We jumped in the “clinging to life” Izuzu and sped down the main route to locate the accident and take our student to the hospital. We did not see the common crowd that gathers at such a scene, nor any students. We rushed to the hospital, silent. A student had been hit by a truck while walking home from the University.
Upon our arrival, we were immediately directed to the emergency waiting room. The female student laid on a bench as another student, held her, and acted as a back rest. Her mother upset outside. Others tried to calm and distract her from the brutal injury and agonizing pain. Her arm was wrapped in a white shirt, now crimson red. She cried in Swahili and tears. As I pushed my way through the soothing onlookers, I could sense the pain in the atmosphere. I slowly grabbed her other hand, knuckles clenched white as they prepared for the powerful grip that signifies relentless pain. I felt useless, but in quiet prayer. Moments of relief would come in brevity.
The doctors were preparing the surgery room down the street. I gave her hand to another and walked out of the suffocating, heavy atmosphere to get the details of the accident. Emotion penetrated my mind and heart for a brief moment; enough to feel my eyes swell, but not enough to be seen; then quickly ducked elsewhere in my being. A teacher’s reaction? A friend’s responsibility? Brotherly love? Fatherly concern? Maybe all. I don’t know sometimes.
A doctor friend informed us they were ready and she was transported a few “blocks” to the surgery room. Her family accompanied her and a few students and myself would follow suit moments later. We sat quietly on the porch outside the room. At one point, a doctor opened the door and handed her older brother his sister’s necklace. Unfortunately, when her mother saw this, it symbolized something more dreadful, and she fainted. As soon as she awoke from her brief break from a mother’s heartache, the rest of us found some humor in the incident, and smiled.
She would spend 3-4 hours in surgery, her muscle detached from the forearm. It was bad. I returned later that night after taking care of the crew installing an internet system at the University. I turned the corner of the concrete structure and found 6 students outside of her room. They gathered in support of their classmate. I entered her room as she was mumbling a variety of words. The drugs still dominated her frame of mind, but aware enough to recognize concerned figures surrounding her. She sweetly greeted me and introduced her mother, then quietly reminded me her father had passed (he died of a heart attack shortly after he found all his businesses had been looted during the war).
At the end of this all, we know she will be ok. By grace, the truck struck her arm and not her body or head, and within this environment worse things could happen. However, this accident has pushed me across the line of approach and functions of this blog. Originally, I wanted to refrain from using it as a "fundraising tool", but realize it can no longer remain a mere storyboard and personal form of expression. The stories present the realities and experiences here in DR Congo, and specifically at UCBC, directly or indirectly. Owned by no one, but the characters themselves. And, ultimately reveal the needs of this initiative.
So, I candidly ask for your assistance and support with a specific need. Most students walk on average of 4 hours a day (2 hours there and back). This is a long trek on the dusty, main road. In addition, the main route has been the object of Chinese construction. The road is dirt smooth, for the most part, and new to the eager drivers. Consequently, the road is not the safest. Moreover, you can imagine the difficulties this presents; outside of physical fatigue, it leaves little time for other family responsibilities and studies.
As many of you know, we are raising funds for a UCBC bus. Please visit www.congoinitiative.org if you are interested in making a contribution. Click on donate and in the comments section please write "funds for bus".
Please pray for her: comfort amidst excruciating pain and healing.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Nyankunde
Easter weekend, I departed for Nyankunde and Bunia. For those following, I wrote previously about the region and it’s past; an area I’ve heard much about through students and friends, but yet to visit. I was looking forward to a break from Beni and CI-UCBC activity and anxious for the 3-hour trip. Thanks to my friend and his reconciliation ministry, we had a free ride in a Toyota Hilux pick up, supped up with a giant loud speaker attached. I confess, elsewhere in the world, I’d be a little embarrassed. As we drove on the newly, Chinese engineered dirt road, we captured the attention of anyone within 1 km. Children, some clothed, some not, ran to the road’s edge with the first sound of rhythm. They bounced, twisted, shook, bobbed, smiled, jumped, laughed…and danced to the African gospel music. Their spirits’ cling to the rhythm and beats…pure joy manifested; embarrassment ceased to grip my mind.
