While the Doha agreement offers hope for DR Congo devastated by conflict, it is unlikely that the ceasefire will hold in the long term

On July 19 in Doha, under the watchful eyes of US and Qatari diplomats, representatives of the Democratic Republic of the Congo and the March 23 Movement (M23) rebel group signed a ‘Declaration of Principles’ on a peace agreement.

The document, vague in substance but rich in optics, was immediately hailed by US President Donald Trump’s camp as a diplomatic victory. Trump’s Africa adviser, Massad Boulos, said the “the most important article of the agreement is the affirmation of state control in rebel-held territories.” That of course is still to be worked out in the coming weeks.

For Trump, the moment was one of those testaments to his deal-making prowess, echoing the grandstanding that accompanied his earlier, more theatrical moves in the Middle East.

But behind the celebratory headlines lies a far murkier reality. DR Congo remains a country engulfed in complex, overlapping conflicts, with M23 being only one of over 120 armed groups operating in the eastern provinces. The idea that a ceasefire agreement – mediated thousands of miles away in a Qatari hotel – could magically resolve the decades-long insecurity in this mineral-rich region is at best naive, and at worst, deliberately misleading.

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The involvement of the US – particularly under transactional Trump – raises troubling questions. While any effort to mediate a ceasefire in one of the world’s most neglected war zones merits scrutiny, the Trump administration’s sudden engagement in the DR Congo appears driven less by concern for human suffering or regional stability and more by economic opportunity.

Trump as president has never visited Africa, including his first term. What’s more, his attitude toward the continent has been widely criticized as dismissive: In 2018 he referred to several African nations as “s**thole countries” during a White House meeting, drawing broad condemnation.

Last month, during a luncheon with the presidents of Gabon, Guinea-Bissau, Liberia, Mauritania, and Senegal at the White House, Trump grew visibly impatient as the leaders spoke. When it was Guinea-Bissau President Umaro Sissoco Embalo’s turn, Trump interrupted with: “Maybe we’re gonna have to go a little bit quicker than this because we have a whole schedule,” and added, “if I could just ask your name and country, that would be great.” Though delivered in the guise of a schedule constraint, the remark was widely characterized as humiliating. It reduced these heads of state to nameless, interchangeable participants – highlighting a deeply transactional approach and a lack of respect for African leaders and their agendas.

Mining peace

DR Congo is one of the most resource-rich countries on the planet. Its eastern region, the focal point of the latest ceasefire, holds vast reserves of cobalt, coltan, gold, and lithium – minerals essential to electric vehicles, smartphones, and advanced military systems.

As global demand for these resources soars, Washington has grown increasingly uneasy over China’s dominance in the DR Congo’s mining sector. Trump’s sudden push for the US involvement in Congolese ‘peacebuilding’ is better understood as a strategic bid to secure Western access to these critical minerals. Just two weeks earlier, he hosted a separate signing ceremony at the White House for what was billed as a broader agreement between Rwanda – allegedly the main backer of M23 – and the DR Congo. He used the occasion to underscore his transactional approach, stating that the deal gave the US “a lot of the mineral rights from the Congo as part of it.” Human Rights Watch criticized the announcement, noting that the deal “ aligns squarely with US strategic interests and President Trump’s ethos for a transactional foreign policy.”

This isn’t merely speculative. The Doha agreement followed months of discrete but strategic moves by US-linked mining and tech firms – many backed by influential figures tied to Trump’s donor circles – positioning them for long-term access to Congolese cobalt, lithium, and copper.

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KoBold Metals, backed by Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos, is pushing into Congolese lithium exploration at Manono, directly challenging Chinese interests. Meanwhile, a draft minerals-for-security arrangement being negotiated by the Trump administration envisions US companies – including KoBold, Orion Resource Partners, and Rio Tinto – receiving preferential access to mineral assets in exchange for political and financial support to Kinshasa. These efforts underscore how Washington’s public message of peace and stability masks a deeper strategy: Pacify the mineral-rich Kivu provinces just enough to facilitate Western extraction.

Doha’s vague papers

The ‘Principles of Peace’ signed in Doha are troublingly vague. The document outlines a broad road map for political dialogue, reintegration of fighters, and eventual disarmament, but lacks binding enforcement mechanisms or timelines. Worse, it places the burden of disarmament largely on M23, the very group that has grown in military sophistication and territorial control in recent years, thanks in part to support from neighbouring Rwanda.

