Chapter 1
1
Democratic Republic of Congo, March 2017
Nothing was special about the day Raphael was killed. It was hot, like any other scorching central African day. Christel danced beneath the burning sun, having risen early to care for his animals. He and his brother Raphael collaborated on their family’s farm and with the Paix Programme.
Mornings were for tending to the animals. Christel and Raphael rose before the treacherous sun burned their dark skin and their bodies demanded the refuge of shade. The barren landscape housed the 15 head of sheep and 20 head of goat. Christel dressed quickly, finishing by pulling on his work boots, and plodded to the small shelter where the grains were kept secure from wild animals and others looting off their land.
“Bonjour!” Christel muttered, his eyes focused on the lock’s combination, not ready to be awake this early. Even though he despised mornings, he always, day after day, met his brother in the wee hours.
“Bonjour!” Raphael replied, waiting next to him to gather the buckets used to feed and water the animals.
Christel and Raphael lifted grains, fetched water, and cleaned out pens - all in the synchronicity born from working together their whole lives. Each morning was the same. The two brothers marched rhythmically and catered to the needs of their livestock, usually finishing before the sun seared the sparse earth. Each left every morning, went to their house, changed clothes, and set off to work with the repatriation of militants in the jungles near their home.
Minutes after changing into a woven, white dress shirt, with sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and black pants, Christel hummed a tune while he walked, kicking up dirt, on the well-loved path between his house and his brother’s. Today was his brother’s turn to drive.
A blue, four-door, Mercury Sable rested near Raphael’s house. His house was not far from Christel’s - just a couple of fence-links away - so Christel trotted over and flung himself onto the surprisingly immaculate hood of the car; it had been washed the day before. “You hit me!” he teased his brother.
Raphael laughed and both men clambered into the vehicle, settling in for the drive to Kisanga. There they met Caleb, a United Nations expert, and Sara, his interpreter. Caleb and Sara settled into the back of Raphael’s car, piling their backpacks of water between them. As routine as the unrelenting sunshine, Raphael, Christel, Caleb and Sara sped through the paved streets of Kisanga to the dirt roads leading to the desolate jungle - home of the militants.
Once the gravel markings through the small piles of grass disappeared and the road faded into dirt, the four stopped the car and began plodding further into the jungle. An awareness enveloped them. They knew the risks of trudging further into the overhang of the boscage - and each moved with their eyes scanning the perimeter and their ears alert for anything that was not the softness of their own feet.
Raphael and Christel flanked Caleb and Sara. They were shadowed by the leaves and, when the gentle breeze rustled the vines, they all froze. Each stood silent and observed, determining whether the sound was really the wind rattling or if they had stumbled into rebel territory. The four continued down the worn path, acutely aware of the rustling of the brush around them, waiting to engage in conversation with the militants.
No one brought a weapon. Caleb believed that peace would come by understanding and communicating. The weapon he chose was words. The group halted in a clearing where the sun sparkled in rays and the shadows continued, but they were hypersensitive when the ground moved around them. It was not the wind.
The child toddled into the light, wearing a once-white rag around his waist, and nothing else. His eyes wandered to the four travelers, but he said nothing, picked up a stick, and drew in the dirt while he turned away.
“Paix!” Raphael shouted using his deep voice.
“Paix?” echoed the child. “Qu’est-ce que la paix?”
Caleb stooped down, looked at the child. “La paix est en sécurité.” Caleb, native to the United States but well versed in other languages, knew specific sayings in French. However, he still relied on an interpreter for more specific conversations. The child, no more than two, continued drawing in the dirt, leaving the four pacifists in silence until the child cried, “Maman.” To the right, a frail, worn woman broke the silence by stepping hesitantly into the area.
“Paix,” she repeated. Her voice trembled, but her eyes illuminated the smallest shred of hope.
The men, Sara, the woman, and the child trudged back toward the vehicle and spoke no words. Hand gestures signaled when to stop and go, and the woman and child obeyed with precision. Once in the security of the car, the woman said, “I need to go home. Back to Rwanda.”
The frailness of working so hard to avoid the police in the Democratic Republic of Congo showed on the woman’s face. Her frailty rose to the surface and she said, “Please. Take me to the border. I walk from there.” The ride in the car was an uneventful two hours to the border. The woman was relieved to ride, and the child was fascinated with being in a car. A few jungle trees gave some coverage to hide the car a ways from the border, but Raphael and Christel insisted on accompanying the woman and her child to a safe passage. It was the mission of the Paix Programme to work with expatriates and repatriate them to the country of Rwanda.
