There is something heartbreaking—and indistinctly amusing—about a giant who spends his days arguing with his reflection in the mirror. The Democratic Republic of the Congo is a country of continental scale. Over two million square kilometers. It has rivers that could irrigate half of Africa. Its wealth in terms of minerals, forests and fertile soils is enough to make it one of the richest countries in the world. If geography alone were destiny, Congo would be a superpower. And yet, in speech after speech, rally after rally, the giant seems obsessed with a neighbour the size smaller than one of its smallest provinces: Rwanda. Is it fair for the DR Congo to relentlessly compare itself to Rwanda? Is it relevant that Congolese foreign policy appears determined—at all costs—to rival, shadow, or denounce that geographically smaller state? How should we interpret the psychology of a vast country that seeks to measure itself against someone smaller—and takes offense when that smaller neighbour offers lessons in governance, discipline, or economic management? One is tempted to reach for psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud before one reaches for a geopolitics manual. The giant and the mirror If the DR Congo were searching for peers, it could look north to Algeria, the largest country in Africa by area. It could compare itself to South Africa, the continent’s leading industrial economy. It could invoke Ethiopia, proud of its deep national identity and the singular distinction of having largely resisted colonization. Or it could benchmark itself against Egypt, Morocco, or Ghana—all nations with fewer raw natural resources than DR Congo, yet often outperforming it in governance indicators, infrastructure, or institutional coherence. But no. The rhetorical energy of the Congolese administrative system seems magnetically drawn eastward, toward Kigali. Norman Fairclough wrote in his book Language and Power (1989) that “discourse is a practice not just of representing the world, but of signifying the world, constituting and constructing the world in meaning.” If Rwanda is omnipresent in Congolese political speech, then Rwanda is being constructed not merely as a foreign actor—but as the central axis around which Congolese political meaning turns. And that is exactly the problem. The philosopher of language J. L. Austin notably argued in his book How to Do Things with Words (1962) that “to say something is to do something.” Speech is action. Naming is power. To evoke is to animate. When Congolese officials—be it Patrick Muyaya the Kinshasa publicist, President Félix Tshisekedi, Martin Fayulu, or even Denis Mukwege—invoke Rwanda as the explanation for everything from insecurity in the east to economic stagnation in Kinshasa and the whole country, they are not simply describing reality. They are shaping it. They are constructing a narrative in which Rwanda becomes: The problem; the obstacle; the saboteur and the hidden hand. But here is the contradiction: if Rwanda is the cause of everything that malfunctions in DR Congo, then Rwanda becomes central to any conceivable solution. One cannot have a problem without implying the necessity of resolving it. And one cannot resolve a problem involving Rwanda without Rwanda. Thus, in trying to demonize, Congolese political discourse unwittingly centralizes. The more Rwanda is framed as omnipotent, the more it begins to appear—psychologically, symbolically—as indispensable. The Mindset of Scapegoating René Girard argued in The Scapegoat (1982) that societies in crisis often externalize internal tensions by projecting blame onto a designated “other.” “The victim,” he wrote, “must be neither too different nor too identical.” Rwanda fits this painful proximity. Neighbor. Historical entanglement for obvious reasons. Yet different enough to serve as the repository of blame. But scapegoating is a hazardous therapy. It soothes in the short term while corroding structural self-examination. Erich Fromm warned in Escape from Freedom (1941) that societies overwhelmed by anxiety often surrender critical thought in exchange for simplified enemies. It is psychologically easier for the DRC—to blame an external actor than to confront endemic corruption, elite predation, and institutional collapse. And DR Congo’s dysfunction is not stealthy. When Transparency International releases corruption rankings and Kinshasa performs poorly, many Congolese citizens do not protest the ranking. They nod skillfully because they know. When presidential entourages embark on lavish trips for brief meetings in Washington or Brussels, people know. When political elites celebrate birthdays in Dubai in ostentatious luxury while millions struggle to survive, citizens know. When reports circulate that