The moon displayed its magnificence gained from the fallen sun by covering the land with a silver lining; a welcomed splendor for a sullen atmosphere surrounded us this night. We were headed to the house of friend and brother Honoré. A man of many talents; languages, teaching, ministering and administration, and holds a gentle yet, passionate spirit. As the academic dean, he is a major contributor to the functioning of UCBC. He was north of Beni in Nyakunde/Bunia area and just witnessed the passing of his father to diabetes (I’ve recently learned that diabetes is a very prevalent condition ). His family, including a brother that attends UCBC, had just been informed.
We arrived to find a number of students had already gathered at the home. We walked in to console Honoré’s wife and family. His brother greeted me with his usual joyful, gapped tooth smile. Later, he would occasionally break; even strength and desensitization accumulated as an ex-combatant cannot lessen the pain.
In the dim lantern light, we gathered in prayer and song led by students. The archipelago voices, absorbed in African rhythm, filled the room and then drifted through the surrounding mud-thatch houses before being carried to the heavens. After comforting her mother, Honoré’s 3-year old daughter Martha came crawling onto my lap. The innocence of a child, not comprehending what has taken place, yet knowing exactly what her mother needs. With curiosity, she examined my large, white hands in comparison to her own; always looking up to check on her mother’s condition.
Shortly after my return in January, I went to the house of AJ (the same student that held Bush in his grief). When I was away, AJ’s wife gave birth to a baby girl, Danielle on January 7, 2008, my birthday as well; instant connection here. I held her wrapped in blankets, as disturbed bats flew in and out of the room. What a gift…life, and the happiness it brings to a father, as indicated by the wide grin across AJ’s face.
Close encounters…with birth of life and the taking of it. As my head was bowed last week during the mourning of Bush’s mother, my mind drifted into thoughts on humanity…what separates us from all else. In the beginning and end, we distinctly see the image of God. The joy and beauty life brings and the suffering and pain in its passing. In between, we depart on journeys and adventures through metaphorical jungles, deserts, unexplored seas, and mountain peaks, that illuminate our creator and humanity. But, the purest portrayal of our image is found in the beginning and end.
I commented in an earlier entry, the youthful life that feeds Congo. I recently read commentary on G.K. Chesterton’s assertion that he learned more about life from the interaction of children, than the studies of philosophy. And whether its watching a short clip of my nephew laughing, countless joyful and curious children chasing me, the tranquility of a new born, or child’s ability to bring joy and comfort in a situation filled with sullen tension, I’m inclined to be equally fascinated. Innocence is yet to be tainted, and the absence of prejudice, discrimination, or judgment exhibits unconditional serenity.
And in death, our hearts are exposed to vulnerability. Pain that hurts so deep, we forget or maybe remember, what it means to live. And the true value of life is weighed. The event ignites our friends and families, the surrounding community, to revert back to our child-like behavior and hidden sense; relieving the hurt. Unconditional acts and emotion return. And as one views the empty shell, we acknowledge the peace that has transcended. A reminder of the humanity and holiness found in One who walked the earth in order to display His image from beginning to end.
We often forget the reaction of Jesus when Lazarus died. Despite the forthcoming resurrection, he was “deeply moved in spirit and troubled”. He wept.
As we walked away from our mother’s grave last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about the recent estimate of over 5 million lives taken from Congo, as a result of war, poverty and disease since 1996. And for each one…Jesus wept.
As I finish, my little 3-year old friend here is jamming to an array of foreign artists while his little paws pounce on my keys. As irritating it is, difficult to scold the little monster.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
A Response
A significant number of students spent the night with their friend. The following day, the rest of us arrived for the funeral. A long day of songs and messages was given to an audience of 400 plus. At one point, one of the minister’s informed the congregation and community they needed help digging the grave as the ground was tough. Immediately 6 or 7 UCBC students rose and departed towards the cemetery to assist for the next 2 to 3 hours. It was also students who carried their friend’s mother to her final resting place, and it was the students that laid her in the ground and covered the coffin with soil.
It’s hard to appreciate such an event as you witness such a loss. But the response of the students gave testimony to the community. What is transpiring at UCBC extends far beyond individual transformation, but is reaching out with fingers that bring hope to Congo.
People approached us afterwards in disbelief and awe, “What’s the secret? What do you do?” Frankly, there are days I wonder the same thing. Simple answer…God, prayer, and faith in a Gospel and the Cross that is not bounded by culture, tribe, war, poverty, wealth, ignorance, color, and countless others that inhibit our true image.
