“You would?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Both of our mothers had worked when we were young—his mother, Joan, as a pianist and organist, and my mom as a youth pastor—but our fathers had been the primary breadwinners, our mothers the primary caregivers to the kids. That was still the division of labor in most of our peers’ families, too. Knowing Sam’s generous nature and his commitment to our family, I should have anticipated his willingness to break the familiar mold. But I was so accustomed to what the world, and especially Texas culture, had to say about gender and work and home that I had presupposed my own husband’s reaction. I’d anticipated a struggle to find a balance that worked for us. Sam had made it so easy and clear.
I knew how lucky we were to have been able to make that choice. Lucky, too, that my parents—my mom especially—would be there while I was away, helping Sam care for the kids. My work was really a family effort. While grateful for the solidarity, I was aware of the unevenness, too, the things Sam and I each took on alone, the way life often required us to partner at a distance instead of side by side.
Connor stopped his flailing and watched us carefully, his blue eyes studying our faces the way he often did when he was about to ask a big question. Will you die, too, like Big Oma? Will I? His big questions always made me catch my breath. They came out of nowhere, it seemed. There was never a chance to think out a response in advance. And I had made a promise to myself that I would always try to be completely honest with my children. I wouldn’t tell them the little white lies meant to soothe. If the shot was going to hurt, I said so. If they asked for ice cream and the answer was no, I wouldn’t pretend there was none left in the freezer to avoid an argument or tantrum. But to answer Connor’s questions honestly sometimes seemed cruel. He was only four.
“Bro Bro,” he said solemnly, tugging on Brody’s pajama sleeve. “Mommy’s leaving today. She’s going up in the sky in an airplane. She’s going to Africa to see the zebras.”
I looked at Sam. So much of parenting is choosing which version of the world you invite your children to see. Part of me wanted to just enjoy the innocence of Connor’s idea of why I was always going to Africa, to let him picture me traveling a vast savanna, marveling at the wild animals he had only seen in zoos. But I couldn’t stand for him to think that zebras were what took me away from him. And I couldn’t shirk this opportunity—and our responsibility—to guide his sensitive heart. Since early toddlerhood he had shown a mature compassion. At the park, at preschool, gathered with family and friends, he had a special knack for noticing people who were in pain. I recognized his awareness of suffering as a gift that would guide him to help others—and as a vulnerability. He had the potential to get hurt. A lot. As much as I wanted to protect him from heartache, I understood that it would help him more in the long run if Sam and I, instead of shielding him from suffering, could show him ways to face it. Ways to move forward even when his heart was broken.
Sam tousled Connor’s hair and said, “Mommy’s going to be in a lot of meetings, not out on safari.” He turned to me, giving me the space to decide how much more I wanted to say.
“My love,” I told Connor, “wild animals couldn’t take me away from you. Mommy’s going to Africa because there are some families there in danger. There are mommies and daddies and children who are getting hurt. I want to see if there’s anything we can do to help the mommies and daddies make their home safer.”
Brody threw himself back onto my lap and begged for more tickles. Even though he had hardly left babyhood, he was already so different from his brother, life a simpler exercise for him. They were both affectionate boys who exuded love. Connor’s love rippled out in careful, thoughtful waves. Brody’s expressions of love were boisterous and daring.
Connor squinted at me. “Why are they in danger?” he asked.
“There is a man who is hurting people there.”
“He should stop hurting people.”
“Yes,” I said, “he should.”
Brody was bouncing on the bed, dangerously close to the edge. I reached my arm out to keep him hedged on the bed.
“Are you going to make him stop, Mommy?”
“There are some really special people in Africa who are trying to make him stop, and Mommy is going to try to help those people.”
He nodded his head. “Okay,” he said. He climbed into my lap for another hug. Sam opened the blinds and the sunlight poured in.
10
RED TAPE AND RIVER RAFTS
A FEW HOURS later I was on a plane to Chicago, where I’d connect to an overseas flight to Brussels. From Brussels I’d fly to Kigali, Rwanda, where I’d meet up with Laren and his Invisible Children colleagues, Jason Russell and Ben Keesey. We’d spend the night in Kigali before driving first thing in the morning to Gisenyi, where we’d cross the border into Congo on foot and catch a short flight on a UN plane up to the UN’s headquarters in Bunia for our first meeting.
During my short layover at Chicago O’Hare I wandered around the airport, too restless to sit at the gate waiting for the plane to board, needing to stretch my legs. I found myself standing in front of a spinning rack of fuzzy neck pillows. In my twenties, when I’d left my job as a lawyer to work for International Justice Mission, I’d been able to travel all over the world without experiencing any jet lag, but after years of cramped and constant international travel my body was starting to complain. My mom had made me promise to do something this trip to protect my back. I flipped through the pillows, trying to find one that wasn’t pink.
