urban centers that Ansar al-Sunna Wa Jamma (the name that the ISIS-linked terror group gave itself) captured in 2021. The capture of the town was a hugely traumatic event for its residents because, as a way to spread fear, they beheaded anyone who they believed was against their aims. As a result, dozens died.

Nowhere else brought this to the fore like what happened at Amarula Hotel, a location that we visited on Sunday. Fleeing the terrorists, over 100 men, women, and children barricaded themselves in the scenic hotel, praying for either the Mozambican army to rescue them, and barring that, at least Total Energies security contractors. As day turned into night, no help came. They kept waiting, day after day, but still, no help came. Finally, some brave people decided to make a break for it. Some made it, but the majority did not. They were killed. In a most brutal way.

I couldn’t help but find the similarities between what the people at Amarula Hotel went through in 2021 and what we went through in 1994. Of course, not in terms of scale and duration. Rather because in both cases, the tragedies were being relayed on satellite television, and instead of acting decisively, the international community wrung its hands in impotence as people died right in front of television cameras.

Thankfully, the story of Palma (and Cabo Delgado), like Rwanda’s story, didn’t end in death and destruction. No. Today, streets that were deserted only months ago are full of life. Loud music plays in the market, and children play and dance on the side of the road, and although there is still a lot of evidence of the destruction that the terrorists wrought (such as the burnt shell of the tax authority building), life is gradually getting back to normal. So much so that we found shops, pool halls, and bars open past 9 pm when we went on a night tour of the town on Monday; an occurrence that must have seemed like a pipedream a while back.

This outcome was not, and is not, a fluke. It was planned, executed, and consolidated by both Rwanda and Mozambique. The question I wanted to explore during the week I’d spend in Cabo Delgado was, why was the operation successful? What were the challenges that the forces faced? And thirdly, could I leave with a better understanding of the price that our men and women in uniform pay to ensure that the mission stays on course?

At this moment, I am not able to answer the first two questions. Thankfully, I’ve invited Brigadier General Ronald Rwivanga, the RDF Spokesperson, to join me on the weekly podcast, ‘The Long Form with Sanny Ntayombya’. I’m sure I will get my answers then. However, I feel like I can answer the third question, about the price that is paid.

In our daily lives, we take being comfortable for granted. Well, standing outside in the harsh, humid Cabo Delgado heat (that often goes over 32 °C), in full protective gear (bullet-proof vests and Kevlar helmets) that weigh about 10 kilograms, for what seemed like hours on end, I felt an ever-increasing appreciation for the men and women donning the uniform over here (and those back home too). At the end of each day, I couldn’t wait to remove the equipment. I was often sweaty, grimy and exhausted. Today, no longer do I think that protective gear is something that merely looks ‘cool’, I now understand the very real burden they are.

In addition to the physical burden, isthe emotional one. I feel like sometimes we forget that these soldiers are not just very capable machines of war, but rather full human beings with people they love, and who love them, back home. On the bus to one of the many destinations we went to, I turned, looked down and saw one of the soldier’s home-screen. It was a photo he’d taken with someone he clearly had strong emotions for. When I got the chance to chat with him, I asked him how long he’d been here. Almost six months. Lok, I haven’t been with my family for less than a week and I already miss them terribly. So, I can’t imagine how he feels every time he picks up his phone and looks at the photo.

I like to think that I’m appreciative of the life that my country has given me, but this trip has made me appreciate it even more. No longer is the mission to Mozambique, for me, a foreign relations ‘coup’ that I coldly analyzed. Because of this experience, I can look at it, and know that it is about real people, both Mozambican and Rwandan.

The writer is a socio-political commentator