Within the vision of CI-UCBC is the phrase to develop leaders that implement “Kingdom” values. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”: The response of the students is evidence that these values are possible in the harshest of contexts.
It’s hard to appreciate such an event as you witness such a loss. But the response of the students gave testimony to the community. What is transpiring at UCBC extends far beyond individual transformation, but is reaching out with fingers that bring hope to Congo.
People approached us afterwards in disbelief and awe, “What’s the secret? What do you do?” Frankly, there are days I wonder the same thing. Simple answer…God, prayer, and faith in a Gospel and the Cross that is not bounded by culture, tribe, war, poverty, wealth, ignorance, color, and countless others that inhibit our true image.
Within the vision of CI-UCBC is the phrase to develop leaders that implement “Kingdom” values. “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven”: The response of the students is evidence that these values are possible in the harshest of contexts.
Loss
On February 11, 2008, I woke up groggy from the interruptions of mosquitoes. It has rained a lot the past few days; uncharacteristic of the dry season. I arrived at school and was quietly informed a student’s mother had passed this morning. He didn’t know. Moments later I found myself in a room with Dr. Kasali and Honoré preparing to disclose the news to the student, Bush. As we informed him, his eyes gradually swelled with tears, and eventually broke.
The students were in chapel. After they heard the news they consoled their fellow classmate, in prayer and song. After some discussion they decided to accompany us to Oicha, a village 40 minutes north of Beni, where Bush’s mother passed away. After a few phone calls and a couple hours later, transportation was arranged. Festo and I did our best to keep our friend’s mind from drifting far into grief by making jokes about the black beans we eat everyday for lunch and how they make us, lack of better term, shit.
We arrived via caravan at Oicha. Almost every student attended the mourning service. We entered the church, her body wrapped in blankets on a bed in front. Women dear to her laid on the floor weeping and wailing. Bush collapsed at his mother’s side. The students gathered around in support for a few moments and then respectively stepped back. I swallowed hard, my gut tight, as I watched a friend overcome by sorrow.
After having my head bowed for a few minutes, I looked up to witness one of the students coming behind Bush as he laid weeping on the tarps spread across the church floor. He sat behind him and embraced his body that had reverted to the child-like state after the loss of a mother; allowing a weary head and back to rest on his own lap. He consoled him by whispering calming words into his ear. He held him as young brothers do before they reach an age that tells you otherwise. A sight my mind will never let escape.
I recently explained to a friend how I questioned my heart, “Has it become hardened?” I’ve learned to say “no” to many…desperate. In some instances, you detach yourself from your surroundings. You’ll lose it if you don’t. This isn’t my first encounter with death here. I recognize I’ve adapted well, but lately, I wonder if I’m too comfortable. Almost desensitized. But, as I witnessed the grief of my friend and student, for the first time since I’ve arrived, I slowly allowed the release of a tear down my own face. By God’s grace, I handle anything Congo brings, and by this same grace, I still feel the brokenness of hearts as they experience lost.
(note: Bush’s parents have been strong partners and supporters in the development of UCBC)
The students were in chapel. After they heard the news they consoled their fellow classmate, in prayer and song. After some discussion they decided to accompany us to Oicha, a village 40 minutes north of Beni, where Bush’s mother passed away. After a few phone calls and a couple hours later, transportation was arranged. Festo and I did our best to keep our friend’s mind from drifting far into grief by making jokes about the black beans we eat everyday for lunch and how they make us, lack of better term, shit.
We arrived via caravan at Oicha. Almost every student attended the mourning service. We entered the church, her body wrapped in blankets on a bed in front. Women dear to her laid on the floor weeping and wailing. Bush collapsed at his mother’s side. The students gathered around in support for a few moments and then respectively stepped back. I swallowed hard, my gut tight, as I watched a friend overcome by sorrow.
After having my head bowed for a few minutes, I looked up to witness one of the students coming behind Bush as he laid weeping on the tarps spread across the church floor. He sat behind him and embraced his body that had reverted to the child-like state after the loss of a mother; allowing a weary head and back to rest on his own lap. He consoled him by whispering calming words into his ear. He held him as young brothers do before they reach an age that tells you otherwise. A sight my mind will never let escape.
