4
ROCK MY SPIRIT
Everything had been previously arranged for the special night. We were in fancy dress, formal attire. I loved how she looked in that designer dress, a knockoff that she bought for the occasion at Macy's. They sent a car to take us to the dinner, which was for some Congolese refugees and was being held downtown, at the home of one of Dr. Gomes's friends. It was switched at the last moment by an organizer. The event turned out to be actually a fundraiser for Operation Salvation.
When we arrived, a uniformed gentleman escorted us upstairs to the event. Outside a closed door, another staffer waved at us to stop, then peeked inside the room. Finally, he motioned us inside the room and indicated that we should sit along the back wall. As we made our way to the only empty seats there, a documentary played on a screen, and we were bombarded with horrible images: a young woman mourning her dead infant; two foreign doctors tending to a teenager who was suffering from malaria; a malnourished older man, with a skeletal frame, sitting on a bench; a group of frightened refugees holding out their hands for food that was being distributed by UN members; and a row of corpses laying alongside a dirt road.
“This is crazy, totally crazy . . . black people killing other black people,” Addie whispered before some man asked her to be quiet.
The lights came on, and we could see that there were about twenty people seated around a long oak table, with food and drink before them. They were dressed formally as well. All the people around the table were white, affluent, with a touch of sophistication about them. I noticed five people sitting along the wall in the front. They were blacks and were dressed cleanly, and yet they had a ravaged appearance. They were the focus of all the attention. The room itself was very grand and elegant, like a venue you'd find in a four-star hotel.
“In the heart of Africa, there is a war for the soul of the continent,” said a man who introduced himself as Owen Yemma. “The nearly two decades of war in the Congo have been bloody and horrific. A group of Congolese rebels, known as M twenty-three, has routed the national army in the eastern sectors of the country, displacing civilians, who pour into a small number of camps in Rwandaâ”
A woman, her blond hair piled on top of her head, screwed up her horse face and interrupted the speaker. “Tell them, Owen. Tell them how Rwanda has welcomed these displaced civilians with militias affiliated with the rebels, and how these proxies have killed thousands of innocent people. Rwanda denies that fact. Tell them, Owen.”
Owen took a drink of his water and continued. “That's true. Rwanda has flip-flopped on its responsibility to the refugees. The media and UN observers see war at its most brutal. They have witnessed rape being used against Congolese girls and women. Anything goes as far as the militias and the national army are concerned. They do whatever they want, without any worry of arrest and punishment. The UN peacekeepers have been ineffective in stopping these atrocities.”
“Are both sides guilty of using child soldiers in the Congo?” a man asked. I saw how some of the other guests were looking at the refugees, who appeared uneasy and fidgety.
“I know the International Criminal Court at The Hague has prosecuted many of the major perpetrators of this crime against children, including one of the rebel commanders, Thomas Lubanga,” Owen replied. “He was sentenced to fourteen years in prison for his use of child soldiers. Progress is being made, but it's not enough so far. The rebels are being subsidized by other nations. I recall Rwanda and Uganda attacked the Congo to rout the people responsible for the previous atrocities. Some in the Western world have said that the rest of the African countries did very little to keep the peace or to stop the carnage.”
Two of the whites, both of them impeccably dressed and with deep pockets, interrupted Owen as he continued his history lesson on the Congo. One of them shouted, “What about the child soldiers? Are they still being used in the violence in the region?”
Refusing to be deterred, Owen waved them off. “The West believes there are no easy solutions for the African crisis. They can't explain the failings and defects of the sub-Saharan continent. It seems that the new leaders transform themselves into dictators and despots and are concerned only with their greed and excess.”
Another moneyman put his hand underneath his long chin and said with a frown, “So why should we get involved? Why should we invest in a losing cause?”
Owen pointed his finger accusingly at the man. “Because we cannot afford to sit on the sidelines and let this tragedy continue. Also, we know the causes. Most Africans in the region blame outsiders for their troubles and say that if these agitators would leave, then everything would return to normal.”