The trip was as smooth as it gets in Congo…again, welcomed. Forests covering rolling hills followed our path, occasionally dissipating to allow the presence of savannah lands. Typical Congolese mud-thatched houses formed pockets of communities. As we neared Nyakunde, nestled in lush hills, wandering FARDC soldiers became more frequent. Conversation grew quieter. Charcoal writing in empty buildings and boutiques; a glimpse of an AK47 sketched among Congolese language graffiti in the black chalk. We arrived at the hospital and guesthouse around 1:00PM.
In the evening, I sat on the doorstep. Violet flora blossomed from gigantic fern-like trees. Feather-like petals slowly fell blanketing the ground beneath. Large fungi leaves created an umbrella for the trees’ joints. Evening came quickly and quietly, as did my contemplation. A paradise, only if my eyes did not surpass this natural beauty. Beyond it lay the empty shells of what were once hospital wards.
Nyankunde Hospital was THE hospital in this region…impacting, successful, well-known , serving ALL. On September 5, 2002, tribal militia streamed over the surrounding hills. Early in the day, my friend took us around the grounds. Building after building, home after home, stood still in time, empty, roofless, looted, and destroyed. Pieces of hospital equipment remained strewed across shards of tile and brick. The only life signs in these hollow structures were the natural, resilient vegetation that had been growing for the past 5 years. As we walked, my friend pointed out desolate houses of people I’ve previously met in Beni, including his own. He quietly explained what happened that day. Pointing to rafters of a ward where the chaplain hid for a week before being found and subsequently killed My friend’s own story, even when heard again, leaves what is beneath our skin static.
On Saturday morning, we awoke to an overcast and damp atmosphere. After eating the best bread in Congo, dense and sweet, like beer bread, we began a 3 km trek to the outskirts of town. The weather provided a gloomy aurora to the already dim setting. Though life moved on as with any Congo village, laughter, open-ended smiles, and curious eyes, the setting rendered what one would depict in a narrative or artistic expression of a war torn region. Though the answer revealed, I asked my friend, “Has much changed?” He responded quietly, “No”. We continued on, my friend greeting old friends and acquaintances. We came to a river where couple UN trucks pumped water into their barrels, as a Bradley-like tank waited. A significant number of peacekeepers curiously watched us walk by. Their base no more than a 1 kilometer away.
We arrived at our destination, the house of a pastor and father of a student at UCBC. We took two motos to a village called Sando. The route allowed me to appreciate another environment in Congo, savannah and pastural land. Our bikes dodged big horned cattle, as I stood amazed by 10 ft high termite hills. The route eventually turned into a rocky and crater filled path, so we dismounted our blue horses and began to hike. Along the way, we picked delicious guava to nourish our bodies. Fifteen minutes passed before my ears captured the sound of rushing water. We eventually came to the river’s edge and vine-cable wire bridge that crossed the chocolate water. Thin, planked boards acted as our footpath. A few years ago, the bridge was strictly a netting of vines. The bridge also led to areas where my friend’s reconciliation ministry has worked with militias. At the crossing, we encountered one man that was on his way to visit a friend. They had met at one of the transcending reconciliation seminars. Coming from opposing tribes, their past intentions were to eliminate each other, now they’re gathering for meals.
Later in the afternoon we traveled to Bunia, a large town situated 3 or 4 hours north of Beni. The following morning, another friend took me via moto all over the town. Again, signs of the recent conflict were clearer. He pointed to buildings and Universities devastated by the war. Larger UN presence, a little residual sense of unease. Signs of development pushing through the cracks. I spent my Easter their to welcomed solitude, enjoying glorious Congolese meals at the guesthouse. The next afternoon we gathered our things and piled into the pick up. I situated myself on top of piled supplies in the truck’s bed among 7 other Congolese friends. We pulled a thick, blue tarp over our heads for shelter from the morning’s rain. For a moment in time, I felt like a product of smuggling…pure imagination.
Twenty minutes later the skies allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dark shields of the towering rain clouds. We eventually rolled the blue covering. Trucks passed by stacked 20 feet high with goods and people, packed in dire perfection, as one alteration would cause the transport to inevitably topple. Despite the diesel exhaust pouring into my lungs, I appreciated the setting surrounding our way. The rain’s remnants glistened off the hills and fields with the gentle touch of sunshine. Dark skies in the horizon provided a canvas of contrast. Moments later, streams of a color palette arced above our heads. At the end of the day, God’s presence always is felt last, covering anything that resembles iniquity or shadows of this world, or my own.
