Goma, the City on the Volcano
by Nikita Panin
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In January 2002, the city of Goma, located in the east of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, lay in ruins. The cause was not the Great African War,[1] which had been ravaging the country for several years. The war’s first rebellion had, in fact, started here in August 1998, when Banyamulenge-Tutsi fighters, led by a former ally of President Laurent-Désiré Kabila and backed by Rwanda (where Paul Kagame has ruled since the 1994 genocide), seized control of much of Congo’s resource-rich northeast. By early 2002, tensions were mounting between Rwanda and the Congolese Banyamulenge, while peace talks, facilitated by South Africa, were finally on the horizon. In January 2002, Goma—a city on Lake Kivu’s northern shore, at the foot of the Virunga Mountains—was still in rebel hands. But it also sat just 14 kilometers away from Nyiragongo, a volcano whose lava, low in silicates, moves fast—up to 100 km/h during an eruption. When Nyiragongo erupted, it took just hours for the lava to reach the city center, displacing over a million people and pushing the region toward yet another humanitarian disaster. The region teetered on the brink of it—yet again. Fast forward to January 2025, Goma once again made global headlines. This time, it was not because of a volcano, though the city’s situation did not look too different at first glance. On January 25–26, the M23 rebel group—born in 2012, partly from the remnants of the Congolese Rally for Democracy (RCD) that rebelled in 1998—launched a major offensive in North Kivu. Within days, they captured key locations in and around Goma, including Mount Goma, the airport and the TV station, though the city remained contested. The rebels also seized the nearby towns of Saké and Minova—both crucial for Goma’s supply lines—and started advancing into South Kivu, toward Bukavu, the provincial capital, and Nyabibwe, a key tin-mining site. Clashes led to a fire at Munzenze prison, allowing some 3,000 inmates to escape, adding to the chaos not only in the country’s northeast but also in the capital. On Tuesday, January 28, frustration over international inaction spilled onto the streets of Kinshasa, where mobs targeted embassies, including those of the U.S. and France. Any hope for de-escalation between the DRC and Rwanda now seems all but shattered: borders and embassies are shut, and most openly accuse Kigali of backing M23. Meanwhile, Rwanda remains under the firm grip of Paul Kagame, who was reelected in July 2024 for a fourth term with 99.15% of the vote—an election whose legitimacy, notably, did not raise many eyebrows in the West. Meanwhile, in Goma, early estimates suggest that one in five residents—out of a population of two million—has been forced to flee their homes, even before the conflict reached the current level of intensity. There is no electricity, and shortages of water, food and fuel are worsening, while UN humanitarian efforts appear to be scaling down rather than ramping up. Roots of the conflict The escalation in eastern DRC began long before alarming headlines started appearing in the media. But how far back do we go? Options are open and include: • 2022, when tensions steadily rose as M23 expanded its territorial control in eastern DRC;• 2021, when M23 resurfaced after its military defeat in 2013;• 2012, when M23 first emerged, reached its peak capturing Goma;• The Second Congo War (1998–2003), or even further back to the colonial era, when the ethnic dynamics that now fuel the conflict first took shape to complicate the current events. At this point, one might ask: who are the Banyamulenge and why are they closely linked to Rwanda? The answer lies in the history of the Lake Kivu region, home to multiple ethnic groups. Many of these groups can be classified under the broader linguistic umbrella of Kinyarwanda speakers—meaning they speak different variations of the same language and live not only in Kivu but also in Rwanda. Their core identity lies in ethnic categories such as Hutu, Tutsi or the lesser-known Twa. However, many other ethnic groups in eastern DRC do not see Kinyarwanda as autochthonous (indigenous), which fuels tensions and conflicts, both socially and politically. In response, Kinyarwanda-speaking communities have emphasized their Congolese, rather than Rwandan, identity by adopting local geographic names instead of ethnic labels. That is why we hear terms like Banyabwisha, Banyamasisi and Banyamulenge. Banyamulenge literally means “people from Mulenge,” a highland plateau in what is now South Kivu province. The issue of indigenous status is far from theoretical. On a practical level, perceptions of who is autochthonous and who is not dictate access to land, resources, and political rights and influence. And since power dynamics between ethnic groups in the region are constantly shifting—along with the broader political landscape in the country—so too are identity categories based on autochthony. For instance, the Hutu population in Goma often considers itself more “native” than the Tutsi. One reason for this is that Hutu and Tutsi were arriving in eastern DRC at different points in history: • The earliest waves of migration reached Kivu before the arrival of European colonizers (Germans and Belgians).