“And what is
normal?
” another do-gooder said, laughing. Some of the others snickered under their breath, but the people devoted to the campaign screwed up their faces.
I looked at Addie, who shrugged at the insensitivity of those who had pledged their energy to the African crisis. We whispered to each other that this was probably how most people in the West saw every human crisis over in Africa. If this crisis had erupted anyplace in Europe or Asia or Latin America, relief and supplies would have been airlifted to the area.
Owen was undaunted in his mission of good will. “We're not there to solve the political questions. We're there to meet their basic health needs. You're mistaken if you think that we're the UN, that we have a cure for the rampant corruption or the ethnic hatred engulfing the region. We're trying to do the Lord's will. We're trying to reach out to those who need our help and support.”
The image of a relief worker, a healthy young white woman, carrying a starving boy with a ravaged face and a bloated stomach appeared on the screen. Flies settled in the child's nostrils and mouth. The people gathered around the table stopped talking, while others in the room covered their eyes. It was a pitiful sight.
“Charity or philanthropy?” Owen asked.
The white faces turned to the speaker, who continued talking as images of malnourished children and women, of corpses lined up beside refugee tents, of staffers trying to force liquids down parched throats, and of villagers without limbs, reprisals by the rebels, flashed on the screen.
“The Congo is a mess,” Owen said angrily. “It has been a mess for a long time. This is the region where the Mobutu dictatorship reigned for over three decades and was violently overthrown only in nineteen ninety-seven. Then Mobutu was followed by another despot, Laurent Kabila, and now there are unceasing waves of killing and bloodshed throughout the land.”
A black woman dressed severely in black, with a large gold cross around her neck, stood up and asked one of the most important questions of the meeting. “Why must Americans always have to come to the rescue? We've got enough to do on our shores. There's all kinds of misery and need here. Africans need to stand up and take responsibility for their own actionsâ”
Addie interrupted her. “That could be said about American blacks. Maybe if we stood up and redirected our energy in our communities, we'd end the misery here.”
The woman jerked her face toward Addie. “And who are you? Who invited you to this private meeting?”
“I'm a guest of Dr. Gomes, who is a friend of Mr. Yemma there,” she replied. “Just call me Addie. I don't like your snooty tone, ma'am. I thought this was a Christian organization.”
“We're all good Christians here,” the woman retorted.
Owen put a finger to his lips, trying to nip the brewing dispute in the bud. “Whether it's volunteerism or grassroots goodwill, this is not about Rudyard Kipling's âwhite man's burden.' We're trying to keep people alive, trying to give them peace and comfort. This is why we're meeting all this week with a number of charitable foundations and individual donors. We need medical supplies, doctors and nurses, and essentials like water, food, clothing, and tents. We cannot turn our backs on these underserved areas.”
Another color image of lifeless bodies covered with blankets in a large tent appeared on the screen behind Owen as he turned the audience's attention to the quintet of Africans in the room, who looked around at the prosperous men and women in their midst.
“Look at these poor souls,” Owen said mournfully. “There are all kinds of evil going on over there. Murders, numerous cases of child and woman rape, plunder, displacement. When it's time, the plague of flagrant human rights abuses will need to be addressed, but that is not our job.”
A black-and-white image of dark-skinned skeletons, arranged in order of age and height and propped up against a mud wall, to be fed by a group of relief workers, appeared on the screen. Some of the weaker ones slid down to the ground.
“Have you ever seen a human being in such a malnourished condition?” Owen asked them. “Starving to death?”
Annoyed, the black woman with the large gold cross muttered under her breath, folding her arms. One or two of her cronies rolled their eyes, because they thought Owen was laying it on too thick.
“Extreme hunger sets in, and the body starts to die. It begins to eat itself in order to live,” Owen said slowly for effect. “When hunger totally takes over, all thoughts, all movements cease. And the person slumps to the ground and waits to hear his or her last breath.”
