by Elly Fishman
“That’s one of the reasons we asked all of you to be here,” Chad continues. “Education should start at age four. I don’t know what it should look like, but I know it should look something like what we’re doing here. We’re listening to kids and talking about what they see in their neighborhoods. We ask them what they see and if anyone has approached them. That sort of thing.”
“So, it sounds like you’re talking about gangs targeting kids because of being a refugee,” one woman says, without raising her hand. “I was wondering if there’s a pattern for recruitment in terms of certain ethnic groups or certain countries of origin?”
“You know, all kinds of kids are targets,” Chad responds. “Especially ones who walk home by themselves because that’s sort of a sign that you might not have a friend yet in this country, or in this neighborhood. … We try to build a sense of family here. But if you haven’t found your way yet, you’re going to be susceptible.”
Matt Fasana
More than two weeks have passed since Esengo was shot, and little progress has been made in the investigation. After Asani and Samuel identified two potential suspects from the afternoon Esengo was beaten, Matt asked Antoine Livingston to interview the students in question. Antoine is the primary disciplinarian at Sullivan. He is built like a big-bodied linebacker—he played the position at Eastern Illinois University—and speaks in a deep baritone that projects from his chest. When Antoine pulled both boys into his office, they each admitted, remorsefully, to assaulting a Congolese refugee. They explained it had been playful bullying gone too far. But after showing them images of the new Congolese students, the boys identified Belenge as their victim, not Esengo. Belenge had also been harassed in the days leading up to the shooting. Matt reported this news to the detective. If true, this meant it was still a mystery which boys followed and beat Esengo.
Overall, the past two weeks have proven relatively quiet at school. No fights or signs of violence. The days are noticeably shorter and the wind cooler. A smattering of posters, all of them printed on standard paper, advertise candidates for homecoming queen. In one, a young woman stands with her hands on her hips and chest pushed outwards. In another, a girl is photoshopped against a background of diamonds, her mouth open as she smiles and laughs into the camera. The dance and game have passed, but the ephemera remain. Attendance has been good, including that of the American-born students implicated by the Congolese refugee boys. Because of this, Matt feels certain that the Congolese boys were confused. He finds it improbable that a violent perpetrator would return to school and keep his attendance up. Antoine, however, remains less certain.
Growing up in the Robert Taylor Homes, a now-demolished housing structure that was racially, and economically, separated from Chicago’s traditional neighborhoods, Antoine was familiar with feeling isolated from the city around him. As a kid, he kept close tabs on the gangs who ran the area around his apartment complex. Everyone did. The Gangster Disciples and the Vice Lords each had their corner. Still, Antoine knew little of what lay beyond the boundaries of the neighborhood. Always large for his age, Antoine earned a scholarship to Leo High School, a Catholic school for boys, where he played football. He still credits that scholarship as his ticket out of the projects. For those who stayed, the line between gang culture and regular neighborhood ran thin. Some were born into the gangs, others joined because it made them feel safe. There were also those who joined up to try and claw their way to a different fate. Still others, compelled by violence, simply had no choice.
Antoine knows there are gangs inside Sullivan. He knows that gangs try to grow and recruit by any means necessary. If that sounds like how militias act in the war zones many of Sullivan’s refugee families flee from, Antoine recognizes it. Chicago’s tougher projects and the world’s tougher conflict zones share some of the rules he grew up knowing. Now, every day after school, Antoine stands on the concrete front steps of the school building. With his arms at his side, and a Bluetooth headpiece in his ear, he watches. For the past several months, he’s noticed a group of neighborhood boys who gather at the north end of the block. The group never approaches the building, but Antoine keeps tabs on which students greet the group with elaborate handshakes, the kinds with extra twists and turns. Those handshake greetings raise a red flag. They are, very literally, signs of potential threats looming around Sullivan High School.