more than a million dollars was allocated to finance a Paris concert by musician Fally Ipupa, people know. And that knowledge breeds quiet humiliation. In that atmosphere, anti-Rwanda rhetoric functions as emotional displacement. It becomes easy to notice the discursive creation of the “indomitable”. Michel Foucault wrote in Power/Knowledge (1980) that “power produces knowledge... power and knowledge directly imply one another.” By constantly speaking of Rwanda as the architect of Congo’s misfortunes, Congolese discourse produces Rwanda as powerful—perhaps even hyper-powerful. In demonstrations in Kinshasa, during doctors’ strikes over unpaid salaries, some placards read: “We are going to Rwanda.” Yes, that was not satire. It was symbolism. Rwanda becomes, in the shared imagination, and rightly so—the state that pays its civil servants on time. The state that enforces discipline. The state where corruption is punished with visible consequences. The state where order appears to function. Pierre Bourdieu observed in Language and Symbolic Power (1991) that “symbolic power is the power to constitute the given through utterances.” In attacking Rwanda, Congolese officials are paradoxically reinforcing its symbolic stature. The more Rwanda is demonized, the more it appears formidable. The more it is accused, the more it is centered. The more it is presented as omnipresent, the more it begins to seem invincible. This is not a good strategy. It is narrative self-sabotage. The satellite in the sky Consider, again—and this time more seriously—a child in Boma or Matadi where the Atlantic breeze carries salt and memory but not the echo of gunfire from the eastern hills. Or imagine pupils living in the towns of Bandundu or Basankusu or Gemena. These children have never seen the Rwandan border. A kid in Boma does not know the geography of North Kivu. He cannot locate Kigali on a map with precision. Rwanda, for him, is not a lived reality. It is just a word. And yet that word floats everywhere. He hears it on the radio. He hears it in political speeches. He hears it in the solemn voice of national announcements. He hears it when teachers complain about delayed salaries. He hears it when electricity fails. He hears it when water does not run. He hears it when roads collapse into muddy resignation. Rwanda. The child grows up in a country of immense rivers and enormous promises. But the road outside his school is cracked. The chalk is scarce. The textbooks are shared one to a bench. When the lights go out—as they often do—the classroom returns to an older century. If discourse, as Norman Fairclough (1989) argued, constructs social reality, then what reality is being constructed in the mind of this child? If authority figures frequently invoke a distant country as the hidden architect of dysfunction, the child begins to internalize a strange cosmology: somewhere beyond the horizon—beyond the mountains and forests, there exists a force powerful enough to determine whether his classroom has electricity. He does not know Rwanda. But he knows its name. And here is the irony so sharp it cuts both ways: in trying to diminish Rwanda rhetorically, the Congolese political class magnified it psychologically. When political leaders repeat that Rwanda is the source of instability, corruption, infiltration, sabotage—when they frame it as omnipresent, strategic, cunning, relentless—they elevate it to mythic proportions. It becomes less a neighboring state and more an omniscient presence. Almost... celestial. Rwanda begins to resemble a satellite. An extraordinary satellite orbiting above DR Congo. Watching. Calculating. Manipulating. This is the “fake fear” that quietly takes root: Rwanda as an all-seeing eye suspended in the sky, adjusting the levers of Congolese destiny from above. A mechanical god with a Kigali intonation. The illogicality would be funny if it were not politically corrosive. The child in Boma or Mbandaka, thousands of kilometers from the eastern border, might reasonably ask: how does this satellite work? Does it beam corruption into ministries? Does it rewire procurement contracts? Does it slip unpaid salaries into the void? Does it sneak into offices at night and inflate travel budgets? Or is it perhaps easier—simpler—to admit that the failures he experiences daily are homegrown? Michel Foucault (1980) articulates how power circulates through discourse, shaping what can be said and what can be thought. If Rwanda is constantly described as omnipresent and omnipotent, it becomes thinkable as omnipotent. The repetition gives it higher elevation. The result is a paradox: Rwanda becomes both the villain and the point of reference. Let us go back to the message: “We are going to Rwanda.” It is an extraordinary statement. On