Owen paused, looking around the room to see if his words were hitting home. His relief organization needed funds, and if he had to plead and grovel, then so be it.
“The suffering is so great for these refugees in the Congo,” he began again. “They think they have been targeted and singled out by an unconcerned God. A white God who has turned His back on them. You know how Americans hate anything that entails suffering and its aftermath. They like happy endings, like everything tied up neatly with a bow.”
Looking around the room, I thought that these people were not the kind of audience that Owen should expect to be generous. These were the kind of folks who sought tax loopholes, offshore accounts, and financial sure shots.
“Stand up, Kwesi,” Owen said quietly.
A Congolese boy, probably in his teens, stood, his suit dwarfing his slight frame. His gaze was toward the floor. He was embarrassed to be the center of attention.
“Tell them what happened to you,” Owen said.
“The rebels killed my mother and father and made me shoot my grandfather,” the boy mumbled, his dark purple face glistening. “I saw them rape my sister and my aunt, many of them. They made me fight with them.”
“Were you a child soldier?” a white man quizzed him.
“Yes,” the boy said, his eyes lowered. “I ran away during battle, when they were not looking. They found me.”
“Did you hate fighting for the devils who killed your family?” another man asked, adjusting his lapel. “How did that make you feel?”
Wounded to the heart, the boy sat down, staring blankly ahead, wringing his bony hands.
“What kind of questions are those?” Owen chided.
“I'm very sorry,” the man said, apologizing.
Owen lifted his hand and asked one of the girls to stand. “Kenia, what happened to you? Tell them your story.”
The girl, with a horrible machete wound along her cheek, stood trembling, her eyes bright and focused on Owen. She was dressed casually in a white blouse and a golden cotton dress that reached down to her knobby knees. Everyone waited for her to find her words.
When a murmur arose in the room, suddenly she sat back down, smoothed her dress, and stared straight ahead. Tears ran down her cheeks. I felt Addie shudder against me. She was scowling at the lack of compassion shown by some of those gathered there.
“Yes, Congolese people know what suffering is,” Owen noted after explaining that the girl had been sexually assaulted and left for dead. She could not bring herself to discuss the atrocities she had endured.
He paused for a moment and then pleaded once again with the group. “America cannot turn its back on them when they need us the most. They need our help, not our pity. One can either act or shut one's eyes and pretend this misery does not exist. I see another one of our visitors, who was invited at the request of our good friend Dr. Gomes. The doctor has been a hardworking, loyal supporter of this organization and its work. Do you care to stand and give us your opinion of our effort?”
Addie nudged me on the shoulder. “He means you.”
I put on a brave face and rose to my full length. “As the apostle Matthew said, âFreely ye have received, freely give.' Sometimes it's our mandate not just to minister to those around us, but also to practice that ministry in the neediest places of the world. As Christians, we must see that those things that are out of balance in God's Kingdom are set right. As Christians, our ministry says we must show compassion and appeal to our conscience when we come to know Christ. That ministry demands action and hard work sometimes. I commend each and every one of you for the fine and courageous work your organization is doing in Africa. May God bless your work.”
Addie smiled at me. “Not bad. Not bad for words off the cuff.”
While the group applauded me politely, Owen wrapped up the meeting, thanking the members and guests for their time. Addie couldn't get out of there quick enough. We didn't stay for the meal. Once we were outside, she complained that certain members were hypocrites, that they were not really concerned about the charitable work the organization was doing or about the African people.
In the cab back uptown, Addie talked about how she wanted to see one of her old friends, Lester “The Human Mule” Moore, who was making an appearance soon over in Harlem's Marcus Garvey Park. Lester, she told me, was from Anniston and was a pal of her mama's from the old days. The old geezer, in his late eighties, was going to pull a small van with his teeth and a chain over in the park. I declined to go with her.