• The second wave was engineered by colonial authorities, who sought loyal local administrators (such as the Banyamulenge) and a larger labor force for their plantation economy—since Kivu did not have enough workers.• Between 1959 and 1963, Rwanda was shaken by the “Wind of Destruction”—a revolution that overturned Belgian-backed Tutsi rule in Rwanda–Urundi and brought the Hutu to power in an independent republic. Thousands of Tutsis fled, settling in Kivu, where they became known as the “fifty-niners.”• Finally, after the 1994 Rwandan genocide, when Hutu extremists turned their weapons against the Tutsi, the “defeated” Hutu (Banyarwanda) fled to eastern Congo, adding yet another layer of instability to the region. Over time, Congolese authorities treated different “waves of migrants from Rwanda” differently, adjusting their policies to fit the political expediency. They repeatedly changed citizenship laws, granting or stripping Kinyarwanda speakers of political rights. For example, a new law established 1885 as the official “cut-off date” for autochthony, effectively denying voting rights to most of the Banyamulenge—a decision that was enforced during the 1982 and 1987 elections. Unsurprisingly, this political and social exclusion created (and continues to create) fertile ground for mobilization and conflict under various pretexts. In the 1990s, for instance, many Congolese Tutsi, whose ambiguous citizenship status left them disconnected from Congo, joined Paul Kagame’s Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF), which took control of northern Rwanda and later ended the genocide by capturing Kigali. A few years later, the Banyamulenge threw their support behind Laurent-Désiré Kabila’s Alliance of Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Congo-Zaire (AFDL), which helped Rwanda’s new government partially “resolve the issue” of Hutu refugees who had fled to Congo. After fleeing Rwanda in the aftermath of the genocide, many Hutu militants eventually rebranded themselves into the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR). The presence of both Hutu and Tutsi armed groups in eastern Congo effectively transplanted Rwanda’s ethnic conflict across the border. And both the Congolese and Rwandan governments found ways to manipulate this struggle to serve their own interests. This historical context is important to highlight the complex and often contradictory dynamics among the seemingly related ethnic groups living around Lake Kivu. The various ethnic communities in the area are fractured by competing interests, historical grievances and shifting alliances, with numerous armed factions operating on the ground. While Kinshasa and Kigali may view them as proxies, they fall short of full control over these groups, whose actions are often dictated by immediate gains and local rather than regional political interests. The Volcanic Republic On the other side of the border, in Rwanda, the notion of autochthony carries a different significance. Many Rwandans believe that a split of the Banyarwanda (“people from Rwanda” as opposed to Kinyarwanda, “people speaking Rwandese”) between two countries was a colonial construct, imposed by European powers, suggesting that borders in the region are quite artificial. A more extreme version of this narrative argues that Rwanda was historically much larger: “From a vast country that covered swathes of eastern Congo, southern Uganda and north-western Tanganyika, Rwanda became the tiny hill of Central Africa,” a perspective echoed by Rwanda’s formal President Pasteur Bizimungu in 1996. But this is more myth than reality as this claim oversimplifies history and ignores ethnic distinctions. More importantly, it fails to acknowledge that eastern Congo was never under a sustained Rwandan rule—neither before nor after colonization. Still, the idea of a “Greater Rwanda” breeds and fuels certain revanchist sentiments in some corners of Rwanda’s leadership. That is why many Congolese believe Rwanda is trying to carve out a “Volcanic Republic” (République des Volcans) in Kivu—a proxy state that would give it direct access to the region’s vast natural resources. Rebel leaders themselves reinforce these fears. For instance, Laurent Nkunda, leader of the National Congress for the Defense of the People (CNDP)—a faction that split from the Rally for Congolese Democracy (RCD) that rebelled in 1998 and maintains strong ties to Rwanda through Banyamulenge–Tutsi networks—argued: “If there had been no colonization, and thus the creation of totally new and artificial territorial entities in Africa, today’s Congo would never have existed for sure; but Bwisha would certainly be here as a transvolcanic province of ancient Rwanda.” Ultimately, this has for a long time contributed to both inter- and intra-ethnic tensions in the region, with shifting political, territorial or even personal allegiances of the groups. Who are the M23? To answer this question, we must once again trace the evolution of rebel groups in eastern DRC. During the First Congo War (1996–1997), Tutsi rebels, under the leadership of Laurent-Désiré Kabila[2] and with open