Basankusu Testimonies Part I (piet-korse

CONTENTS
Map and Distances.
Foreword.
1. Fr Harry van Thiel.
2
3
6
2. Fr Jan Hartering.
3. Sisters of Asten.
4. Fr Frans de Vrught.
5. Br Piet Hosman.
6. Fr Lieuwe van der Meij.
7. Fr Wim Tuerlings.
8. Br Jan de Groot.
9. Br Marinus de Groot.
10. Cosmas Mbóyó.
11. Fr Joop Deen.
12. Report by Frs Frans de Vrught and Cees Castricum.
13. Fr Jan Molenaar.
14. Abbé Albert Gwémbongo.
15. Abbé Camille Tókínd’ino.
16. Harrowing events on the Lulónga River.
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19
25
26
28
30
37
43
49
51
60
62
76
77
79
17. Fr Toussaint Goessens.
18. Fr Frans Kwik.
19. Fr Ben Jorna.
20. Fr Pierre Spanjers.
21. Fr Frans Lampe.
22. Miel van der Hart.
23. Fr Piet Korse.
24. Dick van Veen.
25. Fr Fons Eppink.
26. Fr Harry Reusen.
27. Johanna Theresia Lammerse.
28. Br Otto Perfler.
29. Piet de Moel.
30. Fr Jim Fanning.
31. Fr René Graat.
32. Wies Vanderslagmolen.
33. Br Piet van Vliet.
34. Jan Devogelaere.
35. Jos and José van Baarsen.
36. Francis Hannaway.
37. Fr John D. Kirwan.
38. Bishops of Basnkusu.
39. Gerda van Kerkhof.
40. Lea Tubbax.
41. Theo Miltenburg.
42. Klaas and Rosa Gijsberts.
43. Farewell speech by Abbé Camille Tókínd’ino.
82
84
90
107
113
115
130
150
161
173
177
182
184
188
207
209
214
217
228
233
238
241
248
250
252
254
256
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44. Latest story.
45. Memorable data.
46. Index.
47. Bibliography.
259
261
265
270
MAP of Basnkusu Diocese
Distances:
Basnkusu-Waka
: 80 km
Basnkusu - Baríngá : 180 km
Basnkusu - Befale
: 247 km
Basnkusu - Mmpn
: 372 km
Basnkusu - Lingm
: 462 km
Basnkusu - Símbá
: 604 km
Djlu - Lingm
: 60 km
Djlu - Mmpn
: 150 km
Djlu –Yambóyó
: 23 km
Djlu – Yalisere
: 58 km
Djlu – Símbá
: 82 km
Símbá - Mmpn
: 232 km
Lingm - Mmpn
: 90 km
Yambóyó-Bongándángá
: 276 km
Befolí-Yalisere
: 50 km
2
Basnkusu-Bokákata
Basnkusu-Mampoko
Basnkusu- Lulánga
Bokákata-Abunákombo
Abunákombo-Bolómba
Bolómba-Byng
Byng-Mbándáká
Basnkusu-Liaka
Basnkusu-Djmb
Basnkusu-Bongándángá
:
:
:
:
:
:
:
:
:
:
50 km
140 km (via the river)
180 km “ “ “
60 km
80 km
77 km (via the river)
120 km “ “ “
40 km “ “ “
96 km “ “ “
200 km “ “ “
Foreword:
The Mng cherish the expression: bont’ont’eléngé. In Lingála they say: moto na moto
ndéngé na yé. This saying means: each person has his/her character, his/her way of doing
things; each person is different. Nobody is the same. This observation demands respect for a
person’s identity and asks us to allow people to follow their charisma. In the missionary
context it asks missionaries to allow Asians and Africans to be themselves and not to try to
turn them into Europeans. In the same line of thought another African expression says
unceremoniously: a puppy shits the way its mother shits. Each nation, each people has its
own way of doing things, in other words: its own culture.
In the following pages we, religious and lay people who laboured in the Basnkusu diocese,
explain what brought us to the equatorial forest of the Congo, what struck us and what we felt
our mission was. As the local people would say: each of us acted in his or her own way. Most,
if not all of us, wanted to follow the example set by Jesus, who, according to the Gospels,
went round doing good. Each of us had a dream of promoting people’s well-being and
happiness in justice and peace in their communities. Some of us were teachers in schools,
others shepherds in parishes, still others nurses in private clinics or hospitals. Some of us
even tried their hands at promoting micro-credits and anthropological research into the local
culture.
When looking back in this book on our lives as missionaries in Africa, we try to trace the
journey we undertook. Our initial dreams spurred us on, but the actual circumstances initiated
us into a world which we did not even suspect to exist.. So what happened to our dreams?
Did they become nightmares? Or did they turn out to be a fata morgana? Or did they help us
to plough our way through the jungle of life, which is sometimes full of thorny vines, and to
keep us on the track we envisaged in the beginning? Our journeys unfolded themselves as we
undertook them. We may finally discover that the most important thing in life is not our
initial dream with its objectives but the journey we undertook. We cannot ourselves rightly
judge whether our lives have been fruitful. We leave that judgment to the Congolese and to
God. But we can look back at what happened to ourselves. We invite you to read these life
stories and find out how each of us fared on his/her journey.
It is not preposterous to claim that those who came to save the spiritual lives of the Congolese
population, managed to save the very physical lives of so many by extending medical,
ophthalmic or dental services to all around. As we were often the only people possessing a
car, we were day and night ready to transport women in labour to clinics or hospitals saving
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the lives of both the mothers and their babies. Whenever we did not succeed to rescue those
lives and had to return with a corpse, we were utterly devastated by the miserable result of
our failed efforts.
It is amazing to observe that those who went through life-threatening situations, were very
soon back on the job, even without any mind- or soul-mending therapies. Was it a sense of
duty that pushed us to return? This secret drive is hard to explain. If it would be possible, this
drive should be patented and put into a fancy bottle. To outsiders that drive looks more like a
moth’s flight at night when it is irresistibly attracted by a fire where it finds its end. Can this
drive be explained by an overdose of a sense of obedience, by an inner calling or by an
attachment to the local population? It is a fact that we used to live in a very isolated part of
the world. This gave us in the parishes at least the advantage of living close to the people
around us and feeling in many ways responsible for them. Their lives became our lives, their
worries our worries, their language our language. David Van Reybrouck shows this
wonderfully well in his theatre-monologue called Mission. However, this aspect of
connectedness with and concern for the local population does not come out at all in his book
‘Congo. A History.’ He forgot to point out the mighty, historic and even heroic effort of
thousands of expatriate priests, sisters, brothers and lay people to build up a modern country
from scratch and to provide schools, clinics and hospitals even in the remotest areas of the
equatorial forest with its countless mosquito-infested swamps.
You will see that the events around the murder of our Yambóyó missionaries are narrated by a
number of people, yet with slight differences. Which story is the correct one? It doesn’t
matter. The gospels also differ according to the inner experience of each author. The
important point is as Saint John’s gospel tells us: ‘A man can have no greater love than to lay
down his life for his friends’ (John 15, 13). The heroic intervention of Bart Santbergen in
favour of Jan Groenewegen on that infamous day in September 1964 is worth repeating ever
so often.
But there is no doubt about it that the death of these valiant men left a deep scar in the history
of the local church and in the minds and souls of those who continued the pastoral and
humanitarian work after them. I dedicate this book to those three martyrs and to their
comrades in arms who drowned a couple of weeks earlier in the Lulónga River when fleeing
from Mampoko to Basnkusu.
I mostly follow the traditional and colonial way of writing names like Baríngá, Kdr,
Djmb, Djlu and Yalisere which linguistically should be written Balíngá, Kdl,
Jmb, Jlu and Yalisele. The Lopolí River is sometimes pronounced Lofolí depending on
the area. The consonants l and r are locally pronounced in such a way that it is difficult to
distinguish the two, though the letter r is pronounced more like the letter l than the other way
round. So it would be better to opt for the consonant l. It may even be correct to say that the
letter r does not exist at all. When I use the letter r all the same, it is in deference to the
established way of writing Baríngá instead of Balíngá and so on.
As you see, I do indicate the tones or on the African words and names as they are, to my
knowledge, pronounced locally. The  and  are pronounced as the closed o in the words got,
hot and spot; the  and  are pronounced as the closed e in words like bed and fed. The
vowels with a dash on them (as on all the vowels in Kdr) are high and those with a hat
or bridge on them like in the expression nd’ôlá (in the village) start low, rise and descend
again. The vowels without further indication are low. A high vowel in the nouns remains high
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in whatever context it is used. That’s why the pronunciation system in Bantu languages is
quite different from the stressed and unstressed syllables in English.
A topographic explanation: At Basnkusu one finds the Catholic parish headquarters called
the Mission near the cathedral, where we find also the FRABAS, the Fraternity of the Abbés of
Basnkusu. At one kilometre further into the bush, at Mpoma, one finds the mission procure,
the education office, the garage and a carpentry shop. The procure has a number of visitors’
rooms. Until 1973 the bishops of the diocese (Bishops Wantenaar and van Kester) resided in
Mpoma with other Mill Hillers. A big primary boys’ school is located in the same compound.
In the seventies Brothers Piet Tweehuysen and Marinus de Groot built a bishop’s residence
near the cathedral. At the other side of the cathedral, across the valley, the Moorslede Sisters
had their convent and their primary and secondary schools for girls. The Mill Hillers have
recently constructed their Saint Joseph House and a home for seminarians near the river, next
to the airstrip.
During his campaign of authenticity in the seventies Mobútu changes the colonial names of
some towns and re-introduces the original names. Léopoldville becomes Kinshásá,
Elisabethville becomes Lubumbáshi, Stanleyville becomes Kisangáni, Coquilhatville
becomes Mbándáká, Congo becomes Zaïre (Zaire), Katánga becomes Shába. In the stories I
will use the names as they were used at the time.
When Father Matóndo becomes bishop of Basnkusu, he introduces Lingála as the liturgical
and catechetical language for the whole of the diocese. Prior to his arrival three different
languages were used in their respective areas: Longandó, Lmng and Lingmb.
At Matóndo’s request for a radical change the missionaries are flexible enough to learn and to
use a new language.
I have arranged most articles according to the date of arrival of the authors in the diocese of
Basnkusu. In order to put the reader in the Congolese atmosphere Harry van Thiel’s local
story comes first (pages 7-8). The narrations of before and around the Independence troubles
and those about our Yambóyó martyrs in September - November 1964 are grouped together as
far as possible (pages 9-81).
Very many thanks to the proof-readers of this publication namely Fathers Jan Appelman and
Ben Jorna.
Piet Korse.
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1. Fr Harry van Thiel:
The walk during the floods depends on the wisdom of the one who goes in front (Mng proverb).
Harry was born on 8 November 1911.
From 1937 till 1946 Harry worked in the diocese of Basnkusu.
Right from the start he was interested in the language, customs and ideas of the Ngmb
people. He was lucky to be always stationed with that people, first at Abunákombo, then at
Mampoko (1938-1942) and Djmb (1943-1946). He founded a number of primary schools.
He was inspired by Fathers Jan Hartering and Coulthart. Though Harry did not stay in Congo
as long as other Mill Hillers did, he did gather a great amount of information concerning
healers, diviners, fables, myths, riddles, proverbs and the Ngmb’s way of thinking.
He put together a small grammar of the local language which was started by Bishop Van
Kester and wrote some twenty booklets as class and reading materials. He wrote two small
novels entitled ‘The Sacrifice of Itota’ and ‘We, Ngmb’.
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It is amazing that this missionary managed to acquire so much knowledge and so many
insights when even the word anthropology was unknown in missionary circles. No wonder he
was elected member of the African Linguistics Department of the Tervuren Museum. On
account of ill health he had to leave the Congo in 1946. We can apply the above cited proverb
to Harry: he was the one who went in front and gave other missionaries a taste of and an
appetite for the enticing African stories, fables and proverbs.
To give you a chance to relish his writings, the following is the first chapter of his novel:
‘We, Ngmb’:
Very, very long ago, people came together. When they convened, the eldest person among
them addressed the gathering and said: ‘We need to elect a chief. But who will be our chief?’
The eye then said: ‘I will be your chief.’ The people said: ‘The eye sees everything. Let the
eye be our chief!’
The eye became the big chief.
One day, the men went hunting. They said: ‘Eye, you stay at home and watch over the
village.’
The eye said: ‘I’ll stay at home; I’ll watch over the village.’
Whilst the hunters were in the forest, the rain came.
The eye saw the rain but remained seated.
The eye did not take the fire inside the house. It didn’t do so.
The rain extinguished the fire.
Evening came.
The eye did not lock up the goats. The eye didn’t do so.
The leopard came and killed the goats.
The eye didn’t lock up the chickens.
Mosl, the chicken thief, came and stole the birds.
The eye did not watch over the children either.
One child drowned in the river and another child was bitten by a snake and died.
When the hunters returned, their village had turned into a sad village.
People said:
‘The eye can no longer be our chief.’
The mouth then suggested:
‘I shall be your chief. I’ll speak up. I’ll call people together. I shall say: “Come” and they
come. I will stop someone, saying: “Don’t do it” and he will not do so.
People said: ‘The mouth can speak. The mouth is our chief. ‘
Then the head called out: ‘The mouth can speak, but can it remember something?’ Who
remembers what the mouth says?’ Isn’t that me?’
When the head had finished speaking, the heart called out:
‘Who orders the mouth to say this or that? Does the leg refuse when the heart wants to
travel? Won’t the hands do what the heart orders them to do?’ What the heart refuses to do,
will that person not refuse to do so as well?
Then the people called out:
‘The heart has spoken well. The heart is our chief!’
The heart became their chief.
Even now the heart is our chief.
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I have been an old man for a long time and I know that the heart is a wise chief.
Sometimes my eye sees a young man going to the forest with his spear and his dog. Then
my arm calls out: ‘Take your spear and go along with the young man.’
But while my arm calls out, I hear the voice of the heart:
‘Arm, you are too old; the spear which you will throw, will miss its aim. Do what an old man is
good at: ‘Just sit and remember the things of former days.’
Then my ear hears the tom-tom calling people together for a dance: Gulú-gulú-gulú! Gulúgulú-gulú.
Then my legs want to rise and go where the tom-tom is calling me.
But then the heart says:
‘Old man, your legs are stiff. Do what an old man does: just sit and remember the olden
days.’
Since then I just sit and think about former days, about what I have seen and heard, about
everything that happened in our village of Bôsó Mbúlu.
2. Fr Jan Hartering.
When the old man is at home, the goats don’t enter. (Mng proverb).
a. Beginning:
At the beginning of 1935 I arrive in Yalisere via the port of Befolí on the Ló River which the
Belgians called the Maríngá.
Mr Sette, the captain of the boat that moored at Befolí, proposes to leave me at the Mission of
Yalisere on the back of his motorbike. The murram road is open for traffic since a week or so,
namely from Christmas 1934. That is a distance of 50 kilometres. However, when we are
about half way, the chain of the motorbike breaks in two. For me, a young man, a walk of 25
km is no problem. For the corpulent Sette it is a big nuisance. The village people have pity on
8
him and make a seat for him by means of vines, poles and a chair. In this way they carry him
all the way to Yalisere.
From Yalisere I go by push-bike to Símbá to learn the Longandó language at the feet of
Father Vercauteren (1903-1975). The latter teaches me some grammar and the schoolboys
indicate me the words. I stay there six weeks. At that time we haven’t heard yet of the
existence of tones in the language. That information is given us four years later by Father
Gustaaf Hulstaert.
Women, who want to marry Catholic men, have to present themselves at the mission. They
need to follow instructions in view of receiving baptism. They are informed to come to the
parish centre for an instruction period of six months after which they are baptised and are
married in church. I notice that people are not impressed by holy water. In their traditional
blessings parents ‘spray’ saliva on the head of their children. Saliva sticks to the hair and
stays there, whilst holy water runs off the head! The ancestral blessing is impressive by its
speech and by the saliva; in their eyes it is the real blessing!
After Easter that year (1935) a school is opened with 27 pupils. I am put in charge of the
school. I teach the children how to read and write, mathematics and French. The school books
are in Lmng, the language of the big neighbouring tribe. I teach the boys during the day;
at night they teach me the local language. Since I followed a medical course before setting
out for Congo, I am also given the task of supervising the medical service.
In 1939 there is a retreat organised for the Mill Hill missionaries at Basnkusu. The retreat is
given by Father Gustaaf Hulstaert. This priest of the Sacred Heart Fathers studied extensively
the culture of the Mng. He points out that the use of tones in Bantu languages is of
essential importance for making oneself understood. ‘Everybody is able to pick these up,
even those without a musical ear.’