Angalia Bianca
Angalia Bianca rings the doorbell to Mama Sakina and her husband Elombe’s apartment on Birchwood Avenue, and waits for someone to buzz her in. Though there’s a slight breeze, the temperature is warm for late October. Bianca—everyone calls her that—removes her jacket to reveal a bright orange shirt with the word “staff” written across the back. She’s also in jeans, and combat boots, pretty much her usual weekday wear. Bianca has a small, black teardrop tattoo drawn between her sunken blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. Under bright light, her heavy brows cast her eyes in near complete shadow. Bianca has spent most of her life working the streets. She now works at Cure Violence, an organization that employs former gang members to build relationships with current gang members. The goal is to intervene in disputes that are likely to lead to retaliatory acts of violence and to stop, or reverse, deadly cycles of retribution. She’s here to offer her help to the Congolese community.
Soon, a small boy comes running toward the door. He’s barefooted. Gloria Walsh, one of the family’s co-sponsors, a group of volunteers who pool their resources to help new American families establish themselves in their new home, follows behind the boy.
“He doesn’t have any shoes?” Bianca asks.
“They’re just used to not wearing shoes,” Gloria says with a nervous laugh. “He does have shoes.”
Bianca follows the boy and Gloria up the stairs to the second-floor apartment.
As they approach the door, she spots several children’s shoes piled just outside on the floor. Inside, a group waits around the dining room table. Bianca feels the fear in the room. Gloria introduces Bianca to Mama Sakina and Elombe. Tobias and Pastor Jim are also present, as well as another three women, two of whom are volunteer co-sponsors. Another one is a counselor from the resettlement agency RefugeeOne.
The meeting cannot begin before Felix, Mama Sakina and Elombe’s eldest son, arrives. Felix’s English is by far the most fluent among the boys in the family. Before settling into her seat, Bianca asks to use the toilet. When she pulls open the door, she notices that the bathroom is nearly empty. A soap bar has been worn down to a tiny sliver now stuck to the rim of the bathtub. A blue shower curtain, its bottom blackened with mildew, is pushed back toward a rusted showerhead, and a single sheet of toilet paper remains on the roll.
Before she joined Cure Violence, Bianca was a Latin King for twenty-seven years. She has been arrested more than 125 times, convicted of twenty-six felonies, and spent more than twelve years in prisons. She has seen more dead bodies—many of them belonging to teenagers—than she has the stomach to recall. At sixty, Bianca is no stranger to hardship. That’s one of the reasons she was asked to help the Congolese community in the wake of the shooting.
But now, standing in Mama Sakina’s bathroom, Bianca’s heart breaks. These families have fled horrific, unimaginable conditions, she thinks to herself. They’ve come with nothing, and now they have to deal with this bullshit? No money even for soap, and one sheet of toilet paper for the whole family. How are they supposed to feel protected in their new country when they are so poor? A wave of sadness hits her. She takes a breath, then returns to the living room. Felix now sits with his parents at the table; Belenge, Asani, and Felix’s younger brother crowd together on the small couch. Pastor Jim speaks first.
“Okay, we are here to talk about how we can keep you safe,” he says in a firm tone, looking at the boys. “The kids need to return to school.”
Elombe, speaking through Felix, responds. “I do not want to send my children back to that school.”
“How can we figure this out? Wha
t’s the update with the district?” continues Pastor Jim, referring to his attempt earlier in the month to pull the boys from Sullivan and transfer them to the nearby Mather High School. “Can we bus them there?”
One of the women at the table explains that it won’t be easy to transfer the boys. For one, they do not live in the Mather school district, and for another, Mather is already well over capacity. She also suggests that transferring the boys to another school won’t necessarily alleviate their fears. But Pastor Jim remains unconvinced.
“We need to figure this out,” he says, repeating himself. “We need to get them to another school.”
“I need my children protected,” Elombe reiterates. “They cannot go back to this school. I want to leave Chicago. I do not feel safe here.”
“We are doing our best to keep everyone safe,” says Gloria, responding directly to Elombe.
“I want answers.”