support from Rwanda and Uganda, succeeded in toppling Mobutu Sese Seko, who had ruled since 1965 with support from the West. As the Cold War ended, Mobutu had outlived his usefulness by the 1990s, allowing Laurent-Désiré Kabila to take power. The problem was that many in Congo viewed Kabila as a Rwandan pawn. When he tried to shake off Kigali’s influence, the Second Congo War erupted (see above). Rwanda (and partly Uganda) responded by backing a new rebel group—the Rally for Congolese Democracy (RCD)—which included Tutsi fighters. But when the war stalled, in part due to SADC’s military intervention led by South Africa, the RCD splintered. Its most powerful faction—RCD-Goma—held onto North and South Kivu, although Rwanda’s military remained the true power behind the scenes. In 2002, the Sun City Accords allowed Joseph, Laurent-Désiré Kabila’s son, to stay in power while granting RCD-Goma and the Uganda-backed Movement for the Liberation of Congo (MLC), operating in northern Congo, formal status as legitimate political actors. As part of the deal, Rwandan and Ugandan troops withdrew from the DRC. By 2006, Joseph Kabila sought to consolidate his rule, but his 2007 election victory triggered clashes in Kinshasa with the MLC and a fresh Tutsi-led uprising in the east. This time, it was the Tutsi-dominated National Congress for the Defence of the People (CNDP), a faction that grew out of RCD-Goma. Neither Congolese troops nor UN peacekeepers could stop the CNDP’s advance. The rebels seized control of key mines and supply routes, though they ultimately failed to capture Goma—largely due to their lack of legitimacy and support locally. However, after a peace agreement reached between Kinshasa and the CNDP on March 23, 2009, the Congress formally transformed into a political party, while Joseph Kabila remained in power. In 2011, the CNDP suffered a crushing defeat in parliamentary elections, while Kabila retained the presidency, even as virtually all support for him in the east collapsed. Trying to preempt another rebellion, he decided to redeploy former CNDP fighters, who had by then been “integrated” into the Congolese army, away from the east. At the same time, he moved to arrest their leader, Bosco Ntaganda[3], who had been wanted by the International Criminal Court (ICC) since 2006. This strategy backfired, triggering a new rebellion and the birth of M23, named after the peace deal of 2009, which they claimed Kinshasa had violated. M23 started out small (around 300 fighters in April 2012) compared to its predecessor, the CNDP, it quickly followed in its footsteps and even captured Goma in November 2012. However, this was a step too far for the international community, which quickly mobilized efforts to crush M23 militarily. By 2013, the group had suffered an irreversible defeat—or so it seemed at the time. Paradoxically, however, it was not military pressure alone that led to M23’s downfall. After years of continuous conflict, the rebel leaders—who had transitioned from the RCD to the CNDP and then to M23—had lost much of their political credibility. While they claimed to defend the interests of Congolese Tutsis and protect them from the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR)—a Hutu militia hostile to Tutsis and Kigali—in reality, their real struggle was internal as they competed for power among themselves (M23 changed leadership just one month into the rebellion) and became ever more dependent on Rwanda’s direct military support, which further eroded their local legitimacy and claims to autochthony. Their rhetoric was highly populist, filled with calls for a nationwide revolution, but it failed to address the real concerns of Congolese Tutsis. Military control never translated into political support. By 2013, they were isolated and crushed. The remnants of M23 retreated over the border into Rwanda. With M23 collapsing, its factions splintered into local militias, losing any ideological pretence but continuing to operate along ethnic and materialist lines. The presence of a growing number of armed factions in eastern Congo as well as their constant fracturing is one of the reasons why the conflict has such a complex mosaic to it. Adding to the complexity are the Wazalendo (“patriots” in Swahili)—quasi-governmental militias, some of whom originated from the old Mai-Mai militias that once fought the CNDP. While they may oppose M23, they are far from a unified front. Instead, they operate independently, often pursuing economic interests not too dissimilar from those of M23 and expanding their political clout at the local level. Some of their leaders, too, have been hit with international sanctions. Rather than trying to rein the Wazalendo in, the government in Kinshasa has tolerated their presence, effectively militarizing governance in the country’s east—preferring to co-opt their influence rather than risk another line of conflict. When Goma fell in 2012, it forced the DRC government into something it is now desperate to avoid: direct negotiations with M23. The Kampala Dialogue dragged on for about a year, but it was hardly a real political process. By the time an agreement was reached—where M23 renounced rebellion and agreed to disarm, demobilize and