I stay at Símbá for a period of eight years. The parish priest, Father Gutersohn, is a popular
and respected man. He is called Père Bandit on account of his rough appearance. He is in
charge of the catechumens and is not loath to trek through the villages.
In the presbytery there is another missionary, Father Theo van de Linden (1877-1941). He
retired from being a parish priest on account of heart failure. His colleagues call him ‘Pa’. He
was ordained in 1904 and was part of the first group of missionaries that came out in 1905 at
the invitation of the Belgian King Leopold II. He is nicknamed Múmp Lokófé.
As he is getting older he still desires to administer the sacraments in the villages. Because he
can no longer ride a bike, people carry him in a comfortable chair from village to village. He
is very strict and adamant with his principles: couples living together have to marry in church
as soon as possible. Catholic men having more than one wife are reproached sternly. When
people want to use drums and local melodies in the liturgy, he threatens to cut up the drums
personally. His hobby is painting. He writes down his pastoral experiences. He dies suddenly
on 18 November 1941. When the parish priest, Father Gutersohn, calls Pa for the midday
meal, he does not turn up. When we look for him, we find him dead on the floor of his room.
We still give him the sacrament of the sick. But before we lift him off the floor and put him
back on the bed, the parish priest suggests that we’d better take our lunch first. Otherwise the
soup may get cold!
During the Second World War, the Belgian Congo has to contribute to the war effort. All the
healthy men in the region are obliged to deliver a fixed number of kilograms of rubber.
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Initially this is not so difficult. But as the war drags on, people have to go into the forest
deeper and deeper to find the rubber vines. People have no idea why that war is fought in the
first place and why they are obliged to do forced labour.
The monthly rubber market is held in a village next to the mission post of Símbá. Many
European traders, some of them from the other side of the Lofolí, come to the village of Liótsí
to buy the rubber and to present their merchandise. The rubber is well paid for and the
merchandise is not too expensive thanks to the competition among the expatriate
businessmen. A Belgian government official is always around for the good order. Every
market day the expatriate traders come and greet Father Gutersohn; they have a cup of coffee
and a drink from the bottle which they have brought along themselves. Local people visit
their friends and relatives in the mission.
Once the Second World War is over, everybody is happy that the obligatory rubber campaign
has come to an end. Father Gutersohn is honoured with a medal for his contribution towards
the ‘effort de guerre’. He is proud of it. But it is not clear anymore what his contribution
really was. Was it that he kept up the spirits of the expatriates?
I marvel at the sight of a big sisters’ convent, a big girls’ school and a clinic. The first Sisters
of Asten left Holland for Congo in February 1926. They dedicate themselves to education
(with a girls’ school) and to health care. They also care for a number of orphans. After World
War II the sisters go on holiday for the first time. When the first nun leaves for a good
vacation, people wonder why the sister leaves the convent. They have never seen this before.
She is not ill, is she? Would she be pregnant? And who could then be the father? Names are
mentioned! They do not see anything wrong in such a pregnancy. I listen in amazement: two
different worlds, different backgrounds, and different cultures. Will these two worlds ever
meet? The local chief utters his appreciation for the work done by the sisters, brothers and
priests by treating the sick, by teaching how to read and write and how to speak a foreign
language. However, the disadvantages in the school system are apparent: ‘when the young
people come back on holiday, they talk a foreign language. They have picked up bad
manners, for we do not know what they are talking about. Moreover, the boys don’t want to
participate in hunting and fishing anymore. Their respect for the elders has diminished
considerably. The girls are only out to wear beautiful clothes and parade with them whilst
they turn their backs on household chores.’
After the war the atmosphere in the parish is very pleasant. People feel relaxed with no
distrust between black and white or between young and old. One day, I visit a faraway village
when a young dog bites me in the leg. People say: ‘We suspect that the dog has rabies.’ They
kill it there and then. On the way back to the mission, I make a detour and visit the hospital in
Djlu. There they do not take any risk and order the anti-rabies injections for me. For three
weeks I go up and down to Djlu for my injections.
One afternoon the nurse there tells me: ‘We don’t know what the matter is with one of our
patients. He reacts in a very strange way’. The next day she hears the whole story: He has
been bitten by a rabid dog. I go to see the man, see him sitting inside a small room, but I think
it imprudent to talk to him about baptism, since the man would fear water. The following day
I pass there again. The man is sitting there with his wife next to him. The sick man invites me
to come in and says: ‘Yesterday you feared to come in; maybe you were afraid that I would
bite you and that you would die too.’ Not long afterwards the man dies. It is mostly in the dry
season that dogs become rabid.
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b. Independence on June 30, 1960.
The independence of Congo comes suddenly in sight. In our region there are very few active
propagandists for the various parties. All European civil servants and army personnel are
necessarily replaced by Congolese men. All mission schools are to be headed by a Congolese
headmaster.
One afternoon, we receive in Símbá the visit of a group of the M.N.C. (Mouvement National
Congolais). We invite them for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread. The highbrow official
thanks us for the reception and takes off to cross the Lofolí River. But they are soon back and
return to Stanleyville.
The administrator of Yahúma writes a letter asking the parish priest of Yahúma to say Mass
there on Independence Day. Since the priest had gone to Lókútu, we are asked to replace him.
Jacob Bos decides to go to take his place. But since his vehicle has some mechanical trouble
on the way, Jacob comes back to the mission. I decide then to go there myself. The
administrator is the only white man left in Yahúma. I want to visit some of my old
parishioners after supper. The administrator says: ‘I’ll give you a soldier along.’ Is the man
afraid that something will happen? I tell him that I do not need any soldier. People receive me
wholeheartedly with a lot of laughter and handshaking. Only one person tells me: ‘You are
not welcome here.’ I do not know him or the reason why he says so. After Mass and breakfast
I take the road in order to go back home. At the Lonwa River, a few men come forward and
say: ‘Oh, it is you, mon Père! We’ll take you across. We are independent now; that’s why we
do not take whites across these days.’ Maybe their pride of being independent makes them
speak in that way. It is not in their character that they refuse to take someone across.
At about 20 km from Símbá I visit a Flemish couple who are listening to the radio. At that
moment Lumúmba is giving his speech showing his joy at obtaining the political
independence with little thanks for the colonial rule.
In those days I visit a village near the Bolombo River. I come from Yalisere on the way to
Djlu. This is one of the villages where the witnesses of Jehovah are well represented. I meet
the white administrator. I greet him as well as the chief of the village. The chief is reproached
by a young man who asks him: ´Do you shake hands with a white man?’ The administrator
asks what the young man said. But I say: ‘It is nothing!’ I do not want the administrator to
order his soldiers to arrest the young man.
Back in Símbá, I find Jan Hanrath, the parish priest of Yambóyó, at the mission. He is making
a retreat in preparation for his silver jubilee.
Jacob Bos is already off to Yambóyó to keep Wim Tuerlings company. A few days later the
radio announces that soldiers are mutinying in several places. In Djlu, the main place in
Bongandó, there too soldiers herd the expatriates together. Many of them are maltreated and
women are raped. A truck is driving around to pick up all white people, planters and
missionaries included. They all are taken to the central district of Boéndé. They are flown to
Léopoldville and from there to Europe.
Yambóyó is all quiet. Símbá is the only parish in the diocese of Basnkusu that is in the
Eastern Province, some 3 km from the Lofolí River. After what happened in Djlu our
parishioners in Símbá advise us to pack our belongings. ‘We don’t want them to beat you. Go
home and return when everything is quiet.’ The expatriates in Símbá consist of Brother
11
Gabriël van der Eerden, Sisters of Asten, Jan Hanrath and me, the parish priest. In Djlu
things quiet down.
One Sunday a car drives up to the house. Two soldiers and the local headmaster of Yambóyó
have come to bring Jacob Bos and Wim Tuerlings. They are still upset by the tensions of the
past days. The question is: what shall we do? Two Belgian couples who recently started new
coffee plantations have come to the mission as well. We decide that all including the sisters
will leave except me, the parish priest and Brother Gabriël. The country as a whole is in
shock and is divided into two parts. For us this means that the Lofolí River is the borderline
between East and West. Símbá is in the eastern part and the rest of the diocese is in the
western part.
One day a truck comes up to the mission. One of the passengers, an old boy of the primary
school, takes me apart from the group and says: ‘Mon Père, I have come to warn you. In
Yahúma we have heard of another white man being here in Símbá. Is that a missionary from
the other side of the river? He has to leave this very day. They think he is a mercenary. They
will come to fetch him.’ That very day Brother Gabriël and Lieuwe v.d. Meij cross the river
to the other side.
Two days later a truck loaded with soldiers and onlookers comes to the mission. People from
all sides come to watch the scene. Immediately the question comes up: ‘Where is the stranger
here in the house? We think he is a mercenary.’ ‘Oh, the stranger, that was a missionary from
Basnkusu. He has returned.’ They cannot believe their ears. ‘We want to search the whole
house and compound.’ I give all the keys to our carpenter in order to show the soldiers around
and look everywhere: all the rooms, the loft and the cellar. I remain seated on the veranda
chatting with the man in charge and the leaders of our local community. The newly appointed
headmaster is a calm man and manages to ease the tension.
A few months later all the missionaries return except the sisters. In October (1960) Father
Jacob Bos brings with him a newly ordained man: Jan Molenaar from Heerhugowaard. The
country quietens, though divided into two parts: the western part being headed by Kasavúbu,
Thsómbe and Mobútu, the eastern part belonging to Lumúmba and Gizénga. As mentioned,
Símbá lies on the eastern side of the border.
The Sunday after Jacob’s and Jan’s arrival, a lorry full of soldiers comes to the Símbá
mission. As usual they are well received. Local people come flocking together. There is some
tension in the air. I then ask Jan Molenaar to take charge of Benediction in church. Two
soldiers accompany Jan. On their return from church, they say: ‘Yes, he did Benediction. He
is a missionary all right and not a mercenary.’
After the departure of the Sisters of Asten, the nurse in charge continues tending the sick.
Whenever he needs medicines, he comes to ask us at the mission. I then look for the
medication in the sisters’ store. One day the nurse insists to have the use of the ambulance.
The sisters had left the keys of their vehicle at the parish. The nurse says that the ambulance
belongs to the hospital and that he is the one in charge. So the car should be at his disposal.I
am convinced that other people want to use the ambulance for all kinds of activities and that
the vehicle in that case would be written off within a couple of months. The nurse complains
of my hold on the ambulance to the soldiers who pay regular visits to the Lofolí border of
their territory. The commanding officer takes a neutral stand, but the soldiers are on the side
of the nurse. Whenever the soldiers turn up, the question of the ambulance is brought up by
the soldiers and the nurse. One day, the officer wants to give in, but I insist that I have
12
promised the sisters to keep the car under my personal responsibility. It does the trick. Later
that group of soldiers is replaced by another one. And that solves the problem.
In august 1961, I meet the same nurse in Léopoldville. After the usual greetings, I ask the
nurse: ‘Do you remember the question of the ambulance of Símbá?’ The nurse answer: ‘Mon
Père, let us not talk about that!’
Many times the local population comes to our aid just by being present and by watching what
is happening. In that way, many men and women show their courage and their support for the
missionaries.
One day someone comes from a village at 20 km from the mission. He says: ‘One of our
women is in childbirth and things do not go well.’ I ask the nurse to come along. He takes the
bag with the various instruments. It is a sad sight to see: a young woman with a desperate
look in her eyes. She is asking for help. Bystanders blame her for not pushing hard enough
and for falling asleep during the night. The head, the shoulders and the arms of the baby are
visible. One arm is broken. I baptise the baby. The nurse manages to deliver the baby and the
mother. People heave a big sigh of relief. The baby is dead, but at least the mother has been
saved. I congratulate the nurse and say: ‘We can go.’ The nurse says: ‘Wait a minute.’ He
takes the stethoscope and puts it on the mother’s belly. ‘There is still another one’, he
exclaims. Soon the tom-tom announces the glad tidings of the birth of twins. The sadness of
the death of the first baby is taken away by the joy of the birth of the second one.
Whilst the nurse is busy with his work, I notice that I have forgotten my cigarettes. Whilst
walking around, I ask a man whether he has a cigarette for me. The man enters the house and
comes back with a full packet. ‘This is for you’, he says. ‘No’, I say, ‘one cigarette will do.’
But the man does not want to hear of it. He says: ‘You have come to help one of our village
people; this whole packet is yours.’
People rarely say: ‘Thank you.’ But by the little tokens of a piece of soap, a packet of
cigarettes or a bottle of beer, they show their appreciation for what we are doing. And we can
do with some recognition in these difficult circumstances. I propose to take the mother and
child to the dispensary to make sure that they will be well. I check the next morning and they
are fine.
As mentioned above, Jacob Bos and Jan Molenaar arrived in October 1960. Brother Gabriël
van der Eerden is also at the parish. People in the villages live a normal life. Jan Molenaar,
just ordained a priest, comes with new ideas and proposes that we do like they do in Europe
namely say Mass facing the people. I agree with him that he goes ahead saying that he
followed the same courses of theology as I did and that he may have understood more than I
did. But he should not expect me to follow suit. So Jan goes ahead and faces the people. He
does so for a few weeks when people come to see me and say: ‘Your young man wanted us to
see that he knows how to say Mass. We have seen that he knows it well. Please, tell him to
turn round again.’
The Belgian planters, though, do not return. The radio mentions that trouble is brewing in
government circles in the capital Léopoldville. Then one afternoon, at the beginning of 1961,
the radio announces that Patrice Lumúmba has been assassinated. This is a very disturbing
message for all the Europeans working in the eastern part of the Congo, since that side
constitutes the base of his supporters.
That same evening a truck arrives at the mission. Some soldiers jump off the truck, others
remain on it. The soldiers are well received. The commanding officer sits in his seat without
saying much. Mission people come to watch. Then the officer stands up and goes down the
13
steps. He asks one of the mission people: ‘Don’t the Fathers know what happened? Don’t
they listen to the wireless?’ ‘No, not much,’ he says. ‘They want to save their batteries.’ The
truck departs. We heave a sigh of relief.
The next morning, another truck comes driving into the mission compound, this time from
the Yahúma side. I am quick to meet the commanding officer and say: ‘We have heard the
news. Will we announce it to the schoolchildren and the people?’ All the soldiers wear a
mourning ribbon. The conversation is short. They move away. Later we hear that the soldiers
in Yahúma have badly beaten up the parish priest.
Tension stays high. One day the soldiers go to see the Lofolí River, the boundary between
East and West. They come to the mission. ‘We did not see any enemy,’ they say. They bring
with them a leader of the M.N.C., the Lumúmba party. His name is ‘akúfa lóbí’ (he’ll die one
day). He asks for a room in the house, but he does not want to cause trouble. We agree. We
don’t know what will happen if we would refuse his request. We did receive information a
few days earlier that a priest some 200 km further on the road was shot dead. This man called
‘akúfa lóbí’ orders the construction of a party office on the mission plot. On the motorbike of
Jacob Bos he visits the whole region.
Some time later, another truckload of soldiers arrives at the mission. The commanding officer
asks us where the former headmaster had his office. We point to Jacob Bos’ room. ‘From now
onwards that will be the office also for the new headmaster.’ The man clearly gives an order
that does not allow for objections. After the departure of the soldiers, the new headmaster
indicates that he wants to use the room only as his office. For us it is a nice occasion to
increase our contacts both with the headmaster and with the teachers of the whole parish.
On Easter Sunday after Mass people leave the church and see a soldier coming from the
Lofolí side, the enemy territory. He walks slowly. When he reaches the mission, he is invited
for a cup of coffee. The conversation is not very animated. We do not know what to think of
the man. The village chief accompanies the soldier to the great chief at 20 km who sends him
on to Yahúma. It becomes clear later that hostilities have ended. The actual group of soldiers
is replaced by another one. The chief orders Akúfa lóbí to leave the presbytery. He leaves for
Stanleyville. The construction of the party headquarters is stopped.
Brother Gabriël reconstructs the carpentry shop which was not used anymore. It becomes a
nice habitation with a veranda, a living room, an office and a number of bedrooms: a house
befitting a headmaster.
Since the outbreak of troubles after the declaration of Independence and the subsequent
departure of the sisters, the convent in Símbá is no longer occupied. The sisters never come
back again.