The trip was as smooth as it gets in Congo…again, welcomed. Forests covering rolling hills followed our path, occasionally dissipating to allow the presence of savannah lands. Typical Congolese mud-thatched houses formed pockets of communities. As we neared Nyakunde, nestled in lush hills, wandering FARDC soldiers became more frequent. Conversation grew quieter. Charcoal writing in empty buildings and boutiques; a glimpse of an AK47 sketched among Congolese language graffiti in the black chalk. We arrived at the hospital and guesthouse around 1:00PM.
In the evening, I sat on the doorstep. Violet flora blossomed from gigantic fern-like trees. Feather-like petals slowly fell blanketing the ground beneath. Large fungi leaves created an umbrella for the trees’ joints. Evening came quickly and quietly, as did my contemplation. A paradise, only if my eyes did not surpass this natural beauty. Beyond it lay the empty shells of what were once hospital wards.
Nyankunde Hospital was THE hospital in this region…impacting, successful, well-known , serving ALL. On September 5, 2002, tribal militia streamed over the surrounding hills. Early in the day, my friend took us around the grounds. Building after building, home after home, stood still in time, empty, roofless, looted, and destroyed. Pieces of hospital equipment remained strewed across shards of tile and brick. The only life signs in these hollow structures were the natural, resilient vegetation that had been growing for the past 5 years. As we walked, my friend pointed out desolate houses of people I’ve previously met in Beni, including his own. He quietly explained what happened that day. Pointing to rafters of a ward where the chaplain hid for a week before being found and subsequently killed My friend’s own story, even when heard again, leaves what is beneath our skin static.
On Saturday morning, we awoke to an overcast and damp atmosphere. After eating the best bread in Congo, dense and sweet, like beer bread, we began a 3 km trek to the outskirts of town. The weather provided a gloomy aurora to the already dim setting. Though life moved on as with any Congo village, laughter, open-ended smiles, and curious eyes, the setting rendered what one would depict in a narrative or artistic expression of a war torn region. Though the answer revealed, I asked my friend, “Has much changed?” He responded quietly, “No”. We continued on, my friend greeting old friends and acquaintances. We came to a river where couple UN trucks pumped water into their barrels, as a Bradley-like tank waited. A significant number of peacekeepers curiously watched us walk by. Their base no more than a 1 kilometer away.
We arrived at our destination, the house of a pastor and father of a student at UCBC. We took two motos to a village called Sando. The route allowed me to appreciate another environment in Congo, savannah and pastural land. Our bikes dodged big horned cattle, as I stood amazed by 10 ft high termite hills. The route eventually turned into a rocky and crater filled path, so we dismounted our blue horses and began to hike. Along the way, we picked delicious guava to nourish our bodies. Fifteen minutes passed before my ears captured the sound of rushing water. We eventually came to the river’s edge and vine-cable wire bridge that crossed the chocolate water. Thin, planked boards acted as our footpath. A few years ago, the bridge was strictly a netting of vines. The bridge also led to areas where my friend’s reconciliation ministry has worked with militias. At the crossing, we encountered one man that was on his way to visit a friend. They had met at one of the transcending reconciliation seminars. Coming from opposing tribes, their past intentions were to eliminate each other, now they’re gathering for meals.
Later in the afternoon we traveled to Bunia, a large town situated 3 or 4 hours north of Beni. The following morning, another friend took me via moto all over the town. Again, signs of the recent conflict were clearer. He pointed to buildings and Universities devastated by the war. Larger UN presence, a little residual sense of unease. Signs of development pushing through the cracks. I spent my Easter their to welcomed solitude, enjoying glorious Congolese meals at the guesthouse. The next afternoon we gathered our things and piled into the pick up. I situated myself on top of piled supplies in the truck’s bed among 7 other Congolese friends. We pulled a thick, blue tarp over our heads for shelter from the morning’s rain. For a moment in time, I felt like a product of smuggling…pure imagination.
Twenty minutes later the skies allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dark shields of the towering rain clouds. We eventually rolled the blue covering. Trucks passed by stacked 20 feet high with goods and people, packed in dire perfection, as one alteration would cause the transport to inevitably topple. Despite the diesel exhaust pouring into my lungs, I appreciated the setting surrounding our way. The rain’s remnants glistened off the hills and fields with the gentle touch of sunshine. Dark skies in the horizon provided a canvas of contrast. Moments later, streams of a color palette arced above our heads. At the end of the day, God’s presence always is felt last, covering anything that resembles iniquity or shadows of this world, or my own.
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