My mom was the first person to teach me about generosity and presence. She had served as a youth pastor since before I was born, retiring after thirty years to run a large, inner-city ministry, working to rebuild homes in San Antonio, one of the worst cities in the US for substandard housing. I understood what a model she has always been of intuitive caring, of a desire to make a difference in the world. I chose a career in law, not the church, but I think my thirst for justice comes from the same place: from what my mom and my faith community have taught me about aspiring to a life of service and sacrifice.
Now I could see that my work was both an extension of what she had modeled for me in the world and the expression of her unfulfilled longings. She had graduated high school with the burning desire to be a part of lasting peace in the world, and she had decided to apply to the Peace Corps. But her parents—my wonderful Oma and Opa, warm and loving as parents could be—weren’t willing to let my mother go so far from home. She chose to honor them and not go. Maybe that was why my mother had raised me the way she had—never throwing up a roadblock in the path of my ambitions and passions, supporting me 100 percent in my work and my calling.
“I don’t know if you ever knew this,” she’d told me recently, “but when I was spending time with Oma during her last months, I’d tell her about all the work you were doing. She was so proud of you and so amazed. Then one night she said to me, ‘We should have let you go to the Peace Corps.’ I told her it was for me to stay and get to have a daughter who would change the world.”
The neck pillows only came in the one obnoxious shade of hot pink, but in honor of my mom and in deference to her advice, I bought one anyway.
I closed my eyes as soon as I reached my seat and held my boys’ sweet faces in my mind like prayers.
* * *
—
When we arrived at the stark and sparsely furnished UN headquarters in Bunia, Brigadier General Ziaul Hasan, whom colleagues called General Zia, sat at one end of what seemed like a mile-long table, and offered me a seat at the opposite end. Laren, Jason, and Ben sat along one side of the vast table while dozens of UN representatives, all wearing official badges, lined the full length of the other side. General Zia decorously introduced each of the numerous staff by name and function. When it was my turn to introduce Laren and the others—my “delegation,” as General Zia called th
em—I felt as though I had to shout at him to be heard, he was so far away.
A long line of well-groomed faces looked at me expectantly, the fluorescent lights glinting off of many pairs of glasses. In times of crisis, countries from around the world volunteer their troops to join UN peacekeeping missions. If Bridgeway could invest in direct action to stop the LRA, it made sense to try to work with the peacekeepers already in the region.
“General Zia,” I called across the enormous table. “The UN has about twenty thousand troops in the Democratic Republic of Congo right now, is that correct?”
He nodded. “Eighteen thousand, six hundred and fifty-three, to be precise,” he said, pronouncing each syllable carefully. “But keep in mind that only a fraction of the UN’s peacekeepers are forward-stationed for the LRA. We are also here to address violence in the Kivus, and Ituri, and elsewhere. The LRA is unfortunately just one of the many armed groups operating in Congo.”
“And how many LRA combatants are operating now?”
“That is difficult to say for certain, but we estimate there are approximately six hundred LRA combatants in the bush at this time.”
“And the LRA is attacking communities not far from UN bases.”
“Occasionally, unfortunately, that is correct.”
“And all those troops couldn’t defend those communities?”
I had to stop because the entire UN side of the table started to laugh. What was the joke? I looked at Laren, Jason, and Ben for an explanation. Laren sat stone-faced. Jason’s eyebrows were raised. Ben was staring at me.
Twenty badged international officials giggling because I had failed to understand what was obvious to them: despite their proactive mandate to solve the LRA crisis, the UN didn’t do that. My questions about their lack of success hadn’t made them embarrassed or uncomfortable. I had only exposed how little I understood about the system in which their peacekeeping work was entrenched. I was the naïve fool.
“Sir,” I shouted down the table. “We’re here because we want to help you stop the LRA. Please tell me, what are the gaps? What can we do to help?”
General Zia gave me a tolerant smile. “The LRA operates near the rivers,” he said. “If we had river barges at our disposal, we could patrol the rivers.”
“How many barges do you need?”
“I believe two would suffice.”
“Great. If these barges are truly critical to the cause, I would like to supply the money. Can you walk me through the logistics?”
He blinked at me.
“Do we write a check to the UN?”
He gave a wry smile. “No, I would not recommend that, no. Our base, you realize, is not centrally located. If you submit money through the United Nations, it will never get to us here in Bunia.”
“So, can I write you a check, or wire you cash?”
“Oh no, that is against regulations.”
“Sir,” I called. “If the river barges are needed and the lack of them is preventing you from tracking and stopping the LRA, and my foundation is willing to purchase them, then what is the procedure for getting the assets to you?”
General Zia seemed mystified that he had to explain the protocol. “You can simply requisition the boats,” he said, “and have them delivered.”
“What kind of boats do you need?”
He went on to describe inflatable pontoon boats with motors at the back.
“And what is the cost estimate for these?”
“I am certain they can be sourced for around five thousand dollars each.”
Was he really telling me that the UN peacekeepers in Congo, with a $1.4 billion annual budget, couldn’t stop the LRA because of a lack of two inflatable boats costing a total of ten thousand dollars? As we ironed out the logistics I couldn’t shake the feeling that as much as General Zia wanted the new resources to make a difference, he also knew that nothing was really going to change.
