In the bustling city of Bukavu, nestled in the mineral-rich east of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, a new kind of crisis has gripped the daily lives of its residents. This time, it’s not just the ever-present threat of violence or displacement that’s causing hardship—it’s the very money in people’s pockets. Since the Rwanda-backed M23 rebel group seized control of Bukavu in February 2025, ordinary Congolese have found themselves caught in a surreal economic bind: their cash, much of it battered and hole-punched, is being rejected by shopkeepers and businesses, leaving families like that of Alain Mukumiro struggling to put food on the table.
"All my money has serial numbers, but they refuse it," Mukumiro, a fridge technician and father of three, told The Associated Press. His frustration is echoed by many in Bukavu, a city that once bustled with economic activity but now faces a severe cash shortage. The problem began when, amidst escalating conflict with Congolese government forces, the M23 rebels overran the city and forced the closure of all banks. With financial institutions shuttered, the supply of new, intact banknotes dried up almost overnight.
That’s when the hole-punched bills began to appear. These battered notes, which had been marked for destruction by banks, somehow made their way back into circulation. While it’s unclear exactly how this happened, many residents suspect they were stolen from bank buildings during the chaos of the rebel takeover. Now, these patched-up bills are all that’s left for most people to use—but not everyone is willing to accept them.
“It’s a real headache because some sellers accept them and others don’t,” Mukumiro explained, his voice tinged with exhaustion. The confusion and tension have become a daily ordeal. Customers and businesses argue over the legitimacy of the notes, and with both intact and defective currency in circulation, trust in every transaction has eroded. For Mukumiro, the stakes are painfully clear: his family faces yet another night without food, a fate shared by many in Bukavu.
The economic consequences of the currency crisis are stark. Zihalirwa Rutchababisha, who owns a repair equipment business, told AP that he refuses to accept the busted banknotes, fearing he’ll be unable to restock his supplies. “We are also facing the same situation as them,” Rutchababisha said of his customers. “If I take them, I won’t be able to use them to purchase supplies and that would put me at a loss.” His weekly profit has plummeted from $120 last year to just $20 under M23 control, a direct result of dwindling sales and the collapse of consumer confidence.
With the formal banking sector paralyzed, a shadowy black market for currency has sprung up. Ruboneka Mirindi Innocent, one of several local residents now working as money-changers, explained that the older, hole-punched bills exchange for new ones at a punishing rate of about 10-to-1. “We keep these banknotes because we don’t know what else to do, it’s just to help each other out,” he said. But for most people, this is little comfort.
The crisis in Bukavu is just one facet of a much larger humanitarian catastrophe. According to The Associated Press, fighting in eastern Congo has displaced around 7 million people, with more towns and cities falling under rebel control. The closure of banks in key cities like Bukavu and Goma has only deepened the suffering, cutting off access to cash and disrupting what little economic activity remains. Bukavu’s population of over 1.3 million is largely dependent on the informal sector, where transactions are cash-based and online payments are a luxury reserved for a privileged few.
Indeed, only about 2% of Bukavu’s residents—mostly state employees—now receive their salaries via online transfer. For the vast majority, who work in markets, small shops, or as day laborers, cash is still king. But with so little of it to go around, and so much of what remains in questionable condition, daily life has become a grinding struggle.
Some have tried to find solutions. David Kyanga, a professor of economics at Bukavu’s Higher Institute of Commerce, suggested that the only way forward might be for the M23 authorities to officially recognize the defective banknotes as valid means of payment. “The M23 could calm tensions by informing people that the hole-punched banknotes are valid,” he said, pointing out that without fresh supplies from the Congolese banking authorities, there’s little alternative.
For a brief moment, it seemed like such a solution might be on the horizon. In the week before September 9, 2025, Patrick Busu Bwasingwi Nshombo, the M23-appointed governor of South Kivu province, announced a program allowing residents to exchange their perforated notes at one of the rebel-opened banks. But the operation was quickly suspended, as overwhelmed bank agents struggled to keep up with the flood of battered bills brought forward for exchange. The hope that this initiative might bring relief evaporated almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Meanwhile, the official stance from Kinshasa remains unyielding. On September 4, 2025, government spokesperson Patrick Muyaya declared that no banks would reopen in rebel-held territories like Bukavu, citing the ongoing insecurity and U.S. Treasury sanctions against the M23. “No bank can open its doors in a situation of insecurity like what is happening in areas occupied by the M23,” Muyaya said at a press conference. He also questioned how banks could possibly operate under the shadow of international sanctions.
For ordinary residents, the impasse is excruciating. “We don’t know who will save us,” Mukumiro said, his despair palpable. “The government in Kinshasa turns a blind eye, and the liberators also watch the situation without taking action.” It’s a sentiment echoed in markets and homes across Bukavu, where frustration and uncertainty have replaced the old rhythms of daily commerce.
The crisis in Bukavu is a vivid reminder of how conflict can unravel the very fabric of society, reaching into wallets and dinner tables as surely as it does into the streets. With banks closed, cash scarce, and trust in the currency shattered, the people of Bukavu are left to navigate a world where even money—once the simplest of tools—has become a source of pain and division. Their predicament is a stark testament to the human cost of war, and a challenge that neither government nor rebels have yet managed to solve.