I recently explained to a friend how I questioned my heart, “Has it become hardened?” I’ve learned to say “no” to many…desperate. In some instances, you detach yourself from your surroundings. You’ll lose it if you don’t. This isn’t my first encounter with death here. I recognize I’ve adapted well, but lately, I wonder if I’m too comfortable. Almost desensitized. But, as I witnessed the grief of my friend and student, for the first time since I’ve arrived, I slowly allowed the release of a tear down my own face. By God’s grace, I handle anything Congo brings, and by this same grace, I still feel the brokenness of hearts as they experience lost.
(note: Bush’s parents have been strong partners and supporters in the development of UCBC)
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Taste of Eden
In December, a student friend described an area he used to work as a logger northwest of Beni. I told him I was itching to get out of Beni and see the lush forest that my eyes were hooked on as I flew in. From the air, the canopy reminds me of “broccoli” bunches at a food store. The forest floor is hidden from sight, leaving one to wonder what lies beneath it’s protective ceiling. So, last Saturday we decided to take a motorbike to Mambasa.
The plan was to leave at 7:00AM. I left any necessary preparations and plans to my friend. He has traveled the route many times…however, this included a mzungu. We borrowed a Senke motorbike from his friend; the poorly built, Chinese brand that has invaded the towns. It was 10:00AM by the time we departed and I gently asked my companion, “Do we have time to make the trip?” He answered, “Yes.”
The road we would take to Mambasa was in poor shape. The type of trails a mountain biker enjoys; fast, filled with potholes, dips, rocks, and dried-up rainwater routes. We traveled through the outskirts of Beni and a local village called Magina. At a check point I registered with the “immigration office”, a thatch hut with its title written in chalk on a wood panel. My friend had forgotten to retrieve the documentation for the motorbike, so we persuaded the local authorities for understanding and a written, notarized note allowing us to continue. We would go through a similar exercise at other villages and specifically the border to the Orientale province, where I had to convince the immigration officer and officer of tourism that I lived and worked in Beni, and I wasn’t…well, exactly a tourist. My friend had also left his driver’s permit at the first stop, requiring me to drive into the other villages with my “International” license.
We continued on and villages became sparse as we entered the sea of forest. I was selfish, leaving thoughts of the darker realities of Congo and my responsibilities as a volunteer and teacher behind. I rarely even lifted my camera. This trip was for me…to experience a Congo…free of any predispositions and matter that may taint the experience, as if stripped to my organic being. While we sped under the canopy, I breathed in the sweet aroma of the jungle as my skin soaked in pockets of cool and warm air. Orchids lined the road as colorful birds and insects danced through the little space available between the arms and hands of vegetation. When we stopped to stretch and admire the rolling, green carpet, I listened to chatter of monkeys in the distance and calls of countless avian. The forest was saturated with uncontaminated life. It was a taste of Eden.
As we drove my call-name of “mzungu” changed with the change in language and local dialects. The people watched keenly and with astonishment, quitting whatever task they were doing as I entered their frame of vision. Their faces often carried smiles and their body language showed an appreciation for a wave or nod. With my naked mind, I envied the simple way of life here in the forest and found it hard to imagine the scene with violence.
We arrived in Mambasa around 3:30PM. At this time, I was somewhat annoyed with the poor estimation of kilometers and time I left to my friend to disclose. We had a decision to make…find a place to stay in Mambasa or push for the river on the road that cut west to east to before nightfall. The bridge here was destroyed months ago by heavy rain. Travelers now crossed by boat. Appreciating the unpredictable experience thus far, I decided we should continue. We had about two and half hours of sunlight. We could reach Komanda, the next town just across the river, and then head south to Beni.
The road to Komanda was built with the assistance of the Chinese and very good in comparison to the previous road. My buttocks welcomed the break from the violent bouncing suffered earlier. We raced on the wider road and made good time. Nonetheless, we arrived at the river crossing just in time. My friend greeted old friends from the days he worked in timber. We pushed the bike into a boat that had a good 4 inches of water at the bottom. His eager friends pulled quickly on the ropes that connected the two banks and we were across within 5 minutes. I thanked and paid the men for their assistance and we again took off…this time our bike needed a bit of a push, a little encouragement perhaps. Komanda was not far from the river crossing and we entered the town with a half hour of daylight left. Unfortunately, when we stopped to greet the “mother” of my friend during his days in the area, we noticed a bulge in the front tire and had it replaced to assure a safe journey back to Beni. We left Komanda just as night began to set. My friend was tired, so I took the driver position. We had about two and half hours until we reached Beni. Normally, I would not have made such a decision, and realized we probably should have stayed the night. Something told me to continue on…as careless as it might seem. I would never encourage it however.