one hand, it is a protest. On the other hand, it is a confession. Therefore, the anti-Rwanda narrative produces two simultaneous images: Rwanda as saboteur. Rwanda as an efficient alternative. This duality is psychologically unsteady. As René Girard (1982) observed, countries like DR Congo often oscillate between demonizing and mythologizing the same figure. The scapegoat becomes both cursed and central. Hated and necessary. For the child in Boma or Matadi, this contradiction becomes formative. He knows that his country possesses cobalt, diamonds, gold and copper. It has rivers that could power continents. He realizes that politicians own millions of US dollars while schools decay. He hears that corruption is not tolerated in Rwanda and often punished visibly. He hears that order exists and discipline exists elsewhere. And so the satellite metaphor hardens: Rwanda is up there, orbiting Congo, monitoring it, perhaps even judging it. But here lies the danger. A society that imagines itself perpetually watched and haunted by a neighbor begins to lose self-confidence. It internalizes the idea that its fate is externally determined. It nurtures a quiet fatalism: we would succeed, if only that satellite would stop transmitting. This is psychologically disempowering. As Erich Fromm (1941), argued individuals and societies sometimes flee from responsibility because freedom entails anxiety. To accept that one’s failures are internally generated is terrifying. It demands action, sacrifice, reform and accountability. Blaming an imaginary satellite is easier. For the child in Matadi, the consequences are subtle but profound. If Rwanda is responsible for Congo’s dysfunction, then Congo is a victim of cosmic sabotage. Victims do not reform systems. Victims endure. But if the dysfunction is domestic—if the unpaid teachers, the broken roads, the opaque budgets are products of internal mismanagement—then responsibility returns home. And responsibility demands courage. Teun A. van Dijk, in Elite Discourse and Racism (1993), showed how elite narratives shape public cognition. When leaders repeatedly frame an external group as threatening and omnipresent, they structure how citizens interpret everyday events. A power outage is no longer technical. It is geopolitical. A corruption scandal is no longer administrative. It is infiltration. This cognitive framing is powerful. It shifts attention away from structural reform and toward perpetual vigilance against an imagined omnipotence. But satellites do not embezzle funds. Satellites do not sign inflated contracts. Satellites do not host extravagant celebrations abroad while civil servants strike at home. Humans do, and systems allow them to. The deeper tragedy is this: the more Rwanda is described as omniscient and omnipresent, the more it appears formidable. The more formidable it appears; the more Congolese leaders seem comparatively powerless. And the more powerless leaders appear, the less citizens trust their institutions. Thus, anti-Rwanda discourse risks undermining Congo’s own sovereignty in the psychological realm. The child in Boma deserves better than mythology. He deserves roads built not in opposition to Rwanda, but in service of Congolese citizens. He deserves electricity generated not as proof of geopolitical defiance, but as a basic function of governance. He deserves a national narrative that speaks more about internal reform than external ghosts. Because if Rwanda truly were a satellite hovering in the sky, watching every ministry and influencing every misstep, then Congo would be geopolitically doomed. But Rwanda is not a satellite. It is a neighboring state. The haunting, if there is one, comes not from the sky—but from within. And until the giant understands that the shadow it fears is cast by its own posture, the child in Boma or Moanda will continue to grow up beneath a sky crowded not with satellites—but with excuses. Political psychologist Karen Stenner argued in The Authoritarian Dynamic (2005) that perceived threats can activate exclusionary and defensive reflexes within societies. If Rwanda is repeatedly framed as an existential threat, domestic politics may harden, dissent may be delegitimized, and internal criticism may be branded as foreign collaboration. This pattern is neither unique nor accidental. Teun A. van Dijk (1993) noted that elite narratives can “legitimize and reproduce inequality and prejudice” by structuring public perception around simplified enemies. When Rwanda is constantly invoked as the cause of chaos, corruption, and collapse, it becomes more than a neighbor. It becomes a narrative device—an all-purpose explanation. And, all-purpose explanations are the enemy of reform. The Congolese people are not naïve. They know