We were about to wrap up our meeting when General Zia cleared his throat. “Ms. Davis,” he said. “Before we adjourn, I must tell you that there has been an adjustment in the next part of your itinerary. Security risks prevent us from transporting you to the MONUC base in Niangara, closest to the Makombo attacks. We will fly you to Bangadi instead. It is near a recent attack site. And I am going to send my chief of staff along with you as an escort.” He gestured toward the trim Bangladeshi man sitting beside him who gave me a half smile.
11
A CLOSE CALL
WE FLEW IN a UN plane to Dungu, one of the largest towns in northeastern Congo, and spent the night in refurbished, air-conditioned shipping containers set up by UNHCR, the UN refugee agency. IKEA Foundation had furnished the units, and walking into the shipping container was like touring a showroom staged to look like a college dorm room.
We woke early to board the aged Russian Mi-17 helicopter that would take us to Bangadi, where there had been a recent LRA attack. It always seemed a bit like a roll of the dice when we got into these ancient helicopters—Congo was known as the world’s helicopter graveyard, where all helicopters eventually go to die. Laren, Ben, and the anxious chief of staff squeezed in across from Jason and me. There were no seats, only two long benches that lined either side of the helo. We had barely clicked our seatbelts before the propellers swung and the engine roared. I settled against my little pink neck pillow as the helo lurched into motion. In the back cargo area, a stack of big tin roofing sheets rattled noisily. We lifted off the dirt runway.
A strong breeze blew in through the windows, refreshing against the heat. We straightened out above the dense canopy, a thick green tangle that stretched in all directions like a sea. Cutting through the green were two fast muddy rivers—the Dungu and Kibali—that merged to form the Uele, the river the LRA had crossed the morning they began the massacres. I looked back toward Dungu and saw a one-lane stone bridge and a giant, medieval-looking building beside it on the shore.
“Dungu Castle,” Laren yelled over the engine’s thrum. “One of the Belgian colonialists built it. That’s why the bridge is so narrow. He stole half the bricks meant for the bridge to build his castle.”
“Do you remember everything you read?” I asked.
“Pretty much.” He grinned.
It was too difficult to carry on a conversation over the engine’s ferocious noise, so we put our earbuds in, switched on our music, and gazed at the scenery. Soon no human-made structures were visible, just the vast and abundant jungle, veined with brown rivers. This was the same terrain that Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness had described as an impenetrable darkness, an environment of madness and moral decay. His description of Congo didn’t mesh with the landscape below. The whole Great Lakes region—soil rich with iron, waters teeming with fish, the jungle a deep breathing green—looked like Eden to me. It seemed a place where life was born to thrive. It was a disgrace that a place so lush and beautiful had become a killing field.
Suddenly there was a loud bang at the back of the helicopter, a sound like a gunshot. We pitched violently. The co-pilot shouted at us to put our heads in our laps with our arms around our heads.
The helo shook violently and the hum of the engine had a drag to it. We swayed on a funny axis. It felt as if we were falling. Ben started recording a message on his phone, a goodbye video for his wife. I closed my eyes and clutched my head against my knees. As we fell I heard the words form in my mind: I’m going to die. Jason reached for my hand. I squeezed his fingers. He had young children, too, a son and a daughter. I tried not to panic. I love you, I love you, I love you, I said to Sam and my boys over and over in my mind.
Then, just as suddenly as the helo had pitched and started to fall, the engine roared and we started flying again, but at a tilt.
“What the hell was that?” Ben yelled up to the co-pilot. “Were we shot?”
“Mechanical issue,” he called back.
“The tin sheets,” Laren said. “They slammed against the interior of the helicopter. I think that’s what made the sound.”
I laughed with relief. Not an explosion, no bullet or bomb—just someone’s future roof banging around in the cargo area. “So, we’re good to go?”
“Negative. There’s a mechanical issue,” the engineer assisting the pilot called back. His face was set in a grimace and I could see from the pilot’s rigid shoulders how hard he was working to keep the helicopter steady.
“Are we going to try to land?” Laren asked. He gestured out over the canopy. “Is that even possible out here?”
“No, we can’t land here,” the engineer said. “We’re turning around.”
It was a silent, somber hour back to Dungu, retracing all the ground we had just covered. Finally we landed on the dirt airstrip. My legs were so shaky I could barely stand. The UN official who had helped us when we boarded the flight ran toward us as we stumbled out of the helo.
“I heard the distress call on the radio,” he said. “I prayed for you.” He held my arm tightly. “I thought we wouldn’t see you again.”
A lump rose in my throat. “How long, do you think, until the helo is fixed?” I asked.
“We won’t know until the problem has been diagnosed. We’ll try to get a mechanic on the job as soon as possible.” He looked at me thoughtfully. He wasn’t much older than me, but something in his eyes, the intelligence and concern, reminded me of Opa. “You still want to go to Bangadi?”
To Stop a Warlord Page 7