We began the last trek as the temperature dropped and the night insects came to life. There was something peaceful about this part of the trip. Perhaps it was the solitude of freedom from curious eyes, though my white skin probably glows enough for those walking the road to notice. Insects pelted my forehead and chest, fortunately my eyes escaped unharmed. We stopped once…long enough to value the sounds of the night and the stars shining bright at the equator. There was one check-point along the way, where the guard noticed my features, and actively approached. But, when he saw my dust covered clothes and face he realized we were exhausted and trying to get back quickly. With a salute we carried on.
After 400 some kilometers and almost 12 hours on a motorbike we arrived in Beni…exhausted from the elements of travel and exhilaration. I laughed with my good friend and noted that was “simply crazy”. At the house awaited perhaps the best warm, Congolese meal I could eat after such a journey.
The plan was to leave at 7:00AM. I left any necessary preparations and plans to my friend. He has traveled the route many times…however, this included a mzungu. We borrowed a Senke motorbike from his friend; the poorly built, Chinese brand that has invaded the towns. It was 10:00AM by the time we departed and I gently asked my companion, “Do we have time to make the trip?” He answered, “Yes.”
The road we would take to Mambasa was in poor shape. The type of trails a mountain biker enjoys; fast, filled with potholes, dips, rocks, and dried-up rainwater routes. We traveled through the outskirts of Beni and a local village called Magina. At a check point I registered with the “immigration office”, a thatch hut with its title written in chalk on a wood panel. My friend had forgotten to retrieve the documentation for the motorbike, so we persuaded the local authorities for understanding and a written, notarized note allowing us to continue. We would go through a similar exercise at other villages and specifically the border to the Orientale province, where I had to convince the immigration officer and officer of tourism that I lived and worked in Beni, and I wasn’t…well, exactly a tourist. My friend had also left his driver’s permit at the first stop, requiring me to drive into the other villages with my “International” license.
We continued on and villages became sparse as we entered the sea of forest. I was selfish, leaving thoughts of the darker realities of Congo and my responsibilities as a volunteer and teacher behind. I rarely even lifted my camera. This trip was for me…to experience a Congo…free of any predispositions and matter that may taint the experience, as if stripped to my organic being. While we sped under the canopy, I breathed in the sweet aroma of the jungle as my skin soaked in pockets of cool and warm air. Orchids lined the road as colorful birds and insects danced through the little space available between the arms and hands of vegetation. When we stopped to stretch and admire the rolling, green carpet, I listened to chatter of monkeys in the distance and calls of countless avian. The forest was saturated with uncontaminated life. It was a taste of Eden.
As we drove my call-name of “mzungu” changed with the change in language and local dialects. The people watched keenly and with astonishment, quitting whatever task they were doing as I entered their frame of vision. Their faces often carried smiles and their body language showed an appreciation for a wave or nod. With my naked mind, I envied the simple way of life here in the forest and found it hard to imagine the scene with violence.
We arrived in Mambasa around 3:30PM. At this time, I was somewhat annoyed with the poor estimation of kilometers and time I left to my friend to disclose. We had a decision to make…find a place to stay in Mambasa or push for the river on the road that cut west to east to before nightfall. The bridge here was destroyed months ago by heavy rain. Travelers now crossed by boat. Appreciating the unpredictable experience thus far, I decided we should continue. We had about two and half hours of sunlight. We could reach Komanda, the next town just across the river, and then head south to Beni.
The road to Komanda was built with the assistance of the Chinese and very good in comparison to the previous road. My buttocks welcomed the break from the violent bouncing suffered earlier. We raced on the wider road and made good time. Nonetheless, we arrived at the river crossing just in time. My friend greeted old friends from the days he worked in timber. We pushed the bike into a boat that had a good 4 inches of water at the bottom. His eager friends pulled quickly on the ropes that connected the two banks and we were across within 5 minutes. I thanked and paid the men for their assistance and we again took off…this time our bike needed a bit of a push, a little encouragement perhaps. Komanda was not far from the river crossing and we entered the town with a half hour of daylight left. Unfortunately, when we stopped to greet the “mother” of my friend during his days in the area, we noticed a bulge in the front tire and had it replaced to assure a safe journey back to Beni. We left Komanda just as night began to set. My friend was tired, so I took the driver position. We had about two and half hours until we reached Beni. Normally, I would not have made such a decision, and realized we probably should have stayed the night. Something told me to continue on…as careless as it might seem. I would never encourage it however.