In 1964 a man comes telling Jan Molenaar that Símbá rebels are coming and that he had
better be off. Jan takes the road to Mmpn. At the same time a teacher tells Piet van Run
in Yalisere to be off. Piet reaches Mmpn via the road near the Ló River. They are saved
by the goodwill of the people who feared for their safety. Together Piet and Jan consult the
bishop in Basnkusu in order to know what to do in case the rebels enter the region. The
bishop’s response is clear: ‘Take care to stay ahead of them.’ In that same period, Akúfa lóbí
returns to Símbá. He has become one of the great rebel leaders.
c. Comparisons:
Jan asked his Bongandó helpers to compare their traditional gestures/symbols with our
‘Christian’ ones:
14
* Mass celebration:
The manner in which priests used to celebrate Mass elicit many questions. In the villages Mass
was usually celebrated in a small chapel made of sticks and mud with a roof made of palm
fronds. Against the wall in front there was the altar: four poles on top of which a mat was laid
out. The priest spread a white cloth and put a rectangular stone on top. He explained that in the
stone were the relics of a saint. This was a strange idea for us who are convinced that ancestors
take an interest only in their own offspring who pray to them and who make libations to them at
their drinking places.
We used to look at the back of the white man who prayed in a foreign language, making crosses
over pieces of bread called baosíti (hosts) and over imported wine. Songs were sung in strange
melodies. How much did we understand of the rituals and of the sermons that were preached?
The catechism presented the doctrine of a Western Church with its way of marrying, about
fetishes, about local healers, who were called witchdoctors and were regarded as devils
incarnate. Sins were divided into categories. It was all very difficult to explain, let alone to be
understood.
From the beginning of the 1940s, hymns are composed with African melodies. African
instruments make their way into the liturgy. The real change comes after Vatican II when the
priest no longer faces the wall but looks at the congregation. The one presiding over the liturgy
joins in the dancing, singing and in the clapping of hands. Proverbs are used to clarify the gospel
texts. We respond to what is being said. These are meaningful celebrations which solicit an
exchange of ideas and questions about what is happening in the local community.
Formerly the missionaries deceived us by saying Mass with their backs turned towards us and
by speaking in a foreign language. Nowadays lay people distribute communion! They have been
playing tricks on us for a long time.
They forbade us to offer our ancestors gifts in the small shrines behind our homes. Our tradition
tells us that, when one of our elders dies, we have to build a shrine in order to remember him
and to pray there. You forbade us to do so, though we depend on our ancestors for our very
existence. The ancestral spirits take care of us!’
* Confession:
Confessions are heard on a chair planted somewhere outside or inside the small chapel.
Much later people explain a few things: ‘When we confessed that we had killed a wild pig or a
small antelope, we did not mean to say that we killed those animals. What we meant was that we
had killed an adult or a child. We did not say openly we had killed a human being, because we
were convinced that the priest would understand. We confessed these killings for, if we did not
confess them, the case would continue to exist between us and Ingólóngóló (between us and God
or between ourselves and the ancestors). The penance given at the end of confession finished
the case.’
‘Our ancestors, though, stopped us from telling openly what happened in secret! When we
confess those things in confession, we sin against our ancestral traditions. We prefer the recent
communal reconciliation service when the priest enumerates our habitual sins and invites us to
regret our failings and to ask the Lord for forgiveness. This is more in line with our traditions.’
When a bachelor sleeps with a free woman, what’s wrong with that? They deceived us by saying
that such a thing is bad!
15
‘The missionaries told us that it is sinful to venerate the ancestors. But we see pictures of our
Lady and of Saint Joseph and of many other saints whose ancestors we do not know. In front of
their pictures or statues candles are burnt and their intercession prayed for. And we, Congolese,
would we not be allowed to invoke our ancestors?
We were told: a Catholic is not allowed to read a Protestant Bible! We should not befriend bad
people. But we see priests receiving whites who are not properly married or who are drunks.
One is not allowed to call a woman. But we can enumerate the names of priests, both white and
black who go for women. (Les Bongandó nous parlent, page 153).’
* Polygamy.
There is another bone of contention between Christian doctrine and African tradition.
‘According to local traditions a man is allowed to take several wives. The reason is: his wives will
bear him many children forming a big clan. He will receive a lot of dowry for his daughters. If
ever war breaks out, his many sons will form a great force to be counted upon! Christian
doctrine weakens our family ties and its power. Jesus came to perfect the local tradition; he
surely did not come to abolish it.’
* Education:
‘Youngsters nowadays look down upon the elders who usually are illiterate. Young people don’t
listen to the rules and regulations of the clan and the tribe anymore. When they get into
difficulties and need assistance in solving their problems, our judges sometimes refuse to listen
to them or to pronounce a verdict. The judges simply say: ‘You never listen to us, your fathers;
you had better look for help elsewhere.’ That is the punishment we give them.
Formerly when children refused to obey their parents, the latter used to rub them with red
pepper or insert a red hot pepper into their anus. Nowadays, if a child is disobedient, the
parents refuse to give it food. It has to go to bed hungry.’
* Healing:
It is 1985. Jan sits in the dark and reflects on what happened long ago in 1935. At that time he
was often called upon to pull teeth.
One day he is called to a sick woman who is bedridden. She has a high fever. It is probably a case
of malaria. Jan gives her the prescribed and the required dose of quinine. In the evening Jan
goes back to check on her. It is after sunset. But Jan finds her sitting in front of her home with
her back against the wall. In front of her a woman sits waving a small branch. Then this visitor
takes the horn of an animal and keeps it against the sick woman’s mouth, closes off the horn
with her hand and then disappears behind the house. Amazed at seeing these things happen, Jan
asks: ‘What is happening here?’ People tell him that the woman at work is a healer. She chases
bad spirits that have taken hold of the sick woman’s body.
Jan has come to the region only recently. He is not aware of the customs and the rituals of the
local people. He knows nothing about their ideas concerning life, illness and death. He only
knows the stories how Jesus went round healing the sick and chasing devils. Jan asks a few
questions and then people tell him that the healer managed to capture some of the bad spirits in
the horn and is leaving them far in the forest. But there are still other spirits to be captured. At
hearing so much superstition and ignorance, Jan tells the people that he will chase the bad
spirits. He prays and sprinkles some holy water. The healer comes back but leaves the scene
shaking her head. The others look on silently at the young father who has still to learn a lot.
Maybe one day he will understand. After Jan’s departure the woman healer resumes the work
for which she came.
16
Now in 1985 the same father, old and grey, goes for a walk in the mission compound. He moves
in between the houses of the workers. Between a home and its kitchen he sees a woman leaning
backwards on a chair. If front of her a woman sits singing and waving a bunch of leaves. With
rhythmic movements she touches with the leaves the various parts of the sick woman’s body.
She invokes the spirits of the deceased family members. She prays, she pleads the spirits to leave
the patient in peace and to leave her body. Jan remains standing at a certain distance. He thinks
of the scene some 50 years earlier. At that time he asked the healer to leave the scene. But now
he remains silent. When the healer has finished her ritual, Jan approaches. They bring him a
chair. He starts a conversation with the healer, a very well-known woman. She shows him the
bunch of leaves consisting of cassava leaves, the pungent leaves of the teélé and the mbl
(Afromomum). She tells how she became a healer, how she does her work and which prayers
she formulates. She says: ‘Sometimes I press sap out of the leaves and drip them into the nostrils
of the sick person who will then sneeze and enumerate the names of the spirits that harass her.
The offended spirits then need to be appeased or compensated. The sharp odour emanating
from the leaves or the sap urges and encourages the spirits to leave the person.
There they sit together in the equatorial forest. The sick person asks for help. The white man is
there with his culture, with his centuries-old tradition and his vision on life and death. The
African woman with her culture, with her age-old tradition, with her vision on life and death.
Both are called nkanga i.e. healer. Both try to help people, each one in his and her own way. They
try to understand each other. Where do they connect, where do they agree, where do they differ?
How to connect those two cultures, how to join them so that Christ’s message can be passed on?
Jan reflects: through our prayers we hope to send the spirits of our relatives to heaven, to God.
Africans keep these spirits close to them knowing that they either protect or punish them.
* Rituals:
In Baríngá Piet Korse and his team of the Cultural Research Centre did research in all the Mng
parishes on baby rituals and baby baths (see Life and Death Matters, pages 119-133). Various
rituals (wiko or jiko) are performed by parents to strengthen their baby’s health by providing
protection from evil forces like bad spirits or witches, and to guard their baby against all kinds
of sickness. Wiko is performed also to prevent the baby from being suddenly shocked whether
by the arrival of a witch, by the cry of a bird, or by the shadow of a tree.
The gestures and the symbols used in these baby rituals could perhaps be used in an African rite
of baptism as a way of promoting a more acculturated sacramental liturgy and catechesis. Father
Jan is curious in how far the Mng gestures and symbols are prevalent also among the
Bongandó. He interrogates his helpers about some of the suggestions.
The following are some observations made by his helpers:
1. Baptismal water:
We too throw bathwater in the direction of the setting sun in the hope that the sun disappears
with the child’s illnesses. However, a small child that is baptised has not committed any wrong
yet; so what do you want to throw away? We fully agree that throwing the water used to baptise
adults towards the west does make sense.
We do not like the idea to throw baptismal water on the road hoping that passers-by take along
our evil deeds. We prefer to throw that water into a pit, since we do not like and should not be
reminded of the faults and failings which we committed before baptism. Baptismal water can be
obtained from the vine ingla. Its sap is crystal clear. It clears one’s eyes and cleanses the body
joints indicated under number 5.
17
2. Where to baptise?
We prefer that persons be baptised in the open and not in a dark chapel or church, because a
baptised person becomes a child of God filled with light. He or she should, therefore, be baptised
in the open. If the baptised returns to the church building for other ceremonies, he/she is not
allowed to look behind him/her so as not to retake the evil from which he/she was delivered.
⃰
We recommend that, when the candidate actually receives baptism, he/she looks in the
direction of the rising sun, because there we find the source of the river. The second reason is
that good and new things and opportunities come with every new day. When a child loses a
tooth, its mother will advise the unfortunate child to throw the tooth towards the east, because
then a new tooth will grow just like a new sun rises above the horizon.
⃰
3. Incisions: When someone is suffering from pain in the chest, a healer will make incisions
there and rub medicine into the wounds. Then the healer takes some blood which has absorbed
the remedy and rub it onto an arrow. He then shoots the arrow in the direction of the setting
sun, saying: ‘We pray that this illness departs like the arrow and that the illness vanishes like the
setting sun.’ When people make incisions to open up the body so that the illness leaves the
patient, it’s always done only on the side of the body where one experiences the pain. Local
medicine is rubbed into the incisions. Oil is never used for this purpose, because oil is used to
soften and to heal. So in this case no Holy Oil should be rubbed into the incisions.
4. New clothes: The baptised can put on new clothes immediately after baptism provided there
is a convenient place to undress and dress again. Otherwise the baptismal candidates wear new
clothes underneath an old dress which they remove after baptism.
5. Oil: The baptism oil can be used to anoint the body joints like the wrists, the elbows, the
knees, the shoulders, the hips and the ankles so that the person does not incur illnesses and will
not be bedevilled by evil desires but instead will stand up against temptations.
6. Anointing:
Anointing the forehead
In the Roman ritual a baptised person is anointed. We recommend that the very first spot to be
anointed is the belly on the area between the belly and the chest. It is there that we find the seat
and origin of our feelings and personal qualities. Then anointing should be done on the face i. e.
between the eyebrows. That’s were plans are thought out. Thoughts inspire us and push us to
undertake action. There are still other areas to be anointed: the hands because we work with
our hands; and then our feet, since we exist thanks to our moving feet. The Mng rightly say:
ikokolo ntémala botéma ntála (if the little leg does not rise, the belly won’t eat). Another spot to
18
be anointed is the ear, since we have to open our ears to Jesus’ message in order to strengthen
our faith.
7. Eye drops: Instead of saliva we’d better use eye drops so that the baptised may see clearly the
road to life and may distinguish between good and evil.
8. Fire: Like we use fire in the ritual etumbwa ea mpao, to annoy and chase the evil spirits that
prevent us from catching game, we are in favour of burning gum resin (copal) in order to chase
all evil out of the baptised so that they won’t be tempted to commit sin again. In some places
spirits don’t support tobacco smoke or the smell of the besolesole (ocimum gratissimum) leaves.
It would be convenient to burn gum resin as part of the baptismal rite, preferably the resin
called bolangi.
9. Swatter: Each candidate for baptism has to bring ingla sap. But each one should also bring
a new and beautiful bosaswá, a small fly swatter, so that the baptised is enabled to chase the bad
spirits which may come to tempt him. During the baptismal rite, the one conferring baptism
should first sprinkle Holy Water on the swatter, saying: ‘Ingólóngóló, you, the owner of the
forest, and you, our God, look at us and at our children. The baptised has joined the crowd of
believers. May he/she praise you together with us.’ He then takes the swatter from the hands of
the candidate and softly strike him/her so that any spiritual confusion may abandon that
person. The baptised will obtain a quiet and stable condition. The good spirits stay whilst the
evil ones take to their heels.
The celebrant will ignite the resin in a thurible and blow the smoke over the swatter, saying:
‘You, the owner of the forest and you, our ancestors, look how we blow this smoke over the
swatter. We pray you to protect the one carrying the swatter home, that you may protect
him/her and help that person to lead a good life and improve life in our community.’
Good Friday: When someone dies in the village, parents tie a small palm leaf round the wrist
of their small children since some of them suffer from the beémá illness (sort of epilepsy). These
children are not allowed to view a corpse. In case they do, they may become anxious and scared.
In that case when the child comes home, it may fall ill and faint. The reasons for tying the palm
leaf round the wrist are: to prevent that the deceased troubles the child and renders it ill should
the child reflect on the dead person. The same holds good for a pregnant woman: she too may
not look at a corpse without a palm leaf around her wrist.
⃰
Concerning Good Friday, we think it a good idea that small children and pregnant women have a
palm leaf tied around their wrists or ankles, so that they realise that Christ really died before
rising again. On the same occasion men should roll up their trousers and women should dress
like they do at a funeral.
Note of the editor: For more information from the hand of Fr Jan Hartering, see his book: Across to
Bongandó, available with Piet Korse in Vrijland, Oosterbeek.
3. Sisters of Asten:
The first Sisters of Asten left Holland for Congo in February 1926.
19
1926. Majella Appelman, Stefanan van Loon, Angela van Dorst and Clara de Ree.
They dedicate themselves to the education of girls and to health care. They also care for a
number of orphans and lepers. They build convents at Símbá, Yalisere, Djlu, Lingm,
Mmpn and Befale.
a. Sister Laetitia at Mmpn:
I arrive in Congo and at Mmpn in 1956. At the
parish I meet at different times Fathers van de Made,
Cees Castricum, King, Seelen and Habets.
The presbytery and the sisters’ compounds share the
same generator. Together with Fr van der Made I install
the electric wiring. Father van der Made does so on the
ground floor; I do so on the loft, since the Father has one
stiff leg and is not able to climb. When the wiring is
done and the engine is put on, I have to be on the loft to
look out for sparks. I fear for my life since the ceiling
consists of local, very inflammable material. But to my relief no sparks appear. All the wires
have been connected correctly.
On the day of Independence, on 30 June 1960, some of our sisters go to the village in order
to pick up the mail and the hosts that should have arrived. Tension is in the air. The District’s
Commissaire, Mr Bannet, gives us the advice to move to Befale for our own security, because
at Mmpn army barracks are situated and all over the country soldiers have started
mutinies.
We gather to decide on our stay. We are: Monica, the Regional Superior, Theodoretha, her
assistant who works in the clinic for outpatients, Michaëla, the head of the maternity ward,
Intemerata, the cook and household supervisor, Adolphina, the headmistress of the Domestic
Science School, Lucia, a teacher in the primary girls’ school and I, Laetitia, the principal of
the same girls’ school. We decide to await the arrival of our companions of Lingm, Djlu,
Símbá and Yalisere.
20
In the course of that very same day armed Congolese soldiers come into our compound and
move towards the girls’ dormitories. These buildings are empty since the girls are on holiday.
Then the soldiers approach our convent and knock with much force on the back door. It
doesn’t sound like a friendly knock at all. It sounds more like: ‘Open that door or else we’ll
break it down.’ It’s very frightening. It is lunch-hour and the meal has just been served. When
we open the door, soldiers intimate us that we are going to die. ‘All the sisters have to die.’
The seven of us are rounded up. In a line we are marched off towards the presbytery with
soldiers in front and at the end of the line. It is now siesta time and we think the fathers may
not be aware of the fact that we are being marched off. But when we approach the presbytery,
we see the three priests standing the one next to the other. Sister Michaëla shouts at them:
‘But give us at least the absolution.’ Father King turns round and with his arms tied behind
his back he makes a little cross.
The simple convent at Mmpn
The headmaster of the boys’ school, Pancras Lombóto, intervenes and pleads with the soldiers
in favour of us and the fathers, saying: ‘When you kill the sisters, who is going to deliver our
wives at childbirth and who are going to teach our children?’