Asking M23 to lay down its arms with only vague promises of reintegration and security guarantees from a state that has repeatedly failed to protect its own citizens is, to put it mildly, unrealistic. The group, largely composed of Tutsi fighters who claim to protect Congolese Tutsi minorities from persecution, has long accused Kinshasa of bad faith in previous agreements. Why this time would be any different – especially when mediated outside Africa by foreign powers with ulterior motives – remains unanswered.

Moreover, the document remains conspicuously silent on Rwanda’s role in the conflict. While Presidents Paul Kagame and Felix Tshisekedi are expected – if all goes according to plan – to sign a more comprehensive peace agreement in Washington this August, implementing the deal is another matter entirely. The long record of failed accords, combined with Washington’s deal-centered approach to diplomacy, casts serious doubt on its durability. Any peace arrangement that overlooks the regional dimension of the conflict is not only incomplete but also potentially dangerous, as it risks legitimizing a proxy force without holding its sponsors to account.

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History is a reliable guide here. Previous deals with M23, most notably the 2013 agreement brokered in Kampala, collapsed within months. Many of the same figures now being recycled into the current agreement were involved back then – and the same structural issues remain unresolved: Lack of trust, regional meddling, economic incentives to keep fighting, and the Congolese state unable or unwilling to govern the east effectively.

There is little to suggest that Doha will fare any better. If anything, the disconnect between the glossy diplomatic theater and the grim reality on the ground makes collapse even more likely. Most Congolese citizens, particularly those in the North Kivu province – the heart of the conflict – were unaware of the Doha process until the signing was announced. Local civil society groups, religious leaders, and community representatives were not consulted. This top-down, externally-driven approach mirrors other failed interventions in the region – and underscores the perception that the deal was made for American and Qatari interests, not for Congolese peace.

Facade diplomacy

For Trump, though, the facts on the ground are beside the point. What matters is the image: Another ‘peace deal’ to wave at cameras and cite during campaign rallies. The Doha agreement fits neatly into his narrative of global deal-maker – reviving the formula he used with the Abraham Accords in the Middle East, where normalization with Israel was prioritized over justice for Palestinians, and again when he vowed to end the war in Gaza by simply driving the Palestinians out of their land to create what he called the ‘Riviera of the Middle East’.

While the Doha deal offers much-needed hope for a region devastated by decades of conflict, it is unlikely that the ceasefire will hold in the long term. Moreover, the US is unlikely to maintain sustained focus on the issue for as long as necessary. This process risks being more about projecting a diplomatic facade than addressing the region’s deep-rooted problems.

Under Trump’s approach, peace is reduced to optics: A signed agreement, a photo opportunity, and a press release. The real challenges – fighters disarming, refugees returning home, or the flow of conflict minerals being halted – are left to chance or, more cynically, destined to unravel once the cameras are gone.

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Qatar’s role in the process is also worth examining. Long eager to cast itself as a neutral mediator in global conflicts – from Afghanistan to Sudan to now DR Congo – Doha has positioned itself as the go-to venue for Western-brokered diplomacy. While its financial resources and global network give it a comparative advantage, Qatar’s increasing alignment with US strategic goals in Africa cannot be ignored.

For Doha, the Congolese deal burnishes its image as a peace broker. But for critics, it marks another example of Gulf states facilitating transactional diplomacy that serves Western interests far more than local populations.

Indeed, any ceasefire is better than open warfare. But the Doha agreement, despite the celebratory rhetoric, offers only the illusion of peace. The Congolese people have lived through countless illusions – brief moments of international attention followed by abandonment and renewed violence.

Instead, what we are witnessing is the repackaging of geopolitical competition as peace-making, with Trump and his allies eager to use the crisis in DR Congo as another talking point in their broader campaign to secure economic advantages and diplomatic bragging rights. If peace does come to eastern Congo, it will not be because of hotel-room negotiations in Doha, but because Congolese voices are finally heard, regional interference is checked, and the country’s wealth is used to uplift its people rather than reward its tormentors.

Until then, the Doha ceasefire remains exactly what it appears to be: A deal for the cameras, not for the people.

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