reintegrate—the group had already been militarily defeated and was no longer a real negotiating force, nor was it a pollical actor. The retreat of M23’s remnants into Rwanda only reinforced Kinshasa’s stance: there was no point in talking to a fractured and disorganized rebel group with no clear political vision. If any real negotiations were needed, they had to be with Rwanda, not M23. The group’s main goal had always been controlling the resources and getting the rent—for its leaders, this was about profits, not politics. Even for ordinary M23 fighters, ideology often took a backseat to personal loyalty toward commanders they had known since the CNDP days or before. Volcanoes and minerals In May 2021, Nyiragongo erupted again. While this was just a coincidence, by November 2021, M23 had risen “from the ashes.” Crossing over from Rwanda, they returned to North Kivu, just as they had in 2012, and began their operations in Rutshuru—a town 30 kilometers from Rwanda, home to both Tutsis and Hutus (many of whom had settled there after the Rwandan genocide). Controlling Rutshuru is rather lucrative, as the region holds one of the world’s largest deposits of pyrochlore (a niobium oxide essential for electronics, aerospace, defense and other industries) as well as several gold mines. Without diving into the complex web of connections, it is worth noting that niobium/tantalum became Rwanda’s fifth-largest export in 2022—making it the ninth-largest exporter globally (accounting for 3.35% of global exports and surpassing the DRC’s less than 2%). Thanks to volcanic activity, the provinces on Lake Kivu are especially rich in highly sought-after minerals. North Kivu alone holds deposits of tantalum, cassiterite, cobalt, tungsten, gold, diamonds, tourmalines and pyrochlore. The problem, however, is that mining here is anything but transparent. Most extraction is artisanal, lacking proper environmental, safety or any oversight. The world’s growing demand for critical minerals is only making things worse in eastern DRC. The country relies on mining for 35–40% of its government revenue, and the mining sector is a key pillar of economic growth. However, agreements with Kinshasa do not always guarantee real access to resources. Even within a single province, competing power structures—provincial politicians, the Congolese military, local armed groups, and rebels proxy-linked to the neighbour country—can all contest control over mining sites. Rather than declining, illicit mineral exports—regardless of how they flow—have only increased in recent years, as global demand for these minerals surges and more competition kicks in. Eastern DRC has an estimated 2,500 mining sites—each one sustaining local armed groups and ensuring that the cycle of conflict remains unbroken. Since 2021, the EU and the U.S. have taken a much more proactive stance on critical minerals as new policies were introduced, partnerships with countries like the DRC and Rwanda have been strengthened, and steps have been taken to secure supply chains for critical raw materials while also developing a joint procurement platform. Around the same time, M23 made its comeback. While no direct causal link can be established, it can be suggested that close ties between the West and Rwanda have at the very least given Kigali the confidence to act without major international backlash. It is also probable that Rwanda indirectly controls eastern DRC’s resources through M23, since the group’s successes heavily depend on Rwandan military and logistical support. If these assumptions are correct, Western powers may well see Rwanda as a more reliable and predictable partner—one that could secure their resource interests in the region, something Kinshasa has failed to do for years due to its geographical and political detachment from the conflict zone. However, the situation is more complex than it seems. As M23 expands the territory under its control, it is not just gaining land—it is also increasing its ability to tax local populations. In late 2023, estimates suggested that M23 was collecting around $69,500 per month through various forms of taxation. This steady cash flow, combined with subsistence farming and local trade, actually sustains M23’s daily operations far more than mineral resources do. Extracting value from minerals is a slow, complex and difficult-to-control process, making it a less immediate source of funding for the rebels. So, while minerals are undeniably a catalyst for conflict and something that attracts both regional and global players, they are not the main factor keeping M23 alive. It would be a mistake to view it as the sole driving force behind instability. Even if access to resource extraction were cut off, M23 would still find ways to profit from controlling eastern DRC—which means the conflict in eastern DRC will persist regardless of changes in the resource trade. Why is the conflict exploding now? After its resurgence, M23 has been playing a long game, slowly building momentum for a decisive push. Until the right conditions were in place, they pushed forward assertively but carefully—avoiding an escalation that could bring the same level of international scrutiny as in 2012–2013, when it led to their defeat. In May 