Under the leadership of the Congolese commander-in-chief we, the sisters, are marched off to
the barracks where we are put into a small room which is damp and wet. We can just sit on a
small ridge. At a certain moment a European woman is added to our group. She has a small
girl with her. The child keeps calling out for her daddy. We have nothing to eat or drink. After
we have been sitting there for a couple of hours, we call the soldiers on guard and beg them
for water, saying: ‘When you have prisoners, don’t you give them water to drink?’ We then
receive a basin of water from which we drink in turns by lapping it up as if we are cats. We
ask also for a sack in order to mop up the water on the floor. One of us is on the point of
fainting. We advise her to lie down and do as if she is on the point of dying. The soldiers
panic saying amongst themselves that they do not want to have a corpse on their hands.
As we are going to face the night without food and light, we ask the soldiers whether we can
move into the house of the Belgian commander Havelanche who has been arrested but whose
wife is in the house so that we can use the toilet and have a bite. We tell the weak sister to do
as if she is in a very bad state indeed. Two of us support her. We are marched off to that house
where we receive a slice of bread. We even send off some food to the imprisoned priests.
The soldiers then hear rumours that parachutists have landed. In the dark we are forced to
make rounds outside the house whilst for our own safety we keep holding onto one another.
We ask the soldiers whether they have heard a plane flying over. The answer is negative. We
say: ‘If there wasn’t a plane, how can the parachutists have landed?’ That question seems to
calm down the unruly and overexcited soldiers.
21
At nine o’clock at night, whilst we are sitting and standing in the pitch-dark night, we are told
to walk back to the convent. The Belgian mother asks us to take her into the convent. We
readily agree to take her along. However, we refuse to walk all that distance in the dark and
therefore ask for a lorry. The soldiers oblige; we and the lady with her child are put onto a
truck and driven to the convent. In the convent we notice immediately that our house had
been searched and ransacked: cupboards have been emptied with the contents lying on the
floor. To our amazement the lunch is still on the table. It has not been touched. The cat has
only licked at the pudding. Outside teachers, clad in animal skins, move around the house in
order to protect us.
We decide to try to catch some sleep. We ask the Belgian lady whether she prefers to sleep
downstairs or with us in our cubicles. She joins us.
At around 2 o’clock at night people knock with great force on the door. We wake up with a
start. We get the fright of our lives. We quickly light some lanterns and go to the door. The
soldiers are back and intimate that they have come to look for weapons. This sounds more
like a dumb excuse for further male mischief. As I go round one of the soldier notices the
cellar and the loft. He orders me to descend into the cellar but I refuse to do so, well knowing
what would happen. The soldier does not dare to move into the dark cave himself. We show
the men around even on our dormitory where, in the meantime, we have covered the Belgian
mother and her child with a sheet so that they remain unnoticed. In the end the soldiers leave
the house and go away. We decide to go back to bed and to sleep in since the priests are
imprisoned anyway and there won’t be Mass early in the morning.
We have hardly managed to doze off when we are again roused from our slumber by hard
knocks on the door. Tension and anxiety grips all of us anew. It is five o’clock in the morning.
We go down to the front door expecting the armed soldiers to arrest us again. But, lo and
behold, the priests are standing there. They have been freed, because they have to make room
for the fathers and sisters who are on their way from Djlu. In the course of that same
morning the soldiers bring in another Belgian mother with a child. Her husband has been
beaten and arrested. We welcome her in the convent.
Just before lunch the soldiers turn up with a truck. Everybody has to get on the back of the
lorry. We return to the barracks where, in the meantime, the Europeans from Djlu including
the Mill Hillers and sisters have arrived. Since they do not possess any shoes, people come
offering them some sneakers and other footwear.
All the women are told to pass the night in the convent. When we are back in the convent,
people come round claiming their shoes back. Since we have some footwear and clothes in
store, we hand out all we have. Now we are too many for the available beds. Some of us sleep
on the bed coils, others on the mattresses on the floor.
The next day the soldiers move to Bokútola where there is a Hevea plantation in order to
arrest the European planters. The doctor living there has in the meantime sent a message to
Boéndé informing the authorities that the sisters and the fathers at Mmpn have been
imprisoned. The army in Boéndé sends a commander to tell the soldiers at Mmpn to set
their captives free. The soldiers comply and are ready to accompany the expatriates to
Boéndé. One of the planters still has a weapon on him. We advise him to rid himself of the
gun when the ferry takes us across the Tshuapa River. Indeed, at a certain moment he drops
the gun into the water without any soldier noticing it. When we arrive at the other side, it is
night.
22
At Boéndé we are lodged in a school dormitory. We do receive some food. Next day without
the local people being aware of so many foreign hostages being in their midst, we are ferried
to the airstrip in army trucks. We leave the Equator Province in two planes and fly to the
capital Léopoldville. Eventually we reach Brussels via Cairo. We are 27 Sisters of Asten to
arrive in Belgium. Once our superior in Asten hears that we have reached Brussels, she
arranges for a bus to take us home. After a forced furlough of four months, some of us decide
to return to Congo. Others having suffered too much stress, decide to seek their salvation
elsewhere. I, Laetitia, return first to Befale which is some 100 km north of my former convent
at Mmpn. But in March 1961 I am back at Mmpn.
Gradually our Congregation makes plans to open a noviciate for future Congolese Sisters.
That house is to be stationed among the Ngmb people along the Lofolí River at a place
called Djmb. In fact a convent is built for that purpose. I am asked to prepare myself for
the job. So I go to the capital Léopoldville to follow a course in theology. That’s in August
1964. Great is my surprise to see in September a bus passing by filled with my companions of
the Equator Province who have just fled another rebellion, namely the one of the Símbá
which forces all the mission personnel to flee and look for safety elsewhere. In our case that
means the Netherlands.
The superior of the Sisters of Asten, Sister Gertruda, tells her flock that it is not safe to return
to Congo. A bishop from Brazil attending Vatican II travels at that time in Holland looking
for sisters to come and work in his diocese. Many of us who worked previously in Congo
decide to go to Brazil. I am one of them.
b. Sister Aurelia at Símbá:
On 6 May 1952 I leave Holland on my way to Congo. I reach
my destination, the mission of Símbá, by boat via Lisalá, Isángí,
Stanleyville and Elisabetha. Father Cramer comes to fetch me in
Elisabetha. Fr Cramer is the man who built the maternity ward at
Símbá hospital.
At the mission we find Fathers Gutersohn, Paulisse and Cramer.
Later Frs O’Neill and Hartering come to live there also.
We have a big convent with 7 sisters and we have plenty of
activities:
As a nurse I work at the hospital which has a men’s ward, a
women’s ward, a dispensary, a maternity and a kitchen where
relatives of the sick cook meals for the sick and for themselves.
Besides the hospital, we have a camp with some 300 people namely lepers and their relatives.
From time to time we kill one of our pigs and share the animal with the lepers. They receive
besides the necessary medication also palm oil, salt and soap. A medical doctor comes from
Bask once a year to tend to the lepers who have one permanent nurse. Initially the lepers
received injections but many of them got infections on account of the needles. That’s why the
hospital changed over to sulfonic tablets.
23
At the hospital we have another nurse with two employees to carry water from the source to
the hospital, since the hospital has no water cistern. The two water carriers, Victor and
Valentin, live nearby in the village Liótsí. We have a lady helping out in the maternity.
Seriously ill people are usually transferred to the Protestant hospital at Yskí, only 17 km
from Símbá. But in order to reach that hospital we have to cross the Lofolí River with a
manually-drawn ferry. Soon after 1956 we come into possession of an ambulance. I receive
one or two driving lessons and have to drive to Yahúma at 82 km from Símbá in order to
collect the mail. We cross bridges and sometimes dry river beds. On the way back we stop in
every village for mother-and-child care. Seriously sick people or heavily pregnant women are
our passengers to be left in the care of our hospital at Símbá.
One of our Sisters, Odilia, dies on 22 June 1956 and is buried at Símbá where Father van de
Linden was buried on 18 November 1941.
We possess and look after cows, sheep and pigs. We make our own soap and have our own
tannery using the cows’ skins. We make shoes! Instead of caustic soda we use the bark of
certain trees. We have also a dark room, to develop and fix films. The photographs Sister
Thaddea develops in those days remain clear as a bell for years to come since she uses a
strong fixative.
Besides these activities we are in charge of a girls’ primary school. Sister Ursula looks after
the orphanage. The girls of the primary school are in a boarding-school and they are often
marched off to church for Mass. The girls are then lined up as for a procession under the
guidance of our sisters.
When trouble arises after the declaration of Independence on 30 June 1960, we become very
nervous indeed and are keen to leave Símbá and the country. At that time there are six of us:
Sisters Rosalia, Basilla, Crescentia, Ursula, Thaddea and me, Aurelia. We fear for our own
safety and even for our very lives. But Father Hartering insists that he will stay whatever
happens. The man with him at the time, Brother Gabriël van der Eerden, is also very nervous
and keen to leave. The attitude of Father Hartering makes us doubt what is the better option:
to stay or to leave. One day we hear on the radio that our fellow sisters on the other side of
the Lofolí River have arrived in Brussels. Our cook has information that the fathers and the
sisters at Djlu have been arrested and badly treated and beaten. This information shows us
that it’s high time to leave. But we have neither passports nor European money with us. Our
passports are in the hands of our superior, Sister Monica, who according to the radio has
arrived in Brussels. Because Father Hartering decides to stay on, the poor, anxious Brother
Gabriël feels obliged to hang in there as well.
And so we leave i.e. some fathers and sisters, and we take the direction of Stanleyville. We
drive via Yokána and Yahúma. We cross the Congo River with a ferry at Isángí. There are
some problems on the way with checkpoints but we manage to arrive safely in Stanleyville.
The local bishop takes care of us and with his help we manage to leave by plane the next day.
We prefer the mothers with small children to leave first. But then one of the soldiers takes it
upon him to have us board a military plane and leave for Léopoldville and eventually Europe.
There are no problems on account of the lack of passports or money. We all arrive safely in
Brussels.
The bishops in Congo decide to protect the religious against themselves and forbid the
Europeans sisters to return quickly. They have to stay away for at least one year. I am back in
Congo the following year and go to Yalisere. Then one day I am informed that I have to move
24
to Befale, since Sister Baptista has gone away. Our superior, Veronica, comes to fetch me.
Before I know what is happening, Sister Crescentia has packed my personal belongings. I sit
on top of school materials and am on my way on top of the lorry. When I arrive at Befale,
Sister Marcella asks me: ‘What have you come to do here?’ I answer that I have come to help
out in the hospital. But I have to confess never having worked with an X-ray machine. Other
sisters, who are there, are Gaudentia and Odiliana.
c. Sister Thaddea at Djlu:
We are five Sisters at Djlu. We do not know what is going to happen on the day of
Independence. It is 30 June 1960.
We are all five of us at the presbytery, talking things over with Father Lau Dassen. We hear
people shooting. Then soldiers burst into the house and arrest all of us.
We have to take off our veils, our shoes and socks, our watches and
spectacles. I quickly shove my watch up my arm so that it remains
hidden. We are forced to go outside and to march barefooted to the
prison with our hands up. We pass there the night in the pitch-dark, not
knowing what is going to happen to us.
The next day we have to march barefoot to the other side of town to
another prison where we surprisingly meet the sisters from Yalisere,
who have been arrested too. We are ordered to climb up a truck that
will take us to Mmpn. We are happy to receive the packet
containing our veils and shoes which have been kept together. A
number of the Mill Hillers are with us on the truck. The sun is blazing
hot. We take our veils from the packet and tear them to pieces so that
everybody receives a piece to cover his or her head. We stop a couple
of times to relieve ourselves by the roadside. Once we stop at a private
field of sugarcane. We take some canes to still our thirst and to calm
down our empty stomachs.
In Mmpn we are allowed to pass the night in the sisters’ convent where we can wash,
have food and receive clean clothes.
The following day we are transferred to Boéndé in order to be put on a plane to the capital
Léopoldville. When we are on the point of leaving the tarmac, one of our sisters barges into
the cockpit and tells the pilot to disembark the passengers and certainly not to take off. She
pleads with the man to take us back to where we came from. The stress and tension of the last
days have been too great for her. She is on the point of losing her wits.
We arrive eventually in Léopoldville and Brussels. The military plane on the way to Europe
develops a problem with the rear door which does not shut properly, but someone manages to
close the door well. We are 29 sisters to arrive in our convent in Asten where they have
difficulty in putting us up on account of our great number. Organisations and people of the
village come to our rescue with extra beds, clothing and so on.
(Result of interviews in Asten by the editor).
25
4. Fr Frans de Vrught:
Frans was born in Keijenborg on 15 August 1918.
He worked in Congo from 1946 till 1978.
During his first years in Congo, he worked in three different parishes among the Ngmb
people. Byng parish made a lasting impression on him. That parish is situated along the
Ikelemba River, halfway between Bolómba and the Regional capital Mbándáká. The only
access to that centre is via the river. Frans took a lively interest in the welfare of the schools
and their pupils. He put up a number of school buildings and wrote for educational purposes
two booklets in Lingmb, one of which was called: ‘Búku boíkoa, bolánga na bokwl’.
Frans worked also in Djmb and Kdr along the Lopolí River.
From 1961 till 1971 he periodically looked after the schools on the diocesan level. In 1961
and again in 1976 the Mill Hillers chose Frans as their local superior. He had the heavy
responsibility of caring for his people during the rebellions e.g. when Brother Hugo Brits
drowned whilst fleeing Mampoko and when three others (Brother Piet Vos and Fathers Bart
Santbergen and Jan Groenewegen) were brutally murdered. Whenever or wherever problems
surfaced, Frans showed up in his battered Land Rover after having crossed so many collapsed
bridges. When the education coordinator or procurator would be on holiday, Frans would take
their place. People admired his kindness, his patience and his dedication to his job and to all
those in need of assistance.
26
On 3 March 1963 Frans had a serious accident with his motorbike near Befale. Heavy rains
had cut a deep rut in the dirt-track. Frans was not aware of the rut and did not spot it. He was
catapulted off his motorbike and sustained serious head injuries. On 22 April he was put on a
plane back to Europe. He returned to Basnkusu on 18 September of the same year. People
called him Is’túli or Is’ék’túli, meaning the father of Batúli, a boy at Bokákata.
From 1972 till 1976 Frans was part of the Mill Hill General Council in England with the
specific task of caring for all the Mill Hill men and women in Africa. In 1976 he returned to
the diocese of Basnkusu where he was elected Society Superior. He became vicar-general,
the right hand of the bishop.
In 1978 he suffered a stroke and returned to the Netherlands. When in 1981 he felt well
enough to be active again, he became the spiritual director to a home of pensioners in Olst. In
1996 his health forced him to take up residence in the Mill Hill home of Vrijland where he
passed away on 25 January 2001.
5. Brother Piet Hosman:
Nkém’isîsí nak’onto: It is the small monkey that observes (Mng proverb).
Brother Piet Hosman is born on 2 September 1923
in Bussum; his religious profession takes place on
15 August 1949 with the name Brother Melchior.
Brother Piet works in Congo from 1949 till 1963.
Most of the time he spends there during the Belgian
colonial rule. He works on the construction of the
sisters’ convent at Waka, of the primary school at
Mmpn, the church at Yambóyó and the garage at
Basnkusu. He finds it very challenging not to have
a team of his own to rely on. He needs to work in
each place with different craftsmen. He needs to
improvise tools and construction possibilities.
The unruly times of Independence find him at Yambóyó and Djlu, where he is arrested and
imprisoned while being handcuffed and manhandled. He and three of his colleagues are
deprived of most of their clothes and of their footwear. The following day they are for most
of the day driven in the blazing sun on top of an open lorry to Mmpn. There they are
released. For their own safety they are transported to Boéndé and then flown to the capital
Léopoldville and Europe. Within three weeks they are back in Congo to retake their normal
activities, though the situation never becomes normal again.
The rebellion of 1964 is a still far greater upheaval during which three of his colleagues at
Yambóyó are brutally murdered. One brother and three Belgian sisters drown in the Lulónga
River while fleeing Mampoko parish.
Brother Piet is an observing and reflective person who quickly notices tribal differences.
In 1963 Piet is asked to be the technical director of the Mill Hill Brothers’ formation house in
Oosterbeek, Holland.
Two years later in 1965 Piet joins the Mill Hill Promotion Team based in Roosendaal to raise
mission awareness in parishes and schools in Holland. They tour the country with slides’
27
presentations and huge posters with accompanying informative texts. With short, sometimes
shocking phrases Piet always manages to open up discussions about development and
poverty-related issues in the world. People do not easily forget his penetrating but friendly
eyes.
In the Mng proverb cited above (it’s the young monkey’s task to observe), it is implied and
indicated that everybody counts. Even the young monkeys have their task in the group
namely to warn the group of any danger. ‘In the church even the least unassuming layperson
has a role to play. He is precious.’ This message Piet tries to convey to his audiences. He
invites young people to become associates in the Mill Hill Congregation and to work with the
Congregation’s support and inspiration in Third-World countries.
