Stupidity is often described as a gift from God. If that is true, then the Southern African Development Community (SADC) has been abundantly blessed and determined to keep unwrapping that gift with enthusiasm.

In early 2026, barely a year after the collapse of the Southern African Mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo (SAMIDRC), the regional economic bloc is once again flirting with the idea of returning to eastern DR Congo. This is remarkable, not for its ambition, but for its audacity. The first intervention did not merely fail; it unraveled publicly, embarrassingly, and at great cost in lives, money, and credibility.

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SAMIDRC entered eastern DR Congo in 2024 under the familiar banner of "regional solidarity.” Troops from South Africa, Tanzania, and Malawi were deployed with bold promises. To neutralize M23, stabilize North Kivu and South Kivu, and restore state authority. The messaging was confident. The pay was irresistible.

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M23, well-organized, disciplined, and driven by an existential sense of survival exposed the mission’s weaknesses with brutal efficiency. The January 2025 clash that killed 14 South African soldiers was a turning point. It demonstrated that SAMIDRC with its firepower lacked the intelligence, and coordination needed to confront Gen. Makenga’s motivated lethal boys. From that moment on, the mission stopped shaping events and began reacting to them.

Bases were surrounded. Equipment was abandoned. Supply chains failed. FARDC units melted away from joint operations, leaving SADC forces isolated and exposed.

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The most damning moment came in Sake. There, SADC troops raised white flags.

Not as a temporary ceasefire signal or humanitarian gesture, but as a clear acknowledgment that they were encircled and overmatched. For a mission sold to southern African publics as a show of resolve, the image was devastating. A regional force had effectively conceded defeat to a rebel movement.

Reports from the field described troops surviving on one meal a day, sometimes reliant on the tolerance or outright permission of M23 to resupply. This was not peace enforcement. It was containment of a disaster.

What followed stripped away any remaining illusions.

Rather than withdrawing under their own authority, SADC commanders entered direct negotiations with M23 leadership. An agreement was signed to secure safe passage for withdrawing troops. This was not mediated by Kinshasa, nor framed within a regional diplomatic process. It was a practical arrangement between uniformed armies and a rebel movement – an implicit recognition of who held real power on the ground.

Even the exit route told its own story. SADC forces did not withdraw through territory under their control or through areas secured by allies. They exited through Rwanda, under guarantees reportedly agreed with M23. By mid-2025, the last contingents were filing out not as stabilizers, but as guests permitted to leave by the very group they had been deployed to defeat.

In March 2025, SADC leadership moved quickly to contain the political fallout. The mandate was terminated. A "phased withdrawal” was announced in bureaucratic language designed to mask a hasty and humiliating retreat. Military analysts were unsparing in their assessment. The mission was under-equipped, under-resourced, and structurally incoherent. Then came a perfect scapegoat; there was no meaningful air support, no reliable logistics backbone, and no unified command culture.

M23, meanwhile, expanded. Goma fell. Bukavu fell. Territory changed hands while SADC packed up. The rebels consolidated control, extended governance structures, and strengthened their negotiating position as the "regional solution” evaporated. The outcome could not have been clearer.

The costs went beyond the battlefield. Taxpayer money across southern Africa vanished into a failed deployment. Soldier morale suffered lasting damage. SADC’s credibility as a security actor took a direct hit, watched closely by allies and adversaries alike. The notion that the bloc could project decisive force beyond its borders was badly shaken.

And yet, incredibly, we now hear talk of a return.

South Africa is rumored to be exploring indirect re-entry options, including deployments routed through Burundi or mandates repackaged under new language. There is talk of lessons learned, renewed resolve, and better coordination. The implication is that the first failure was a rehearsal rather than a warning.

This is not strategic persistence. It is institutional denial. Eastern DR Congo is not a training ground. AFC/M23 is not waiting patiently for a rematch. The region remains a volatile mix of armed groups, foreign interests, and unresolved grievances. The first intervention proved a hard truth. SADC, as currently structured and resourced, is not prepared to impose outcomes in this environment.

Worse still, another failed deployment would further legitimize armed rebellion as the most effective route to power. If regional armies negotiate exits with AFC/M23 once, doing so again will only reinforce the lesson that force not diplomacy decides authority in eastern DR Congo.

So, yes, reload the trucks. Rewrite the mandates. Draft the communiqués. Line up the photo-ops. But when the inevitable sequel ends in another retreat, another casualty list, and another round of finger-pointing at Kigali, remember this, stupidity may indeed be a gift of God.

But choosing to unwrap it again after raising white flags, signing agreements with rebels, and exiting through AFC/M23 approved corridors, is not divine destiny.

It is a choice. And this time, no one can claim they were not warned.

The writer is an ideator and alternative financing strategist.