In the 1990s, Rwandan refugees fled to the Democratic Republic of Congo. They occupied the space for many years, but twenty years of life in the jungle - fleeing from militants, fleeing from other refugees, and living in hostile conditions - was wearing on those remaining. The Paix Programme worked with the Rwandan refugees living in the DRC to return them home. There were promises of no repercussions (if one wasn’t accused of an international crime). The Paix Programme and the United Nations worked together for repatriation, but Raphael and Christel knew not to trust the border agents.
“I’ll go the rest of the way,” Raphael said. He motioned for Christel to hide and wait. Christel knew not to argue. He knew that his older brother always trumped him and knew that he would wait in the shadows. Christel glanced at his watch. It was 2:30 PM. The journey from where they entered by foot to the border should take only 5 minutes. He paced, but without rustling any leaves. He fidgeted, but only when the wind blew. The minutes etched by like water creating a canyon over billions and billions of years. Finally, Raphael met up with Christel, and they hiked back to the car to begin their journey back to Kisanga.
Kisanga, the largest city in the Tshopo province, housed the UN headquarters for this region. On the way home, Raphael paused to let Caleb and Sara return to their space and then stopped for some groceries before retreating home. The market was busy, but darkness had not yet fallen. Christel strolled through the market too, not interested in buying anything, but grateful for the successful day. But as the men walked out of the market and headed back to the car, Raphael was stung by a bullet in his back. He dropped to the ground, and Christel, with a breaking heart, kept walking.
Caught in his peripheral vision, Christel saw his brother one last time, but knew the reality of the situation: he needed to evacuate this space as soon as possible. It was common that the rebels would attack randomly and violently, often kidnapping women and children while disposing of men. The strength that it took to keep walking and not run back was enormous, but Christel plunged on anyways. Although he showed strength, single tears escaped his eyes and he retreated to the shadows of a concrete building nearby.
Christel drove his brother’s car home. No longer clean, he parked it in the dirt near his house, walked inside, and collapsed on the sofa. It had been a day of success, but also a day of heartache; a day of triumph and a day of sorrow. “Poppa!” screeched his daughter, clambering on his legs and snuggling against him.
“Mon bébé,” Christel smiled. He hugged her and set her down on the floor next to him so that she could roam free, but she climbed right back up. Right back to her father’s chest where she reached her arms around him for a hug, which he returned grandly.
His wife, Lucia, domestic in all ways, but also a strong fighter for peace and highly educated, had finished a dish of Maombe, the most popular dish in the DRC. She set it on the table where she called everyone together to participate in the meal. “Is Raphael coming?” she asked Christel.
“Bad. Bad. Bad. He...was….k-k-k-killed today.” Christel’s eyes exploded with grief and tears. He couldn’t breathe.
“Children, eat,” Lucia commanded and guided Christel away from the table. She escorted him up the stairs and to their room, where she embraced him and let him freely engage in mourning the loss of his brother. When the overwhelming anger and sadness were depleted for the day, Lucia settled Christel into a prone position and covered him with a loose blanket. Christel fell to a slumber that was restless, but needed.
Once the mourning period passed and one of the more lavish Congolese funerals was held for Raphael - although without a body - Christel returned to the UN headquarters.
“What’s the plan?” Christel inquired.
“We need to write a report,” Caleb explained. “We have to submit it to the UN.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course.”
The two men perched side by side, writing and editing, revising and correcting the 10 page document that would go to the UN. Although it stated the truth, it was very likely that they would be in danger once the papers were received and contact had been made with the government.
Christel, Caleb, and Sara felt a piece of themselves missing as they traveled back toward rebel territory. It was a journey they made without Raphael for the first time. Christel and Caleb walked with Sara in between and plodded along through the dirt and into areas where they may be able to communicate with the rebels. No one dared to go far. They walked along the worn paths, but did so with such great caution that they only stepped a few paces into the jungle before returning to the car and retreating for the day.
The next day, they walked a bit farther, and the next even farther. They kept walking, spending at least an hour every day traveling through the jungle. Each day they dug deep inside themselves, trying to be better stewards of peace. Every day they focused on the mission - to find the rebels and guide them back to their home country.