In 1980 Piet makes a tour of Asia, the Pacific and South America to inform himself about the
role of lay people in the church on the different continents.
The Bishop of Buea (Cameroon) invites Piet at that time to take it upon himself to develop a
centre for mass-media in Cameroon. He buys a number of religious films and visits numerous
parishes and schools. In three years’ time 90,000 people attend his projections. He tries to
specialise in audio-visual catechetics.
When he retires to Jozefhuis and Vrijland, he remains interested in the role of lay people in
the Church. In 2003, however, he suffers a stroke, but he manages to overcome his partial
paralysis. But he has to give up his ambition to present his exhibitions all over the country. Of
the countless people who knew and appreciated Piet’s work, many come to visit him for a
good conversation. Piet is happy to feel a bond with so many friends.
Piet dies a rather sudden death on 10 October 2009 at the age of 86.
Piet went around, like the small monkey in the proverb cited above, gifted with an observing eye and
a great understanding of people and situations.
28
6. Father Lieuwe van der Meij (born on 26 April 1922 in Dokkum and ordained on 6 July 1947):
Many of us have known Lieuwe mainly since the time he took up
residence in Vrijland. I have the privilege to have known him since
1965, in his good times.
After the 1964 rebellion, we i.e. Cas Sommeling, Jaap Kroon and
myself (Ben Jorna) returned to Basnkusu and Bokákata in 1965.
Lieuwe joined us on the staff of the diocesan teacher training school
called Etsína Nkitó (perseverance benefits). He was called Père Léon.
As he had a licentiate from Louvain University in psychology and
pedagogics he took all those classes in the third and fourth year and later on in the fifth and
sixth year, as well as religion-classes in all the years.
Lieuwe was very hospitable: always ready for a chat, and a good listener, with good attitudes
as expressed in his saying: ‘Don’t hide your feelings’. Lieuwe had his funny things too. When
a jar of jam was almost empty, he would rattle his knife inside the jar and put it back on the
table, saying: it is finished, though, in my opinion, it wasn’t finished at all. He would
continue speaking Dutch without being aware of it, even though those around him would
converse in French or English. It was sometimes quite embarrassing when someone not
speaking Dutch was present.
Once we had managed to have a sixth year, we could participate in the yearly State Exam.
The examination centre was even in our school, as we were as yet the only school in the
district doing the State exam. After that feat Cas Sommeling withdrew as headmaster and
retired to Abunákombo, and Lieuwe took over from him, besides being well occupied with
his many classes, though Miel van der Hart assisted us for one year.
Practically every Sunday Lieuwe used to visit one of the villages to say Mass and baptise
babies, and so on. People appreciated him very much. People always asked: ‘How is Père
Léon?’, even fifteen years after he had left.
29
Lieuwe functioned as local Society Superior, when Piet van Run was absent for a couple of
years looking after his mother in her old age. Every week he would drive our old Volkswagen
to Basnkusu to look after the correspondence and to see the bishop.
After four or five years Lieuwe stepped aside as headmaster and handed his task over to JeanPaul Eéke. The latter was our former pupil, had completed three years at the secondary
teaching training school in Búnya, and had been teaching in our school for a few years.
Lieuwe stayed on in Bokákata as a simple teacher. Eéke did very well. Even he had to face
one of the regular strikes by our students. We, Lieuwe, Jaap and myself, stood by him all
through, keeping him company in his office. That was the last strike ever.
Around that time Bishop Matóndo arrived and started his youth movement, the Bilng ya
Mwínda. When our students returned from holidays, we noticed a change in their attitude
towards us. We decided to become involved in that youth movement. We became initiators
and the Youth of the Light came to visit our ‘initiation hut’ for counselling and spiritual
direction.
One sad day, Lieuwe complained that he did not see well with his left eye. We thought he
suffered from the sharp light reflected by the water during the canoe trip from Mampoko he
made the day before. A few days later he left for Basnkusu, then Kinshásá, then Europe.
When he saw a Dutch doctor after that lapse of time, they had to operate his eye in the old
fashioned way so as to re-attach his retina to the back wall of his eye. Fortunately the other
eye kept functioning for many more years. After the operation, Lieuwe became chaplain to an
old people’s home, Maartenshof, in Groningen, where he cooperated closely with the
Protestant pastors. There he assisted very many people to undertake their last journey, and
knew how to console so many families at the loss of a dear one. He frequently visited the sick
at the hospital. Lieuwe remained joyful throughout the years. He stayed interested in Congo
and helped financially and spurred others on to help too. He continued as a part-time chaplain
after reaching the retirement age of 65 till he became eighty years of age (2002). Then only
he retired to Vrijland. He died peacefully on 28 May 2011 at the venerable age of 89.
Ben Jorna.
P.S. The students nicknamed Lieuwe Ekútsu, calabash, on account of his body’s shape.
30
7. Fr Wim Tuerlings:
I am born on 16 March 1931 in Tilburg, the Netherlands, as the
third of seven children. In 1944, I go to the minor seminary in
Tilburg (Lijnsheike and de Rooie Pannen). In 1948 I continue my
studies in Haelen. After studying philosophy in Roosendaal,
Holland, in the years 1950-1952, I go to London where I study
theology for four years and am ordained a Catholic priest on 8 July
1956. That same day I receive my appointment for Basnkusu
diocese in the Belgian Congo.
Some weeks later I board the freighter Marchovelette in Antwerp in
the good company of Father Niek van Leeuwen and Brother Theo Heesterbeek. This boat has
passenger accommodation. A ship like this is not allowed to take more than 12 passengers;
otherwise it needs a medical doctor aboard. The ship takes us to the Matádi port in Congo.
There we take the train to Léopoldville. From there we board a steamer that takes us to
Basnkusu via Coquilhatville.
Upon arrival I receive an appointment for Yambóyó where Jan Hanrath is the parish priest.
Brother Kuys drives me there in a truck containing all kinds of supplies for the Bongandó
region. At Yambóyó I take over from Jacob Bos who moves on to Símbá. I first try to master
the local language, the Longandó. Then I start my pastoral and educational work in the
parish.
30 June 1960:
31
My parish priest, Jan Hanrath, counts celebrating the silver jubilee of his ordination on 30
June 1960. Brother Piet Hosman came to Yambóyó some time earlier to build a new church. A
week before his silver jubilee Jan Hanrath goes on a week’s retreat in the neighbouring parish
of Símbá leaving Brother Piet and myself alone to organise his jubilee and to look after the
catering for that day. But where are we going to obtain some special food? We have obtained
a small box of potatoes. Potatoes need to come from the east of the country and are a real
luxury. In Yambóyó there are no shops, no stores. For a couple of days I go to the riverside
and manage to shoot a few ducks. That will do for the jubilee dinner. But how does one cook
these birds? I have no idea. In the neighbouring mission station of Djlu at 22 km from
Yambóyó there is a convent with Dutch nuns, the Asten Sisters. They told us: ‘When you
bring the ingredients, we will do the cooking for you’. Hence we decide to take the ducks to
the nuns.
It is towards evening about 4.30pm when Brother Piet Hosman and myself are pouring petrol
in the car to go to the sisters at Djlu. As we are readying the vehicle, we hear a car coming.
It is Father Jacob Bos, who is the first guest to arrive. He says: ‘I have come a couple of days
early so I can help you with the preparations for the feast’.
We tell him we are just leaving for Djlu to go to the sisters. We invite him to come along
with us. He answers that he has just come from there and says: ‘You go and I’ll wait for you
here’. I don’t think it proper to leave our guest on his own and I tell Brother Piet: ‘You stay
here with Jacob Bos and I will go’. Piet says: ‘I’ll go, you stay here’. Eventually Piet leaves
to take the ducks to the sisters. When by eleven o’clock that night Brother Piet hasn’t come
back yet, Jacob Bos and myself wonder what has happened.
It is an understanding among us, missionaries, that one never goes out to search for a person
unless word comes through that help is required. Hence the two of us retire for the night. The
next morning, when there is still no sign of Brother Piet, I smell a rat and decide to go and
find out what happened. Soon my suspicions become stronger as I watch the people on the
road acting strangely. I have gone only about 6 kilometres when Hermanus Is’ónonga (the
headmaster of our parish school) throws his bike on the road in front of my car to make me
stop. He asks: ‘Where are you off to, Father?’ I tell him that I am going to Djlu to look for
Brother Piet. The headmaster says: "Brother Piet has been murdered; all the sisters and the
whites have been massacred. The rebels are on their way to come here. You’d better turn back
to the mission station, take the Blessed Sacrament and hide yourselves’.
I do what I am advised to do and return to Yambóyó mission. By then Jacob Bos has heard the
same story and is glad to see me back alive. I take the rotor out of the jeep so the rebels will
not be able to use the vehicle. I then go to the church to fetch the Blessed Sacrament. Jacob
Bos in the meantime holds his portable wireless and the box of potatoes and the two of us set
off into the forest, being guided by two parishioners. Soon we reach the swamps. The
parishioners find a canoe and bail out the water and peddle us deep into the swamps where
we head for a small island. They put us off and peddle home again. This is about nine in the
morning. After getting out of the canoe both Jacob Bos and myself have to wade through the
water. Our clothes become soaked through and through. The island is about the size of a big
kitchen table. Standing there, we feel the water rising between our toes up till our ankles.
The first thing we do is to consume the Blessed Sacrament. The ciborium is a very big one
and filled to the brim. We eat fistful after fistful of the Sacred Bread. It turns all starchy in our
mouths, sticking to our teeth and palates. To be able consume the whole ciborium we have to
drink a lot of water in the process. We walk into the swamp so as to find clean water and with
32
our hands we scoop the swamp water as no other drink is available. In the process our clothes
become completely soaked. When we have finished eating the hosts, we take off our clothes
and hang them out to dry. Both of us are in our underpants. The sun is biting and hitting us
hard and Jacob tries to make a bit of a shelter out of palm leaves. I start having a fever. We
stand up all day, as the soil is too wet to sit down. What are we going to do? We have no idea!
About 4pm we hear voices in the distance, yelling: ‘Father James, where are you? Father
William, where are you?’ We think they are rebels looking for us and we keep mum. As it
turns out, they are our parishioners. Being real forest people they find us straight away,
following the trail of broken branches. They tell us that we cannot survive in the swamp and
advise us to go back to the mission. We are afraid to do so and ask them whether there are
any rebels on the mission station. They say there are none, but we are afraid they have been
sent by the rebels to get us and that the rebels have threatened to kill their families in case
they don’t return with the two of us. But we cannot stay where we are and we go back with
them. We are still in our underpants. Sitting in the canoe on the way back, Jacob who is
thinking that his end is nigh, asks me whether he can go to confession. Of course he can. I
will never forget the sight of that confession: his underpants are all wet and have big bubbles
of air in them. We hear each other’s confession in our underpants and arrive back at the
mission where there are indeed no rebels.
The parish priest, Jan Hanrath, in preparation for his jubilee, had tried to compensate the lack
of food by buying a good stock of drinks which include not only beer but also wine and
whisky. In this he was not stingy at all. But we wonder: if the rebels arrive and they start
drinking all those bottles, their conduct may become altogether unpredictable. We decide to
get rid of the bottles by dropping them into the toilet pit. One bottle after another disappears
into the black hole, falling one on top of another, breaking into pieces. For a number of days,
the alcohol odour emanating from the hole is overwhelming.
The mission station is lying on a no-through road, off the main forest track. We hear trucks
roaring over the track as the rebels are rounding up all the white settlers in the area, but
somehow or other they never come to the mission to arrest the two of us. We stay there for
another fortnight, all the time thinking that the two of us are the only missionaries still alive.
The local people are afraid of the rebels and don’t dare to show that they are helping us. I
never hear as many confessions as in that fortnight. It is mainly women asking for confession.
In the confessional they say that they have nothing to confess, but that they only want to tell
us of what they have heard and seen, all the time warning us to be always dressed in our
cassocks as this might help us to stay alive.
After a fortnight we don’t hear any more cars passing behind the house. People tell us that the
rebels have moved to another area of the district. I soon put the rotor back into the jeep and
load the car with all our jerry cans with extra petrol. The two of us decide to make a run for it
and to head for Símbá where our parish priest, Jan Hanrath, has moved to. We pass the river
with the ferry without any problem. At the Símbá mission, we find Jan Hartering and our
parish priest in good spirits. In the course of our deliberations we decide to try to make it to
Stanleyville. We take Jan Hanrath along and leave Jan Hartering to look after the mission
station. It means we have to travel about 500 km. We succeed in doing so. We are thrilled to
see troops of the United Nations at the Stanleyville Airport. We are even more thrilled that
they are prepared to look after our safety. They eventually put the two or three of us on a
military transport plane that takes us to Léopoldville. I have never flown before. The plane is
noisy and the seats on both sides of the plane are made of netting and are uncomfortable. But
man! Am I happy to be in the air and out of reach of the rebels! It is only in Léopoldville that
33
we hear that Brother Piet Hosman and the Asten Sisters and all the whites that had been
rounded up by the rebels at Djlu are safe, albeit some of them were mishandled, and that all
have been flown in a military plane to Europe. Fr Bos and myself fly back to Europe from
Léopoldville in an ordinary passenger plane.
Back in Holland:
Before Brother Hosman went from Yambóyó to Djlu to take the ducks to the sisters I gave
him a letter to post at Djlu. In that letter to my parents I had written that everything was fine
with me. However, the rebels caught Brother Piet and when he was deported, my letter was
still in his possession. Eventually Brother Piet arrives back in the Netherlands and still has
that letter on him. He decides to send it by mail to my parents. However, he doesn’t write
any sender on it. My parents have been watching the events in Congo on television and have
misgivings on what is going on. When they receive a letter from me with a Dutch stamp, they
know somebody has brought that letter to the Netherlands. They are very anxious to know
what happened to me. They get in touch with the Mill Hillers at the college in Roosendaal
who can’t give them any news, only that a group of Congolese missionaries has come home
and I was not among them. My mother fears the worst. She tells me later that she could
hardly get any sleep and, when asleep, dreamed I had been murdered; in her dreams she saw
my cut-off head lying on the dressing-table. Poor mum! You can imagine how glad she is to
see me again safe and sound.
I have been home for only about three weeks when Fr Piet van Run calls in at our home. He,
too, had been deported from Congo together with Piet Hosman and the sisters. Piet says that
the situation in Congo has become a bit more stable and that he thinks it is his duty to return
as all the mission stations in our part of the diocese are without shepherds. He maintains that
he can organise transport back to Congo, but that he needs someone to go with him, as he
doesn’t think it wise or safe to go back on his own. He says transport can be arranged through
the United Nations since they undertake many flights out of Germany to Congo. He asks me
whether I am prepared to go back to Congo with him. Thinking he will never be able to
organise the transport, I agree. You should have seen the expression in my mother’s eyes
when I say I am prepared to go back to Congo.
To cut the whole story short: Piet van Run does manage to get transport to Congo, even
though it is not by the United Nations but Sabena. We will leave from Brussels at 5pm on a
Monday. The night prior to my departure I am lying in bed trying to catch some sleep that
does not come. I pray to the Lord: "I’ll be forever grateful when you give me an appendicitis"
which He doesn’t. The next morning, when I wake up, I press my tummy where I think the
appendix is supposed to be, but there is no pain at all. So I get up to go back to Congo. On
that Monday morning, the day of my departure, all my brothers and sisters are at the parish
church where I say Mass. After Mass we all go home for a big family breakfast. During
breakfast, however, my mother breaks down and starts sobbing and crying. None of us knows
what to do. I can’t stand the tension any longer.
Father Piet van Run.
I am supposed to leave home only about noon to be at the Brussels
airport in time to catch my flight. But with my mother being so
distressed I cannot bear to witness all the sorrow. I go to my dad
and say: "What about it if I leave now?" He answers: "Go, by all
34
means". So I bless my relatives and depart on foot and alone to the railway station and take
the train to Brussels.
The trip from my place to Brussels takes 2 hours; hence I will arrive in Brussels far too early.