The conversation proceeds in circles. Eventually, Bianca speaks up.
“Can I speak with the children directly?” she asks Elombe. He agrees. Shifting her chair toward the couch, her back now to those sitting at the table, Bianca looks directly at the boys. “First of all, I want to tell you that you can completely trust me, I’m on your side,” she says. “I want to help you. I’m not going to ask you to tell me things that could put you more in danger, that’s not what I do, but I want to ask you, is this happening after school or in the school?”
Belenge responds in a near-whisper. “Both.”
“Do you know who approached you? Can you give me any idea, so I know who to talk to?”
“PBG,” Belenge says. And then, as though panicked, he says it again. “PBG. PBG.” That, of course, is the Pooh Bear Gang.
Belenge’s answer confirms what Bianca already believed: PBG was likely responsible for shooting Esengo. Before coming to the meeting today, Bianca visited one of her contacts inside PBG, who, at twenty-two, was considered old by street standards. He told her the shooter was likely one of the “young shorties,” the fourteen- and fifteen-year-old guys who want to prove themselves and tend to be reckless along the way. Though Bianca didn’t get a specific name, she had anticipated that PBG members were the culprits, and that it was the young shorties who were the attackers. She was so sure that she had already delivered her message to them face-to-face a few days earlier: This can’t happen. Are you guys so desperate that you’re now recruiting people from the Congo? What the fuck is wrong with you? If you keep this shit up, don’t ever call me again. Ever! Don’t call me from jail. Don’t call me when your baby needs formula. Don’t call me when you need a ride. Never call my number again. If you don’t cut this shit out, I’m done trying to help.
Bianca leans toward the boys, as though to emphasize her next point. “Okay,” she says, “I want you to know, my cell phone is always on. You can call me anytime. If you’re in the school, you can call me if you feel threatened, I will drop everything, walk out, and come and get you.”
The boys nod, though it’s unclear to Bianca if they understand what she’s offering. She then turns her chair back toward the adults sitting around the table. “I want you to know, I was able to talk with the high-risk youth in the neighborhood. I want to ensure they leave these children, and all children from the Congo, alone.”
“Well, if they take the bus to school, how are you going to protect them?” Pastor Jim asks, his tone now verging on condescension. “Can you go on the bus with them?”
Bianca knows she can’t ever truly guarantee safety. “Well, no, sir,” she responds, steadily. “But I will continue to work with the gangs to make sure they stay away from the boys. I will continue to follow up.”
Pastor Jim shakes his head. He remains perturbed. The only solution, as he sees it, will be to pull the boys out of Sullivan High School for good. That will certainly have consequences for the boys, but it will also affect the school and its ability to serve immigrants and refugees. This is a big deal for everyone.
By the end of October, the perpetrator and his friend remain unknown to the police and the school administration. But for Esengo and his family, the result of the investigation has no impact on their choice. They have made up their minds to leave the city for good. They feel there is a remaining threat inside Sullivan, one that could erupt at any time. They aren’t going to be victims again. After spending a week at the hospital, Esengo and his family pack their clothes and whatever belongings they can fit in their suitcases, and board a Greyhound bus to Iowa.
4
NOVEMBER
Belenge
Belenge has hardly left Mama Sakina’s apartment in nearly a month. If he does leave, it’s to pray at Christ Church in Albany Park where Jim Larkin is pastor. Housed in a nondescript box of tan brick, the church fits the new built-for-economy style that dominated the neighborhood in the 1960s. The giant white cross on its exterior hints that the building is more than a small factory. So does the facade that reads Christ Church: A Church for All People, which, with its mix of Congolese refugees, Central and South American migrants, and long-term locals seems true.
