I sat at the roadside and wept.
I took in the pain of this boy and I could not breathe.
He stood before me bleeding. The CNDP police commissioner wielded a weapon above his head.
And the 17-year-old boy, blood pouring down his face and dripping into his eyes from his wound, shook from the blow.
And then he turned to me.
"IKO BIEN?"
"Is this good?" he screamed. He demanded an answer from my white skin, from my rich country, from my God.
There we stood, face to face, while thousands moved around us in the displacement camp.
Beyond us, throngs gathered for the food distribution. Hundreds held sticks – ready to beat anyone who attempted to steal the food. Violence for violence.
I stood staring at the boy and the blood on his child-like face, now contorted in anguish. And as quickly as it began, the CNDP police commissioner took the boy and dragged him passed me, the crowd following. The yelling and the accusations grew louder. I knew the CNDP or the crowd might kill him. Mob justice.
And I had been asked if this was good.
Fear. I had felt it; the fear of the police commissioner and his struggle to maintain power, the fear of the oppressed, the blood bearing witness to his oppression. And the fear of the crowd, surging and swelling and screaming, lest this should happen to them also.
In the Democratic Republic of Congo, where the deadliest war in the world wages, certain fears have perpetuated pervasive hate and greed, which lays the foundation for violence.
The result of this cycle? The systematic rape of women, the abduction of children, and the tragedy of millions relegated to living in displacement camps. Compounded by cholera and hunger, a humanitarian catastrophe emerges.
Through the year and a half I spent living and working in the Democratic Republic of Congo and Rwanda, I've known fear. Both the raw fear for my own life, the dark fear motivating one justifying war, and the shattering fear of the victim.
How do you work in an environment rife with fear? More importantly how do you love in a way that dissolves fear? And is this even possible?
It was 6:30pm, light had disappeared from the sky, and we were still in Kitumba, a tiny village in South Kivu, DR Congo. Four days of travel by car and motorcycle brought us here, through the rainforest, and down onto the jungle flatland. We had just finished a seed and tool distribution for Food for the Hungry; a humanitarian aid project aimed at helping people cultivate their land and grow crops to feed their families.
But night had fallen. We decided that it was not safe for us to stay at the distribution site overnight. Aileen and I would go back to Kitutu, an hour and a half motorcycle ride away, alone.
The fear began to build. It is an unspoken rule to not go out at night, especially not in the bush, especially not on the road, and especially not two women. A faction of the ex-FAR Interhamwe/FDLR rebel group was nearby, and the area was not secure.
All I could think about was what it would be like if we were ambushed on the road by the FDLR and taken as slaves. The images haunted, as I knew my fears were not unfounded. Over 5.4 million people have died in this conflict since 1998, and eastern DRC is the most dangerous place in the world for women and girls.
I prayed. I asked for protection. I didn't want to be the last motorcycle in line because it felt more dangerous. Ashamed of my own selfishness, I asked God to forgive me, and if something should happen, for it to happen to me, and not Aileen.
I tried to remember passages from the Bible and began to speak these sacred words into the night air. As I did I felt something physically lift from my spirit, the veil of fear beginning to be torn. This is what I spoke:
"Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging." (Ps 46:1-3)
"Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls." (Ps 42:7)
"Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, for the law of the spirit of life has set me free from the law of sin and death." (Rm 8:1)
I imagined light coming from the lips of God's people as we became quick to speak His name. Light began to grow around me. I could feel it.
I realized I no longer felt the painful ache in my backside from the motorcycle. I looked to my left and saw a mosaic of brilliant sparkles set against the dark jungle, a countless host of fireflies. They were magnificent, dancing upon the branches and leaves, making music with their fluttering. I looked up. The sky was a blackout punctuated by windows of starlight, casting their luminosity onto the sandy ground. I became absorbed in the beauty, in the security of the Creator.
When I looked back to the road I saw the bent wooden sign for the Catholic Parish we were staying at. We had arrived at the mission in Kitutu.
I fell asleep that night in tears of gratitude as a thunderstorm pounded outside. My hot tears professed gratitude to Christ for delivering me from my fears, for making the Scriptural images of Shelter and Refuge alive in their manifesting.
I look back on that night and still thank Him for His safety. But I also grieve over the many who are not delivered from fear but have become both the victims and the perpetrators of hate and violence. Did they not also pray for freedom?
To that question I have no answer. I can only continue to hope in a God that delights in the rescue of the oppressed, a God who is laboring now to bring His Kingdom to earth, even in the midst of war.
Today I sit in a warm room in Washington D.C. Outside are old brick homes and a bright blue sky.
But it comes back.
"Iko bien?" (Is this good?) I hear again. Everything in me aches. I double over in pain. This boy's pain – and the pain of this unanswered question.
I am there again. In the internally displaced persons camp in Kitchanga, DR Congo – my face hot from the sun, camera in my hands – and I see the boy, the crowd, the CNDP, the blood.
"Iko bien?" (Is this good?) He yells again.
This time, though, in my spirit, I have an answer for this boy.
"Hapana" (No), I say. "Hapana" (No).
My no begins to rise with intensity and I say it with all my soul.
"NO – this is NOT good."
"Pole, mtoto," (I am so sorry, child).
I am so sorry. And in my sorrow imagine the Congolese saying this:
"Awake! Why do you sleep, O Lord? Arise! Do not cast us off forever. Why do you hide your face, and forget our affliction and our oppression? For our soul is bowed down to the dust; our body clings to the ground. Arise for our help, and redeem us for your mercies sake." (Ps 44:23-26, NKJV)
Often I have thought about what it means to be a peacemaker in our violent world. And I am convinced that it starts with absolving the wars in our own hearts in order to become living, breathing agents of peace to one another. And this cannot be done without Christ at the center – calling forth peace.
As the leaves on the jungle trees continue to clap and the fireflies whisper to one another, may we as God's people be part of this calling forth of life, of peace, to one another and in our world, seeing each other as delicate, as lovely, as worth redeeming.
This, I believe, is Good.
Lindsay Branham lived and worked in DR Congo and Rwanda for 18 months, working as a writer and photographer for Food for the Hungry. Lindsay has produced film and photography throughout Africa and her work on child soldiers has been featured on CNN. Her passion for story, beauty and redemption is evidenced. Lindsay is currently FH Global's Communications Coordinator and lives in Washington, D.C. Visit the website at www.fhglobal.org.
Clean water usually has to be trucked in or built into IDP camps through wells or boreholes. This girl walks through the uneven lava rock terrain balancing water on her head. Mgunga II IDP Camp, North Kivu, DR Congo.