We began the last trek as the temperature dropped and the night insects came to life. There was something peaceful about this part of the trip. Perhaps it was the solitude of freedom from curious eyes, though my white skin probably glows enough for those walking the road to notice. Insects pelted my forehead and chest, fortunately my eyes escaped unharmed. We stopped once…long enough to value the sounds of the night and the stars shining bright at the equator. There was one check-point along the way, where the guard noticed my features, and actively approached. But, when he saw my dust covered clothes and face he realized we were exhausted and trying to get back quickly. With a salute we carried on.
After 400 some kilometers and almost 12 hours on a motorbike we arrived in Beni…exhausted from the elements of travel and exhilaration. I laughed with my good friend and noted that was “simply crazy”. At the house awaited perhaps the best warm, Congolese meal I could eat after such a journey.
Back
As my taxi sped on the Ugandan roads from Kampala to the airport in Entebbe, my heart pumped with anticipation, not for the adventure that Congo brings, but an anticipation of a homecoming. As I surveyed the Ugandan road and life, I could not evade the contrast. I began to mentally prepare for the realities discovered, even if expected, in the first two and a half months in Congo, My mind then drifted into recollection of the beauty found in the land and the people; the good cheer on the faces of UCBC students; the passion and devotion that fuels the initiative and University; and the absolute grace of living in the unknown.
From Entebbe to Bunia, DR Congo, I took an old Russian twin engine charter flight, packed with cargo and maybe 8 passengers. The air injected into the cabin was filled with the stench of fuel. I’ve always appreciated the smell of gasoline, so I didn’t mind. As the remaining passengers worked through immigration in Bunia, I had the chance to catch a glimpse of the peace talks in Goma on a local news channel. After more than 10 years of severe conflict and approximately 5.4 million related deaths and rising (data from IRC), a heavy step towards peace was taken. Yet, the hope felt from these talks is clouded by the news from Kenya; outburst of ethnic violence in a country that has been considered stable, successful, and an example to the rest of East Africa. A few friends and students here fled Congo in the 1990s to Kenya. They now exhibit ghost-like faces as the news of clashes invades the radio waves. And for many here, I wonder if it unsettles their spirits with memories of their own recent past.
Before visiting the school and students, we dropped my bags at the house and greeted my Congolese family. Awaiting there was fresh passion fruit and pineapple juice…the next best thing to my grandmother’s egg nog (if I can compare the two). Jet lagged, but adrenaline running, we headed over to UCBC with waves and nods to those I recognized on the way. After 90 some greetings, some dancing, and drilled with questions of my trip and why I didn’t inform them of my departure before break, I relaxed and thought…it’s good to be back.
(Note: The first question almost everyone asked me about my trip was: “How is your family?” )
From Entebbe to Bunia, DR Congo, I took an old Russian twin engine charter flight, packed with cargo and maybe 8 passengers. The air injected into the cabin was filled with the stench of fuel. I’ve always appreciated the smell of gasoline, so I didn’t mind. As the remaining passengers worked through immigration in Bunia, I had the chance to catch a glimpse of the peace talks in Goma on a local news channel. After more than 10 years of severe conflict and approximately 5.4 million related deaths and rising (data from IRC), a heavy step towards peace was taken. Yet, the hope felt from these talks is clouded by the news from Kenya; outburst of ethnic violence in a country that has been considered stable, successful, and an example to the rest of East Africa. A few friends and students here fled Congo in the 1990s to Kenya. They now exhibit ghost-like faces as the news of clashes invades the radio waves. And for many here, I wonder if it unsettles their spirits with memories of their own recent past.
Before visiting the school and students, we dropped my bags at the house and greeted my Congolese family. Awaiting there was fresh passion fruit and pineapple juice…the next best thing to my grandmother’s egg nog (if I can compare the two). Jet lagged, but adrenaline running, we headed over to UCBC with waves and nods to those I recognized on the way. After 90 some greetings, some dancing, and drilled with questions of my trip and why I didn’t inform them of my departure before break, I relaxed and thought…it’s good to be back.
(Note: The first question almost everyone asked me about my trip was: “How is your family?” )
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