The first Congolese refugee to worship at Pastor Jim Larkin’s church walked through the doors in 2014. He asked if he could pray. Soon, he became a regular at Christ Church, and started to bring other Congolese refugees who were resettled in Chicago to Sunday services. Faith and Christian fellowship are strong in Chicago’s Congolese community, and Christ Church quickly became a central space for the growing number of Congolese refugees arriving in the city. By 2016, nearly half of the three hundred congregants at Christ Church were Congolese. Since many spoke little to no English, Pastor Jim introduced a second Sunday service that was led by a Congolese pastor in Swahili. After the Sunday sermons, the church hosted a simple meal of chicken, rice, salad, and fufu for the families. Breaking bread together strengthened the church community. Pastor Jim liked to imagine that the Sunday ritual allowed the Congolese families to feel like they were back in their homeland. Over time, the families began sharing their stories with the pastor. It amazed him that, despite the hardship they described—waiting four hours for water at refugee camps, eating spoiled rice, suffering miscarriages due to illness and malnutrition—these families continued to put so much trust in God. They inspired him and serving them was a calling he embraced wholeheartedly.
The chapel inside is decorated sparingly with maroon carpet, white-painted brick, and wood pews, but it’s a warm hub of spirited worship and play and full of African fashions. It now feels like a second home for Belenge. When fear begins to take him prisoner—a sensation that has occurred frequently since mid-October—Belenge can hold on to scenes from Sunday choir when congregants sing traditional Swahili songs and hymns and end the morning with home-cooked Congolese meals made by the women and girls of the church.
But soon, Belenge’s community at the church will shrink, because even this home is infected with fear after the shooting. Belenge hasn’t heard much local news about the investigation. For Belenge, who cannot yet read much English, the only information he receives comes from Mama Sakina, who gets word from her American co-sponsors.
Esengo hasn’t reported much, either. Belenge didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to his friend before he moved to Iowa. Many Congolese refugees remain in flight mode, even after arriving in the United States. Leaving comes naturally when your sense of home is transient across town, across countries, and across continents. What’s a move a few hundred miles to Iowa for safety when a ten-thousand-mile move from Congo’s violence lands families in a city among kids with guns? Recently, Belenge heard his father speak about leaving Chicago. Work is hard to come by, rents prove expensive, and now the city, which was supposed to offer safety and security, threatens.
In mid-November, Mama Sakina relays to Belenge that Gloria Walsh, who has come to the house every day since the shooting, has offered her support. Gloria, retired with no children of her own, has embraced the role of the hyper-vigilant counselor. A former human resou
rces representative, Gloria considers it a responsibility to protect Belenge and the broader Congolese refugee community. Her co-sponsor group has offered several Congolese families help navigating the complexities of life in their new country. She gives rides to Belenge when he needs to leave the house. She also takes Mama Sakina to her doctor’s appointments and to a far-flung grocery store that sells cassava roots in bulk. She helped Belenge’s father, Tobias, land a job at the Bruss Company where he works through the night packing meat into Styrofoam containers. All told, Gloria spends upwards of forty hours each week volunteering.
Now, Gloria explains that she worked with RefugeeOne to set up a meeting with Sullivan teachers and administrators where she intends to argue for something that both she and Pastor Jim agree on: that Belenge and the Congolese boys must leave Sullivan as soon as possible.
When Gloria pulls up outside Mama Sakina’s apartment on a Thursday morning, Belenge is not yet dressed. He’d lost track of time. Gloria, patient and unshakable, waits in the front living room while Belenge puts on his suit. He’s chosen the sky-blue number that he normally saves for Sunday church services. The two-piece functions as a kind of armor for Belenge.
In the car, Belenge remains quiet in the back seat. Gloria, who normally communicates with Belenge through the Google Translate app, turns on WBEZ, the local NPR affiliate station. Waves of troubling news fill the airwaves. Some reports detail the continuing devastation of Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico while others summarize emerging information from a recent mass shooting in Las Vegas, the deadliest in U.S. history. News of Harvey Weinstein’s abuse of power and sexual misconduct has dominated the airwaves lately. But Belenge remains mostly unaware of the headlines and Gloria does not translate. Belenge’s father, Tobias, who Gloria said must also come to the meeting, stares silently out the passenger window.