2022, M23 tested the waters near Goma but was repelled by the Congolese army and UN peacekeepers. A month later, in June, they triggered a “small-scale” humanitarian crisis at Uganda’s border by seizing the town of Bunagana, forcing thousands to flee—including Congolese soldiers. This move allowed them to control trade routes between Uganda and the DRC, giving them a stronger foothold. By February 2023, they had captured Mushaki and Rubaya, securing control over mines that produce nearly half of the DRC’s coltan output. And the more territory they controlled, the stronger their ranks grew. Meanwhile, there were several failed attempts at diplomacy. In April 2022, the Congolese government agreed to direct talks with several rebel groups in Nairobi, but nothing came of them. In July 2022, Angola attempted to broker a ceasefire, but violations by both sides rendered it ineffective. March 2023 saw new peace agreements, but these quickly collapsed, too. By December 2023, negotiations between the DRC and Rwanda had failed, further escalating tensions in Kivu. At the same time, public frustration with the perceived inaction of UN peacekeepers reached a boiling point. In August 2022, protests erupted in Goma and surrounding areas, targeting MONUSCO, the UN peacekeeping mission deployed since 1999, by far the most costly in UN history. That same month, the East African Community (EAC) deployed a regional task force, but it was stationed in South Kivu rather than North Kivu, where the crisis was most acute. Their presence often led to M23 not being fully removed, but simply repositioning and sometimes coexisting with peacekeepers, as seen in Bunagana. Many locals viewed troops from Burundi and Kenya as little different from the “occupiers” from M23. In the end, the Congolese government demanded the withdrawal of the EAC contingent by December 2023. That same month, after repeated appeals from DRC President Félix Tshisekedi, the UN Security Council adopted a resolution to withdraw MONUSCO from South Kivu and scale down its activities in other provinces. By the end of 2024, the mission was set to be fully dismantled. For M23, this was the perfect storm. The failures of international peacekeeping efforts, along with the stagnation and futility of negotiations—regardless of the mediators or external pressures on Rwanda and the DRC—ultimately played into M23’s hands. Though internal divisions persisted within the group, they understood that their window of opportunity was approaching. The arrival of SADC peacekeepers—who replaced the EAC forces—did little to change things. South Africa, the largest contributor, has been unwilling to fully commit. Public opinion largely views the casualties among South African troops as unjustifiable, while the country’s military is perceivably lacking the necessary preparedness for operations of such complexity, as is the case for eastern Congo. Throughout 2024, M23 laid all the groundwork to make their rapid advance on Goma possible in January 2025. In February 2024, they seized Shasha, a critical choke point controlling access to Goma’s supply routes. Around the same time, they came close to capturing Saké, which they fully took over in 2025—though sporadic shelling never ceased. By May 2024, half of Masisi Territory was under their control. Looking at the maps tracking M23’s territorial expansion compared to their 2012 peak when they first took Goma, it becomes painfully clear: their march toward Goma was never a question of ‘if’—only ‘when.’ Source: IPIS It appears that M23—and quite so Rwanda—have learned critical lessons from their 2013 defeat. Back then, as previously noted, the movement lacked both a political leader and a clear agenda, aside from an empty call for revolution across the DRC. Now, however, a major political figure has entered the scene: Corneille Nangaa has arrived in Goma, now under M23’s control. Formerly the head of the DRC’s National Electoral Commission, he was the one who validated Félix Tshisekedi’s contested victory in the 2018 elections. However, by 2023, tensions with Tshisekedi escalated, leading Nangaa to break ranks and align himself with M23. For the movement, he represents their first national-level political figure, unaffiliated with the Tutsi. Moreover, Nangaa has his own vision for the conflict: “In Congo, we have a non-state. Where all the armed groups have sprung up, it's because there’s no state. We want to recreate the state.” This suggests that the endgame for the current iteration of the conflict could be about securing political power in Kinshasa. This, in turn, echoes the dynamics of the First Congo War. Meanwhile, international mediators continue to flounder. Turkey has been dismissed, Angola’s peace talks have gone nowhere, South Africa has suffered reputational damage that led to tensions with Rwanda, and France’s shuttle diplomacy has achieved little. The EAC and SADC emergency summits continue, but this all with little coordination or tangible impact—each actor is seemingly pursuing their own interests, hoping for a chance of breakthrough. In stark contrast, M23 has moved with confidence and clarity, seeking solid control over eastern DRC and now willing to install an ally (at least) in Kinshasa.