that corruption is not smuggled from Kigali. They know that mismanaged public funds are not wired from abroad. They also know that unpaid civil servants are not victims of Rwandan payroll sabotage. They know who the thieves are. And knowledge, once matured, can be explosive. Need for national re-examination The true challenge for the DR Congo is not to erase Rwanda from discourse. It is to decenter it—surgically, deliberately, and permanently. But, unfortunately that would require a revolution of political maturity. A rare commodity in Kinshasa. Imagine, for a moment, a cabinet meeting in Kinshasa where the word “Rwanda” is banned for 24 hours. The agenda would suddenly look frighteningly bare. Electricity shortages could no longer be explained geopolitically. Road collapse would demand engineers instead of press conferences. Budgetary opacity would require auditors rather than ambassadors. Frightening. Frantz Fanon cautioned in The Wretched of the Earth (1961) that postcolonial elites often “replace the former foreign settler, but do not transform the structure.” In other words, the flag changes, the anthem changes, but the predatory logic remains. DR Congo’s tragedy is not merely that it was colonized. It is that it risks being perpetually administered by a class that prefers rhetoric to reform. National re-examination would mean confronting uncomfortable truths: That corruption is systemic, not imported. That elite extravagance insults a suffering population. That mineral wealth without institutional discipline becomes a curse. That sovereignty without accountability is theater. But theater is addictive. Accusing Rwanda is politically effective. It unites factions temporarily. It offers a villain. It sidesteps audit trails. It postpones reckoning. Reform, by contrast, demands sacrifice. It demands that ministers be investigated. That senators be scrutinized. That contracts will be opened. That procurement should be transparent. That public funds cease to be a private opportunity. In short, it demands courage. And courage is rarer than cobalt. A giant does not become mighty by shouting at its neighbor. It becomes mighty by disciplining itself. Till Congo accepts internal self-control, exterior condemnation will remain what it is: noise. Conclusion The DR Congo is not poor in resources. It is extremely poor in intelligible governance. It is not small in geography. It is too small in institutional integrity. Incriminating Rwanda has not built power plants. It has not paved highways from Lubumbashi to Kisangani or from Goma to Bukavu. It has not ensured potable and clean water in rural villages thousands of kilometers from any border. It has not magically transferred accountability into ministries allergic to transparency. Yet the rhetorical ritual continues. Hannah Arendt warned in The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951) that “the ideal subject of totalitarian rule... is people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction... no longer exists.” When political speech blurs the line between internal incompetence and external conspiracy, it cultivates precisely that confusion. It becomes possible to believe that potholes are geopolitical. That embezzlement is foreign aggression. That administrative laziness is strategic sabotage. What a phenomenal doctrine. It absolves everyone. Michel Foucault (1980) would recognize the pattern instantly: power producing a knowledge system that sustains itself. Rwanda as explanation. Rwanda as omnipresence. Rwanda has a convenient alibi. But citizens are not dupes. They comprehend that while speeches roar about sovereignty, luxury lifestyles flourish. They understand that while officials condemn foreign interference, opaque contracts proliferate. They realize that while national pride is invoked, national wealth evaporates into private hands. The tragedy is not a comparison. Comparison can inspire reform. The tragedy is obsession without introspection. A mature state studies its neighbor to learn. An insecure one studies its neighbor to resent. If DR Congo under Tshisekedi continues to define itself primarily in opposition to Rwanda, it risks shrinking psychologically even as it remains vast territorially. History is not kind to giants who blame others for their own stumbling. The path forward is brutally simple and politically unbearable: Audit honestly. Punish corruption and hateful language consistently. Invest transparently. Govern competently. No press conference in Kinshasa will substitute for reform. No denunciation in international forums will replace institutional discipline. The mirror is waiting. The giant must decide whether it wants to keep shouting at it—or finally look into it. Since mirrors, unlike speeches, do not applaud.