But my train has to pass through Roosendaal where we have our Mill Hill College. To fill the
day I decide to break my journey in Roosendaal, have dinner at our College and then carry on
to Brussels. Fr Tom Finnigan, who has come back from Congo with the first batch, has been
roughed up badly by the rebels and has his kneecaps broken by blows with rifle butts. He is
in bed at our college in Roosendaal. I say ‘hello’ to him in his room. Tom says he is glad to
see me and asks where I am off to. When I say I am on my way back to Congo, Tom becomes
livid and says "You are not, you idiot. When you do go there now, I will never speak to you
again". I have dinner at the college and after dinner there is a cup of coffee in the fathers’
smoke room. After his ordination Fr Barney Keany, a classmate of mine, had been sent to
Rome to get a degree in philosophy. Once he finished his studies in Rome, he is appointed to
Roosendaal College where we meet on that day of my departure for Congo. During the cup of
coffee after dinner, the rector of the college, Fr Roes, stands up and gives a speech in which
he says that Mill Hillers are wearing a red sash as a sign of being prepared to shed their blood
for the sake of the Gospel. That is the last thing I want to hear. Barney Keany, my classmate,
stands up and replies: "I solemnly protest Bill being called a martyr. Looking around this
room and seeing the people I have to live with every day, I think I am the only person of my
class to make a claim to such an honourable title". After dinner I carry on to Brussels airport.
Back in Congo:
We leave Brussels and arrive well in Léopoldville where we change onto a smaller plane and
are on our way to Basnkusu. Fr Piet van Run has the window seat. Basnkusu has no proper
runway; a meadow is used as runway. Our plane has to fly low a couple of times to drive the
cows away from the landing strip. Piet is looking out of the window whilst this is going on.
He sees soldiers with drawn guns running around. These soldiers are convinced that our plane
is carrying Belgian paratroopers who have come to take revenge. Piet sees all the commotion
from his window, turns to me and says: ‘We are in for it, Bill’. Anyway, when the soldiers are
eventually persuaded that we are priests and not paratroopers, we are allowed to leave the
airport. We go to Bishop’s House and the bishop tells us: "Please, when you get back to your
mission area, stay together".
Back in Yambóyó:
The two of us eventually arrive back at Yambóyó. After a couple of days I am summoned by
the police to appear at their office. I present myself to see what the matter is. There I find a
man saying he is the owner of the dugout we used the day we fled for our lives into the
swamps. The man demands payment for the use of his canoe. I never imagined to be sued by
someone with so much ill-will. He mentions the amount to be paid. I have never been so
angry in my life!
It is not easy to regain the confidence of the people as rumour goes around that we have come
back to take revenge and that we have poisoned the altar breads to kill people. At first people
believe all that nonsense; nobody dares to approach Holy Communion. Piet and myself look
after the empty parishes for some months when more priests return to the area: Fr Santbergen,
Fr Deen and a new priest, Fr Jan Groenewegen, who has been appointed to Congo and to our
area. Things become more or less normal again.
Up till now none of my personal belongings has been lost or stolen but I realise that nothing
is safe. I start thinking about the dictionary I have composed. I think it wise to make a few
35
copies and send these to various safe havens. This is more easily said than done. There is no
electricity. Photo-copiers are not yet available. So I use an old manual Gestetner, type holes
on the rubber master-sheets, put these on a drum soaked in ink and make the copies. I send a
copy to the minor seminary at Bonkita which I think is a relatively safe place. Good show I
do so, because 2 years later I lose everything I have, except my life.
At the end of April 1962 I visit Basnkusu in the company of Fr Jozef Mous. On 3 May I
pass Waka on the way back to Yambóyó. As Fr Tom Finnigan will not come back again,
Bertus Santbergen takes his place at Lingm. On 16 May 1962, Santbergen, Groenewegen
and Piet Hosman are appointed to Yambóyó. On that occasion I, Wim Tuerlings, am appointed
to Lingm together with Gerard van Leeuwen. Fathers Saraber and Joop Deen are to be
stationed at Djlu, though I replace Piet van Run for a couple of months at Yalisere and stay
there together with Jan Zegwaart. I also stay a while at Djlu.
In 1962:
Trouble flares up anew in the Eastern Province (next to our Equatorial Province) and trouble
comes our way again. We flee, but this time we don’t go as far as Europe. Father Gerard van
Leeuwen and myself take the road to Basnkusu via Bokenda and the Lopolí River. At
Bokenda we meet Frs Marinus Boonman and Niek van Leeuwen who has boils all over his
body. One day Marinus takes Niek on the back of his motorbike to the doctor in
Bongándángá. Niek cannot sit down and stands on the passenger’s pedals all the way and that
on the bumpy dirt-track. Niek is suffering from a lack of vitamins. Marinus has the habit of
shooting Colobus monkeys and bonobos for dinner. One day Niek has serious malaria and as
usual he locks the door of his room and stays in bed for a couple of days without coming out
for food. Marinus Boonman is annoyed that Niek keeps his door locked so that he can’t check
on his patient. Standing in front of the locked door, he shouts at Niek: ‘When it is that far, I’ll
smell you alright!’ Since Marinus Boonman does not look well after his curate by barely
keeping him alive with monkey meat, he is jokingly called ‘de goede moordenaar’: the
benign murderer (= the repentant thief).
We make our way to Basnkusu till the time is ripe to return again to base. This time the
trouble has not crossed over from the East Province to ours.
In 1964 at Lingm:
The same thing happens again but this time the trouble does enter our area. Rebels come from
the east, raping, plundering and murdering. At that stage I am together with Fr Gerard van
Leeuwen at Lingm about 90 km west of Yambóyó. Father Herman Saraber is staying with
us at Lingm as well. It is hard to get a clear picture of what is happening. The only
information we gather comes from the Belgian international broadcast. The news, however, is
usually some days old, so we never know how far the rebels have advanced in our direction.
We hear on the radio the progress of the rebellion and it is clear they are getting closer and
closer. But how close? And will they stop somewhere as they did in 1962? I am much more
scared now than I was either in 1960 or 1962. My parish priest (Gerard van Leeuwen) is as
scared as I am, perhaps even more so. I find out then that there is a cycle in being scared. You
think you are going to die and you can’t eat and you vomit (especially at night when it is
pitch-dark). This stage lasts for 3 days and then you realise: is this doing me any good? If I
have to die, I might just as well eat all I can before I die and be reasonably happy on my last
days here on earth. This stage too lasts for about three days. Then I think: how can I live so
carelessly in such a dangerous situation and then I start all over again the stage of being
36
scared for another three days. It is a case of 3 days on and 3 days off. My parish priest
experiences the same thing. However, our cycles are just the opposite: when I am reasonably
calm and eating, he is in the dumps and I hear him vomiting at night. He hears me doing the
same thing when he is reasonably calm. The result is neither of us has a good night’s sleep.
Eventually, on the advice of our parishioners, we decide to retreat to Basnkusu for safety.
Drama at Yambóyó:
However, at Yambóyó, our next-door parish, Fr Santbergen is the parish priest with the newly
ordained Jan Groenewegen and the new Brother Piet Vos. None of the three experienced what
happened in 1960 or 1962 and hence they are not aware of what can be lying ahead for them.
They do not withdraw to safety and stay put. When the rebels overrun their parish, they start
looting, raping, murdering etc.
The young priest, Fr Jan Groenewegen, on a Sunday gives a sermon in
which he says that, even though the laws of the State have collapsed, the
Law of God remains and raping, looting and murdering is against God’s
law. The rebels get to hear what he said and the following Sunday, whilst
he is saying Mass, the rebels arrive by truck, walk up to the altar where
he is presiding and tell him they have come to shoot him there and then,
because he has called them bad people. Fr Groenewegen, young as he is,
replies: "Please not here! Let us go outside because this is a holy place."
The soldiers agree and take him outside. In the meantime his parish
priest, who is in the presbytery, has noticed the disturbance and comes to
the church just as Fr Groenewegen is dragged outside. Fr Santbergen
asks what is going on. The rebels say they are going to shoot his curate because of the false
accusations he has made against them the previous Sunday, to which Fr Santbergen replies: "I
am in charge here. I take responsibility for what my good curate says and does. If anybody
has to be shot, it ought to be me". The rebels say: "Okay then" and aim their guns at Fr
Santbergen who thinks they won’t shoot in any case. He stands there with his breviary in his
hands and makes the sign of the cross. The soldiers fire and hit Fr Santbergen who keeps
standing and who puts his spectacles back on his nose. Another soldier reproaches his friend
that he cannot shoot. He fires several rounds on Father Santbergen who then falls to the
ground.
When he is lying on the ground, the rebels rush to the presbytery and start looting the place.
Whilst they are looting the presbytery, one soldier looks outside and notices that Fr
Santbergen, who lies injured on the church steps, tries to get his hanky out to wipe away the
blood from his wounds. The soldier, seeing that he is still alive, goes back to the church steps
and finishes Fr Santbergen off with some extra shots. All this happens in full view of both Fr
Groenewegen and Brother Piet Vos.
After the rebels finished looting the presbytery and before going on their way again they tell
the parishioners to throw Fr Santbergen's body in the river. Hermanus (the headmaster of the
mission school) tells the rebels: "We cannot do that because that is where we get our drinking
water from". That evening Fr Groenewegen buries his parish priest in the mission compound.
A few days later the rebels come back again and this time take away both Fr Groenewegen
and Br Piet Vos.
37
What happens to them nobody knows till this very day: neither of
them is ever seen again. The story goes that both are eventually
taken to Stanleyville and that on that journey their private parts
are cut off, whilst they are still alive, and then their throats are
slit. But nobody knows for sure.
Br Piet Vos.
To Europe:
Father van Leeuwen and myself arrive at Basnkusu that is relatively safe. Seeing the
condition we are in and not knowing what to do with us, the bishop books a plane and we are
back in Europe once again.
I have been home for a couple of months, waiting for the Congo to re-open, when I am asked
by Mill Hill whether I would consider helping a parish where the curate has died and where
the parish priest cannot cope on his own. I move to that parish and work there from February
till August 1965, listening to all the new theology trends that come out during Vatican II.
In August our Superior General arrives from England and wants to see all the Mill Hillers
who are waiting in the Netherlands for the Congo to quiet down. We find out that Mill Hill’s
General Council doesn’t think that the Congo mission will re-open in the near future. The
Congolese missionaries who are too old to start anew in another mission area, are allowed to
keep on waiting, but the younger ones all get another appointment. The line between old and
young is set just above me, so I belong to the younger ones and get a new appointment. The
Superior General tells me that the Council has decided to appoint me to New Zealand. I
exclaim: "New Zealand?" He says: "Yes! What is wrong with New Zealand?" I say: "I don’t
know. But that is not much of a mission, is it?" The Superior General answers: "To which
mission then would you like to be sent? I am sure we can oblige." I say: "No, father, you
appointed me to New Zealand and to New Zealand I will go.”
Wim Tuerlings
8. Brother Jan de Groot. (Born in Uden in 1930; perpetual oath in 1955).
When I arrive in Congo in 1957, I am sent to Waka mission where
Piet Hosman had started building a convent for the Belgian Ten
Bunderen or Moorslede Sisters. When I arrive there, Piet Hosman is
appointed to Yambóyó. I continue the construction where he left off.
38
The following information comes from my diary which I kept whilst living in Basnkusu
diocese.
Waka:
When I arrive, Fr Tom Finnigan is the Waka parish priest and Gerard van Leeuwen is the
curate as well as the headmaster of the primary boys’ school. The girls’ school is looked after
by the Moorslede Sisters.
On 18 May 1958, Father van Leeuwen is appointed to Lingm and is soon replaced by Fr
Paulisse. Father Thijs Paulisse (born in 1924 and ordained in 1950) takes charge of the
schools in Waka parish. However, very soon he falls ill and receives the sacrament of the sick
on 8 June 1958. He passes away half a year later on 16 January 1959 in Rotterdam. He is then
34 years old.
At work in the garage.
Father Frans Lampe succeeds him. He receives his mission appointment in 1958 on 25 June.
He is sent to Waka to learn the Lmng language, and to be the curate in the parish. But on
13 August 1959 he is appointed to Bokákata. The next curate and headmaster of the boys’
school is Abbé Joseph Ekôndó. One year later, on 4 October 1960, Father Frans Kwik comes
to Waka to study the local tongue.
As I just mentioned Tom Finnigan is my parish priest who had received just a temporary
appointment, because Fr Toon Vercauteren had to be away for some time. Father Tom is a
great friend with the Belgian couple Daniels that is stationed in Waka village for the oil palm
company, the CCP, Daniels has the habit to come practically every evening to the presbytery
for a glass of beer. When Toon Vercauteren returns to the diocese, he becomes the parish
priest in Waka again replacing Tom Finnigan. But very soon Father Toon becomes the local
superior of the Mill Hillers and wants to be near the bishop. That’s why he moves to
Bokákata in January 1960. When Toon Vercauteren is leaving for Bokákata, Frans Lampe
makes a big sign of the cross over him. Why he is glad that Toon Vercauteren left Waka
parish, is not clear.
39
In October 1960 Father Albada notifies Fr Vercauteren that things have changed and that he is
no longer the Society Superior.
After Toon Vercauteren has left, the next parish priest, Dolf Roël, moves in. Father Dolf,
called Múmp’Idlifi by the locals, had first been stationed in the region of the Lopolí
(Ngmb). On 25 June 1958 he was appointed to Byng on the Ikelemba River. One year
later he comes to Waka on 5 June 1959 and replaces Toon Vercauteren as the parish priest. He
insists on his ‘rightful’ titles and asks people to address him as ‘Fafá, Múmp Bokonji’
(Reverend Father Parish Priest)!
When I return from holiday in Europe, I finish the construction of the sisters’ convent; Jan
Hendriks comes to my aid and works on the electric wiring in the convent. Brother Hugo
helps by transporting sand, bricks and murram. Brother Hugo at one stage develops
peritonitis. That is in August 1958. The convent is commissioned in March 1959.
After finishing the convent I start work on the girls’ school by putting on a roofing of sheets.
We finish the roof in August 1959. I then construct a number of teachers’ houses, a cow stable
and a new carpentry shop (1959-1960). I do the electric wiring in the presbytery, because Fr
Vercauteren had ordered a small generator, a Petter. We install the engine next to the garage at
the back of the house. In this way we enjoy electricity in the evening.
Mission compound at Waka: church, presbytery and store.
Independence:
At the time of Independence I am still in Waka. It is a confusing time, with lots of rumours.
Names like Kasavúbu, Tshómbe, Lumúmba, Kalonji, Bolikangu and Dag Hammarskjöld are
constantly in the air. Armed soldiers seem to plunder houses left by Belgian traders and civil
servants. Planes from all over Europe are flying into Léopoldville and Brazzaville to evacuate
the various nationals.
On 12 July 1960 we hear that Katánga has declared itself independent. Thousands of
Europeans cross the river to Brazzaville in order to get away alive. It seems that the soldiers
in Djlu have heard via the radio that in Luluabourg 50 Congolese soldiers have been killed.
That’s why they arrest and manhandle the whites including the sisters. Piet van Run takes Jan
Zegwaart to Djlu. They are promptly arrested and with the others conducted towards
Mmpn.
40
At that time the workers at Waka Mission happen to be on leave creating a very quiet yet
eerie kind of atmosphere.
Fathers Niek Koelman and Jozef Mous of Befale go to Boéndé where they are told that they
are free to move as they like.
On 20 July they go to Basnkusu to report on what happened with the missionaries in the
Bongandó region.
Two days later Father Lebbink takes Koelman to Befale.
On 29 July Albada passes on the way to Basnkusu. He comes from Símbá. On 2 August
Albada goes back to Baríngá. The United Nations intend to invade Katánga. Tshómbe says he
will stop those troops.
On 12 August Father Lieuwe van der Meij and Brother Gabriël arrive from Símbá. They
narrate that not a single parish has been plundered. Teachers or seminarians, among others
Camille Tókínd’ino, occupy the presbyteries.
Accident:
On 17 August news comes in of an accident with a lorry at Wénga. Brother Jan de Koning
was on the way to Abunákombo with construction material. The lorry left the road and dived
into the forest. One passenger (worker) is killed. On the 22nd Jan Spaas and brother Wim have
a close look at the lorry. They ask me to come to the scene of the accident with the other lorry
called Njku (elephant). I leave immediately for Basnkusu. The next day we move onto
Bokákata.
On 24 August work starts at 6 o’clock. The whole morning we are at work to recuperate the
lorry which has turned over with the wheels up in the air. Father Habets has come along too.
It is a very hot day with plenty of small swamp flies (maraguins) biting us all over.
At midday the lorry is back on its wheels and is to be towed by the lorry from Waka. I am
behind the wheel of the unlucky lorry without its windshield which had been shattered in the
accident. The iron bar connecting the two lorries keeps dropping down. We pour tea on the
connection and it works. Then the rescue lorry gets stuck in the mud. Towards 17.00 hours
we arrive in Bokákata. But we move on. Near Ikau the Njku’s engine stops. We work on it
and after some 20 minutes it is running again. We arrive in Basnkusu in the dark at 19.15
hours. I am covered all over with dust for not having been protected by a windshield. On 12
September 1960 the schools reopen.
Accidents do happen on rotten bridges.
41
Appointments:
Some missionaries never come back after what they have experienced at the Independence
troubles. The bishop needs to do some reshuffling of his personnel. On 5 October 1960 he
issues some new appointments in the diocese:
Fr, Wartenbergh:
School Inspector.
Father John King:
Mmpn.
Father C. Castricum:
Mmpn.
Brother Auer:
Mmpn.
Father P. van Run:
Yambóyó
Fr Wim Tuerlings:
Yambóyó.
Fr Joop Deen:
Yambóyó.
Br Marinus de Groot:
Yambóyó.
Fr Jacob Bos:
Símbá
Fr Jan Molenaar:
Símbá.
Fr Frans de Vrught:
Byng
Fr Jan Hendriks:
Bokákata.
Fr Jan Spaas:
Bokákata.
Fr Frans Kwik:
Waka
Fr G.v.d. Arend:
Kdr
M. v. Emmerik:
Bolómba
Br Tweehuysen:
Baríngá.
Br P. Hosman:
Basnkusu.
New appointments on 9 February 1961:
Fr Frans Kwik:
Fr G. v.d. Arend:
Fr Jan Hendriks:
Br Winifred:
Br Herbert Sanders:
Fr Vercauteren:
Bokákata
Mampoko.
Bonkita.
Abunákombo.
Djmb
Europe.
Construction work:
In January 1961 I start work on the presbytery of Waka; we take off the roof of palm fronds
and put on corrugated iron sheets.
Dolf Roël then asks me to construct two toilets on the veranda. I start on that job on 22
February 1961. Before the construction of the new toilets, when answering the call of nature,
we needed to quit the house, pass the kitchen and make use of a toilet between the kitchen
and the henhouse. Fr Dolf asks me to modernise also the sitting-room so that we can sit inside
the house and see what is happening on the veranda in front and at the back of the house.
On 31 March 1961, during Good Friday prayers, thieves break into Dolf’s bedroom and take
along the big cupboard in which the money is kept. The cupboard is later found behind the
school: it is empty. The thieves are from Elíngá village at 5 km from the mission.. Some
money is recovered together with money from the break-in of the previous year.
42
I continue constructing small chapels in the outstations: at Bolímá, at Lolungu, at Wála,
Lifumba and at Bokenda with a few classrooms. We provide 20 school desks for BolímáBoyela, Ndk and for Boendo-Lofoma.
The stores in the local shops seem to dry up. At the beginning of February 1962 there are no
cigarettes or beer anymore.
In March 1962 the workers at the sawmill in Bonkita go on strike. They claim a higher salary.
The civil authorities in Basnkusu agree with the workers. The bishop does not agree and
appeals to the authorities in Coquilhatville. These say the workers are very well rewarded.
Three strikers are put in jail for two months. Very soon all activity at the sawmill is halted.
Trouble in the area:
In June 1961 there is serious trouble in Lolungu village in Waka parish. An infamous state
agent, the Regional of Waka village, travels from Basnkusu and sees in Lolungu village a
man whom he does not like. He stops and asks him whether he has paid his taxes. ‘Yes’, he
says, ‘come to my house and check for yourself.’ The Regional tells the man to board the
lorry and accompany him to Waka. The villager retorts that the Regional does not have the
power to make such a request. And secondly, the officials have not come round yet to collect
taxes. The boss becomes angry and drives to Waka to pick up some policemen. The next
evening they are back in the village, but our man flees into the forest. Fighting breaks out and
one policeman gets injured. The boss orders his men onto the lorry; on their way to
Basnkusu the wounded policeman dies of his injuries. They discover there that they are also
one policeman short. They return the following day. They stop in Lolungu and kill one
person. A couple of houses are put on fire. The dead man is laid next to the road. They
continue to the spot where there had been fighting on the eve. They find a dead policeman
lying along the road. They burn down eight more homes and continue their journey. They
turn round and go back to the place where the corpse of the villager is lying next to the road.
They fire some more rounds at the body and are off.
We receive news that Brother Willy Schatorje (from Haelen village) has left the
Congregation.
Other appointments in October 1961:
Fr Herman Saraber to Djlu. But he is going to stay in Lingm.
Fr Groenewegen to Yambóyó.
Brother Piet Hosman to Yambóyó.
Brother Marinus de Groot to Yalisere.
Herman Saraber (born in 1936) came to Congo after his ordination (1961). He does not return
after the 1964 rebellion. He is appointed to Sabah.
On 25 October 1961 Father Vesters arrives in Waka to replace Fr Dolf who is going on
holiday. On 28 October the new parish priest vomits blood a couple of times. He is taken to
the hospital in Basnkusu. On 18 October he leaves Basnkusu for Léopoldville and then
continues to Europe.
From 28 till 31 of December 1961 Fr Albada Jelgersma preaches a retreat for the brothers in
Basnkusu. The following brothers participate:
43
Br Canisius from Basnkusu, Br Jan de Koning and Br Hubert Sanders from Bonkita, Br
Paulinus from Mmpn, Br Winifred from Abunákombo, Brother Jan Veresen and Brother
Mathew from Basnkusu, Br Tarcisius Tweehuysen from Bokákata, Br Piet Hosman from
Yambóyó. Br Theo Heesterbeek from Djmb, Br Vitus/Gerard Reuvers from Mampoko, Br
Herman Steffens from Byng, Br Marinus de Groot from Yalisere and Br Jan de Groot from
Waka.
Two Brothers are absent: Brother Hugo is on holiday and Brother Gabriël is reported ill at
Símbá.
Mechanic: One year later I am called to Mpoma, Basnkusu, to take over the garage from
Brother Tjeu Kuipers who goes back to Europe. He first gives me some welding classes! I
move from Waka to Basnkusu on 12 February 1963. Father Jan Spaas moves to the procure
in Mpoma whilst Father Heyboer goes to Bonkita to do translation work.
On 26 December 1963 thieves break into my room in Mpoma; a window is smashed and my
radio stolen.
At my Mpoma residence.
On 8 September 1964, we flee the danger of the Símbá rebels. I leave Basnkusu by plane in
the company of four other brothers: Tarcis, Hubert, Paul and Paulinus. Also Fathers Jan Spaas
and Lebbink plus a number of sisters leave on the same plane.
After staying some time at Uden I receive an appointment for Oosterbeek on October 16th to
work in the garage. At the same time I follow French classes. Frans Kwik joins us on 20
October to be our spiritual director.
Back in Mpoma garage:
On 4 May 1965, I return to Congo together with Cas Sommeling. I head straight back for the
garage at Mpoma.
I continue to work in the garage repairing the old cars, lorries and mopeds. Sometimes
disabled people drop in to have their tricycles repaired.
Brother Otto Perfler arrives in Congo on 6 March 1970. After working on the Bonkita farm
Otto joins me in the garage. He has time to visit the various missions to check on the
generators and to repair stranded vehicles. At the same time he transports school materials
which are bought and then distributed by the Diocesan Education Department.
When I leave Congo for good on 7 February 1974, Brother Otto takes over the Mpoma
garage.
44
I receive an appointment for Mill Hill to work together with other brothers to make sure that
all corridors receive emergency exits. I stay there for about two years when I receive an
appointment for Kénya where I first study Swahíli. Then I start constructing some lovely
churches.
N.B. People nickname Br Jan Elóko, which means ogre on account of his imposing stature.
9. Brother Marinus de Groot. (Born at Uden, on 13/09/1929)
If you don’t get up in the morning, don’t complain in the evening; you insult those who are at work (Mng
Proverb).
On 17 June 1958 I am appointed to the Congo. On arrival in Congo I am sent to Bonkita to
replace Br Jan de Koning who has been putting up buildings. Jan went on holidays. After the
latter’s return I go to Baríngá where I finish the work on the roof of the church by removing
the palm fronds and replacing them with tiles. Years later I will go back and replace the tiles
with corrugated iron sheets above the sanctuary.
In February 1960, five months before the proclamation of Independence, I am sent to the
mission of Lingm. When I arrive there, I am asked to take the roof off the parish church.
The old roof consists of palm fronds. I have to put on a new roof of corrugated iron sheets.
On the local primary school I need to put a new roof of asbestos cement sheets. As the
building materials are stocked at Mmpn, I am constantly moving up and down to that
small port with a lorry collecting the rafters and the sheets. The distance to Mmpn is
142 km with some very hilly stretches of dirt-track. These building materials had arrived
there from Basnkusu by boat via the Maríngá River.
The priest in charge of the parish of Lingm is Tom Finnigan. Father Bart Santbergen has
packed and stacked his belongings in boxes on the veranda, since he received an appointment
for Yalisere. Tom Finnigan manages to buy a Volkswagen beetle from Verbiest at Djlu. As
Independence day approaches, the white settlers and government agents become nervous.
Some leave for Europe. One of them sells his generator to the mission of Lingm. In this
way we obtain electricity in the presbytery.
45
The independence of Congo is proclaimed on 30 June 1960.
On 12 July 1960, some white settlers, one of them an employee of Mr Bucxs, leave the
village of Befolí, in the Djlu region, by car in order to move to Boéndé, the district
headquarters, believing that it would be safer there. The group consists of two families, one
of them having three small children. They leave in the dark. But at the village of Bokókolokó
the military try to stop them. The settlers do not dare to stop and drive on. The soldiers open
fire. One of the men is hit in the knee. The first car receives a volley of bullets in the engine
and a bit further on the car stops in its tracks. But since it is pitch-dark, the soldiers are not
aware of the fact that the car has halted. The second car also is riddled with bullets, but
neither the occupants nor the engine are hit. This second car sees the stranded occupants of
the first car and picks them up. Together they continue the journey. Towards midnight they
arrive at the mission of Lingm where they pass the night.
The next morning the man with the bullet in his knee goes to the sisters for medical care.
That same morning at eight o’clock seven soldiers come to the mission in order to disarm the
missionaries. Of course we have no guns. The soldiers are very nervous. All the missionaries
and the settlers including the small children, are forced to lie face down on the road in front
of the presbytery whilst the soldiers load and unload their guns.
Lying on the ground, we hear the constant click of the guns and are convinced that our last
day has arrived. The soldiers examine and ransack the rooms looking for weapons. I keep my
belongings in a few iron boxes. I have to open them. But the leader of the soldiers had
pocketed my keys already. He has to pull those keys out of his pocket in order to open the
boxes.
They then order Fathers Finnigan and Santbergen to run over to the sisters’ convent. A few
soldiers run behind them whilst pointing their guns at them. The soldiers examine the whole
convent in their search for weapons but they don’t find any gun and finally calm down. In the
end they become quite relaxed and order us to stand up. We are free to move as we like.
The school principal called Cosmas Mbóyó informs us about what happened at Djlu to the
mission personnel and to the settlers, and about the fact that the Mill Hillers and the sisters
have left for Boéndé.
The normally peaceful veranda at Lingm.
So we all decide to go to Boéndé so as not to be at the mercy of nervous soldiers. We, the
Mill Hillers, leave in a pick-up and so do the sisters. We ask a soldier to accompany us in
order to be safe on the road. Here and there villagers have erected barriers to stop and get
hold of fleeing white settlers. Thanks to the presence of the soldier we manage to pass
46
everywhere. At night we cross the Tshuapa River with the ferry which takes us to the town of
Boéndé. We pass the night in a school.
The authorities at Boéndé send a message to Mmpn that the missionaries have to be set
free. So Fathers King and Cees Castricum come to Boéndé too.
The next day a plane picks up the mission personnel from Djlu, Yalisere, Yambóyó and
Lingm. We are well received in Léopoldville at Njili airport. There we find all kinds of
food and fruits flown in from Europe for the international refugees. We are quite a crowd
since many missionaries and other Europeans have arrived from Thijsville. We do not dare to
travel to the Scheut Procure Sainte Anne at Ngmb. So we have to wait a number of days. In
the end we leave the country in a big American military plane which develops technical
problems on the way. It becomes icy cold inside the plane with freezing temperatures. It
appears that the tailgate does not close well. The plane then flies very low over the Sahara
whilst one of the personnel opens and closes the tailgate a couple of times. All the loose
papers are sucked out of the plane. But the operation succeeds and the temperature rises. The
plane has no permission to land in Brussels. So we touch down in Tripoli, where we are well
received by the Americans on their base. We then intend to fly on to Germany. But in the
meantime permission is granted to land in Brussels where we arrive safely.
Back again:
A few months later, in October 1960, most of the Mill Hillers who had fled earlier, return
again to Congo in the company of among others Fr Thijs Wartenbergh. I, Brother Marinus,
am appointed to Yambóyó.
Only two months later, in the month of December, rebels are on the move again. We, the Mill
Hillers, flee this time with the lorry of the Yambóyó mission. Fathers Piet van Run and Joop
Deen join us too. Joop puts his motorbike on the lorry to have it repaired at Lisalá. We move
on to Lingm and then to Bokenda, where we meet Frs Jan Janssen, Marinus Boonman and
Nico van Leeuwen. We all continue to Bongándángá. From there we take the road towards
Lisalá, where Scheut missionaries are stationed. However, we have to cross the Congo River.
The ferry is still functioning. Halfway the river, the ferry’s engine breaks down. The captain
tries to throw out the anchor. It takes him quite a while to do so, whilst the boat continues to
drift downstream. When finally the anchor reaches the bottom of the river, the ferry jerks so
violently that it throws us nearly overboard. After a while the engine is restarted. We reach
the other side safely.
Not many days later we receive a message from Bishop van Kester at Basnkusu that it is
safe to return to Djlu.
Fr Piet van Run
At Lisalá Piet van Run buys stacks of copybooks for the schools
in the Djlu region. Also a huge pig is bought and put into a big
box. Halfway the journey the pig breaks down the box. Great
panic among the travellers. The motorbike which has been
repaired breaks its steering mechanism in the struggle to tie down
the pig. We pass the night at Lingm and then the next day we
return to Yambóyó. We are back to celebrate Christmas in our own
parishes. Joop Deen celebrates the midnight Mass at Yambóyó.
When early next morning he wants to go by car to Lingm for
47
the Christmas celebration, he finds the road blocked by a big truck. He returns to Yambóyó to
get his motorbike. It’s only then that he notices that the steering rod is broken. I find another
steering rod which is a bit too big. I need to do a lot of filing and polishing before it fits. Joop
then leaves for Lingm where he finds many faithful as drunk as a lord. After the Christmas
Mass the youth organises a football match. Joop is one of the goalies and his team wins. The
losing side is not very happy. They blame their loss on account of the other side having an
international player! After the match he returns to Yambóyó.
On 8 December 1963 I go on holiday together with Piet Hosman. I am back from furlough on
18 June 1964. This time I go to Yalisere.
Rebellion again:
During the months of July and August 1964 the Símbá rebels take control of the eastern part
of Congo. We, missionaries, follow the news about the rebellion from day to day on the Voice
of America. We hear daily which towns have fallen to the rebels. Piet van Run is the one who
listens most carefully to all the radio news.
So does Bishop van Kester at Basnkusu. He decides to have a look for himself in the
Bongandó region. On 31 August 1964, he leaves Basnkusu. Accompanied by the Congolese
priests Albert Gwémbongo and Joseph Ekôndó he travels as far as Mmpn. He then asks
the two priests to travel to Djlu on motorbike and look for the whereabouts of our men
stationed at the Yambóyó mission. The two of them put charcoal on their faces and don some
old shirts. They travel at a good speed. They look for Br Piet Vos, Fr Jan Groenewegen and Fr
Bart Santbergen. When they travel beyond Lingm and ask people for information, they
hear that the missionaries have passed and travelled to Bongándángá. It is unsafe to go
further. The newly ordained Abbé Camille is still at Yalisere near his native village Bokóndó.
No news from him either. A settler Etienne de Pauw lives in that neighbourhood on his
plantation. The two valiant abbés return to Mmpn.
It seems that the three missionaries decided at one stage to flee and leave Yambóyó. They
arrive well at Bongándángá, in the Mng region. When they ask the captain of a boat to
take them along to Basnkusu, the captain appears scared stiff to take white people aboard,
since rumours have it that rebels are masters of some stretches of the river downstream. The
missionaries are allowed to board the boat, but since the white settlers are not permitted to do
so, the missionaries in solidarity with their friends decide to return to their parish, where they
can easily communicate with the people in the local tongue.
Bert Santbergen is arrested by rebels on a Sunday morning during Mass. He is taken outside
the church and shot dead. Piet Vos and Jan Groenewegen are later taken prisoners and jailed
at Djlu in the company of other whites. Still later they are put on a truck and driven towards
Stanleyville. On the way they seem to have been emasculated alive and then thrown from a
bridge into a river.
Five Europeans of the Bokútola Hevea Plantation in the neighbourhood of Mmpn are
murdered on the spot. Their remains are later exhumed and transported to Europe.
Cees Castricum, Brother Paulinus Auer, Bishop van Kester, Abbé Gwémbongo and Abbé
Joseph Ekôndó and I myself, we all leave Mmpn and arrive at the ferry at Mangányá.
The ferry is gone. People fearing the arrival of the rebels have let the ferry drift downstream.
48
Abbé Joseph crosses the river in a small canoe and pleads with the men in charge to help
cross the missionaries. After an hour’s discussion people are ready to bring the ferry out of its
hiding. I drive the station-wagon. It carries a lot of drinks since Brother Paulinus would
celebrate the silver jubilee of his profession on 6 September 1964! The Abbés Joseph and
Albert return each one to his usual parish (Waka and Baríngá) with a lot of apprehension.
Most of us including Bishop van Kester decide to push onto Basnkusu. The bishop arrives
back at Basnkusu on 5 September with Fr Saraber and one sister.
I stay behind at Befale with Fathers Marinus Boonman and Cees Castricum. We are not in a
hurry to leave and flee. Marinus Boonman wants to celebrate his 55th birthday on 8
September. When we finally decide to go, we have with us a Congolese inspector of some
ministry. He drives his own jeep. The Botóngo bridge, a Bailey bridge, halfway between
Waka and Baríngá, has in the meantime been cut by a team of CCP people from the oil palm
plantation of Lisáfá. They decided to do so to protect the population of Basnkusu and their
own enterprises at Lisáfá and Ndk. The two halves of the bridge are hanging suspended just
above the water. When it becomes clear that we cannot cross the bridge with our vehicles, the
inspector decides to go back to Falanga where Portuguese settlers have an oil palm
plantation. The Portuguese bring rafters and boards in order to bridge the bridge! The
villagers of nearby Mánge are so scared of the eventual arrival of the rebels and of a possible
retaliation for having helped the whites to cross the bridge that they go so far as to remove
and throw some of the newly provided planks into the river. The inspector has to shoot into
the air to stop their chaotic behaviour. They all go back to work to make a provisional bridge
above the original bridge. The inspector’s jeep is the first to try to cross the bridge. People
push it very slowly across. It manages to arrive well at the other side. Then our station-wagon
is pushed onto the provisional bridge. I am behind the steering wheel. When I am halfway the
bridge, people stop pushing. Negotiations for payment start all over. While the haggling is
going on, I get an inspiration. I start the car’s engine and drive very slowly and reach safely
the Boendo side of the bridge. The negotiations stop immediately. It is still 50 km to Waka
and then another 80 km to Basnkusu. One hundred and thirty kilometre all in all over a
reasonably good dirt-track.
When the Belgians of the CCP hear that our two jeeps still managed to pass the Botóngo
bridge, they send another team to cut the bridge completely.
We, the last stragglers, decide to pass the night at Waka mission. The next day we push onto
Basnkusu. Most missionaries have in the meantime boarded planes and left for a safer
destination.
Basnkusu area:
I stay around and do all kinds of odd jobs and look after cars and repair buildings at Mpoma,
at the Sisters’ convent, at the parish and at Bonkita.
On 27 July 1965 I go to the Bokákata secondary school to make a cistern. The original water
reservoir is leaking. I decide to build a new cistern within the old one.
For four years I stay at and around Basnkusu until 2 September 1968 when I receive again
an appointment for the Bongandó region.
49
I am called upon to be a jack of all trades.
Bongandó again:
I first go to Yalisere but later I settle down at Djlu where I put up a rice mill. I encourage
people to plant rice as an income-generating activity. I do so since the coffee trade has
practically collapsed due to the killing of the expatriates and the destruction of their factories
and lorries. From time to time I visit the villages to buy paddy and to offer people the
possibility of buying farmers’ tools and the necessities of life like soap, paraffin oil and salt.
At Djlu there is an emergency airfield; it is overgrown because for many years it has not
been kept clear of weeds, shrubs and trees. In order to encourage the medical service
stationed at the District Centre in Boéndé to come and visit Djlu on a regular basis, all the
villages in the neighbourhood are forced to help clear the airstrip which is about one
kilometre long. When they are doing so, I help them with the lorry in order to flatten the
uprooted terrain. After many months of work, planes arrive bringing medical personnel, mail,
money and Japanese researchers who watch and study the behaviour of bonobos in the
Wámbá area. From Boéndé the Austrian Brothers Manfred and Blasius fly in to bring the mail
for our Djlu post office. The American doctor Johnson uses the same means, bringing with
him his own generator to perform operations at the hospital.
At Djlu I work together with various parish priests: Father Gerard van Leeuwen, Pat
Molloy, René Graat and Frans Kwik.
Departure from Djlu:
On 5 January 1999, I leave Djlu together with Fathers Frans Kwik and Kees Vlaming. The
local clergy no longer appreciates our stay among them. While Fathers Kwik and Vlaming
leave Congo for good, I resolve to stay around at Mpoma keeping Brother Otto company and
doing the usual odd jobs at and around Basnkusu, Bonkita and Bokákata.
One day we install solar panels in the Spiritual Centre at Bonkita, so that the sisters have light
in the evening and also at night in case of an emergency. In 2006 thieves approach the
Bonkita residence during the night. They must have come via the river. They shoot bullets
into the air to scare people away. They climb onto the roof and remove the solar panels. A
Congolese priest residing at the nearby seminary takes his moped and alerts the soldiers in
Basnkusu. When the military arrive, the thieves have disappeared with the solar panels. The
50
soldiers find seventeen empty cartridges lying around. Evidently, the thieves had plenty of
bullets to waste.
When at the beginning of February 2008 Jan van Luijk comes for a visit, I decide to return
with him to Holland, because serious and very painful knee trouble forces me to terminate my
work in Congo.
In Holland the doctors discover that my knees are fine but that the pain is caused by my bad
hips. I undergo two total hip replacements and the problem is solved. I am very happy to be
able to continue doing odd jobs in our Vrijland community.
The proverb cited at the start of this article talks about those who are lazy and in being so insult those like the
ever-busy Brother Marinus who among other things contributed enormously to the construction and the upkeep
of buildings and vehicles in various parts of Basnkusu diocese.
The local people nicknamed Marinus eséndé, that is squirrel, an animal that that is always up and about.
10. Cosmas Mbóyó:
The headmaster of LingmCosmas Mbóyó’s eyewitness account of the murder of Fr Bart
Santbergen:
It is Sunday, 8 November 1964:
Father Jan Groenewegen is saying Mass. Father Bart Santbergen has just finished preaching
and we are singing the creed when a truck loaded with Símbá rebels drives into the mission
compound. They jump off the lorry and burst into the church. They walk to the front and
want to kill Father Groenewegen at the altar. But he says: ‘If you want to kill me, don’t do it
inside but outside the church.’
Most people take to their heels.
Fr Groenewegen, Brother Piet Vos and a few courageous people among whom the
headmasters of Yambóyó and Lingm accompany the rebels outdoors. The leader of the
rebels is called Balâya. As soon as Father Groenewegen and Brother Vos come out of the
church, their hands are tied on their backs.
51
Fr Bart Santbergen
In the meantime Father Santbergen comes out of the sacristy and angrily asks: ‘What does all
this mean?’ He rushes up the church steps and lifts up the gunpoint directed at Fr
Groenewegen. ‘What do you want?’ he asks. They answer: ‘We want to kill this father,
because he tells people that we are a bunch of thieves.’ Father Santbergen retorts: ‘If you
want to kill someone, take me since I am the head of the mission and the senior one in
Congo. Of the other two, one has been here for two years and the other one for one and a half
years only.
The rebels order Father Santbergen down the steps, because they want to kill him. He has his
breviary in his left hand. Once down the steps, he makes the sign of the cross. The rebels say:
‘So, now you pray to God.’ They shout at him: ‘Look here.’ He looks at them without a trace
of fear. One of the rebels takes aim and shoots. Father Santbergen’s pair of spectacles flies
into the air. He catches it and puts it back on his nose. Another rebel says: ‘You, give me that
gun; you don’t know how to shoot.’ This second rebel then fires a shot. Father Santbergen
sinks down with a head wound.
The rebels walk over to him and pull the bunch of keys out of his pocket. They walk over to
the presbytery and ransack the place.
When they leave the house, they notice Father Santbergen moving his hand as his tries to pull
his handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe off some blood. With a machine-gun they finish
him off.
When the sound of the gunshots dies down, the rebels address themselves to the headmaster
and others present and order them to eat Father Santbergen’s body. The headmaster replies
that such a thing is impossible, since they aren’t cannibals and they will not start being so
with a father of their mission. The rebels then become terribly angry but they do not manage
to persuade their audience. They then order the body to be thrown into the stream. Again the
headmaster refuses to comply and says: ‘Our father has his home here on the mission. We just
cannot throw him into the stream. Moreover, that’s where we draw our drinking water from.’
After some discussions the rebels finally say: ‘Do with him as you like.’ Father Jan
Groenewegen and Brother Piet Vos are freed. The rebels depart.
52
Here Father Bart is gunned down.
The brother quickly makes a coffin and Father Santbergen is laid out in his church vestments.
The same day, after a solemn Requiem Mass, Father Santbergen is buried in the mission
compound.
Two days later the rebels are back and arrest Jan Groenewegen and Piet Vos. They take them
to Djlu prison. A few days later they together with the Europeans of the Sobol (Lilnga),
Etienne de Pauw and a Portuguese man are transported to Símbá, where they stay a couple of
days. The Portuguese manages to escape. Then they are transported to Stanleyville. But they
never arrive. One of the rebels says that they are killed in Isángí.
This is later confirmed.
(This story was found with the writings of Sister Aurelia of the Sisters of Asten).
11. Fr Joop Deen (born 10/01/1934): (totéfela tófé: to talk with two mouths).
First years:
53
When, after my ordination in July 1958, I receive my
appointment to the diocese of Basnkusu in the Belgian Congo,
I am advised to follow the so-called colonial course in Belgium.
One year later, in October 1959, I depart for the Belgian Congo
with a Danish freight boat called Dafra Line. Before arriving at
the Congolese port of Matádi, we make a stop in Pointe Noire
in the French Congo (Brazzaville). It is my first encounter with
Africa. The scene makes a great impression on me.
When we arrive in our port of destination Matádi, we take the
train from there to Léopoldville. It is a ride of 366 km. I did not
know about the bloody rebellion that had been suppressed by
the Belgians some time earlier. At the various stations on the
way, angry people shout at us in a language which I do not
understand. They say: ‘Bndl, kndá mbóka’, white man, go home!
I am well received at the Scheut Fathers’ Procure Sainte Anne in Léopoldville. I am surprised
to see all the fathers and brothers at table dressed in white cassocks. I am the only one in
civvies. After a few days I go on to Basnkusu.
Since there is no road from Léopoldville to Basnkusu, I need to take the plane. At
Basnkusu I meet the bishop of the diocese, Wim van Kester. He appoints me to the parish of
Djlu at 560 km from Basnkusu. Since there are no trains, buses or taxies plying that part
of the country, I have to try my luck and hitch a ride from an occasional traveller to take me
towards my destination. A fellow missionary from Bokóté in the neighbouring diocese of
Boéndé happens to be at Basnkusu. He takes me along to the parish of Befale, a ride of
some 250 km. There I meet Fathers Niek Koelman and Jozef Mous. The Belgian Government
has started there a pilot programme to promote the economic, scholastic and health
programme called FOBI (Fonds du Bien-être Indigène). One of the agents is so kind as to
take me to Djlu, the administrative centre of the Region. There I find Father Lau Dassen,
the parish priest.
At Djlu I am encouraged to start learning the local language. I am appointed headmaster of
the primary school, though my knowledge of the local language is non-existent and my use of
French is very elementary at most.
At a certain distance from the parish house the Sisters of Asten have their convent. One of the
Sisters called Serafina provides me with a copybook having a number of words. No grammar
or dictionary seems to exist. Much, not to say all, is left to my own private enterprise to pick
up the local language called Longandó. Schoolchildren help me in my effort. They
accompany me often when I go for my daily afternoon swim in the river Bolombo, flowing at
a few kilometres from the parish headquarters. Our house has a roof of red ardex sheets. The
rooms don’t have any ceiling at all. It’s far too hot to take a nap in the afternoon. A swim in
the clear river water is a better option: a real pleasure and a nice distraction. In the small town
the Europeans have a so-called ‘cercle’, a social Centre, where they gather for a drink. On
feast-days like Christmas and Easter meals are served as well. The Congolese elite called
évolués have their social Centre. The missionaries usually side with the Europeans in their
Centre. In the church in one of the side aisles there is one bench reserved for the white
population. Our parish priest, Lau Dassen, does not know the local language. His sermons are
54
written out by a teacher and Lau reads them out loud during Mass. It is my task to give a talk
to the Sisters during their monthly recollection. I find myself ill-equipped to inspire the nuns.
1963.
Left: Marinus, Santbergen and v.d. Eerden; middle: O’Neill; right: Deen and Groenewegen.
Independence in 1960:
In the course of 1960, a couple of months after my arrival, it becomes clear that the Belgian
Congo will receive its Independence on the 30 June of that same year. People become
nervous and restless. They do not know what to expect. When Independence is declared,
soldiers around the country rise in revolt. Reports and rumours of shootings, killings and
harassment of Belgian and other white civilians are coming through. It is one or two weeks
after the declaration of Independence: the Belgian army commander at Djlu decides to
accompany all the white settlers with their wives and children to the administrative Centre of
Boéndé, judging that it would be safer to be at Boéndé. Only the administrator, Mr Stragier,
stays behind. The Mill Hillers and the Sisters stay put as they are not involved in any
administrative turnover and as they judge themselves to be no part of the colonial setup.
Whilst the column of whites from Djlu makes its way to Boéndé, the Congolese soldiers
stationed at Mmpn head towards Djlu. The two groups meet somewhere near Lingm.
The Belgian army commander with his people is ordered to turn around and go back to
Djlu. That’s what they do. The Congolese soldiers keep their guns pointed at them. The
commander receives a bullet in his leg. The whole convoy is interned in the socalled section
prison. The commander has to be carried in.
We at the parish, we hear shooting. That’s why I want to enquire about the situation and
decide to visit the administrator Stragier. At his home two other Europeans have arrived from
the de Pauw plantation. This settler has his home in the neighbourhood of Yalisere.
Stragier tells me not to return to the mission as the situation is too dangerous. Then all of a
sudden we are surrounded by Congolese soldiers who start firing bullets through the glass
windows. We flee to the bathroom which had been transformed previously by the army
commander into a storeroom for all the army’s ammunition. Then there is a lot of shouting.
We are ordered to lift our hands. The soldiers get hold of all of us. They take our watches and
empty our pockets. They tie our hands on our backs and order us to kneel down while they
cock their rifles at us. We, the prisoners, are tied to one another. Soldiers then empty the
bathroom of all the ammunition. The boxes are opened with machetes. I am really convinced
that this is the end for all of us. I become very calm, though my thoughts go back home to
Grootebroek where they will receive the news that Joop has been murdered in Congo.
They take us to the main prison. They remove the clothes from the upper part of our bodies,
as well as our shoes and socks. Also Father Lau Dassen and the religious Sisters are brought
55
in. Some soldiers start beating us, but they do not touch Lau Dassen since he is wearing a
cassock. The women are taken to the women prison. During the night the women are raped.
They try to do the same with the Sisters, but they do not manage to do so since the Sisters are
well protected by their old-fashioned outfits.
We pass the entire night in that prison. In the morning we are brought out for the ceremony of
raising the new flag.
Then we are forced to walk to the section prison. It’s a walk of about one and a half
kilometres on our bare feet. It is a very painful trip. We are passing the row of small shops.
People are about. They shout and insult us. When we arrive at the small prison, we find the
people who had been taken prisoners on the road to Mmpn. The soldiers start organizing
our transport first towards Mmpn and then to Boéndé. They find two lorries. Everybody
is ordered to get on. A medical doctor called Heus is among us. In between Lingm and
Mmpn we pass the region of Likunjwámbá. The region is inhabited by Mng of whom
many adhere to the sect of the Kitawála, rejecting authority and the presence of Europeans.
When we pass their villages, they attempt to stop the lorries. They threaten us by pointing
their spears in between the boards of the trucks. The soldiers scare them off by firing shots
into the air.
We travel in the blazing sun. The nuns have pity on the other women who have nothing to
cover their heads with. They take their veils and tear them to pieces so that the women can
protect themselves against the sun. The lorries drive straight into the army barracks.
However, when the soldiers’ wives see how the soldiers have brought in a load of white
women, they become mad at their husbands for the treatment inflicted on the Sisters. They
are furious also at their husbands for having brought in a load of new wives. They force the
soldiers to change their minds. The missionaries and the Sisters are allowed to pass the night
at the Catholic parish.
During the night the army commander insists on seeing
all the white prisoners in the army barracks. The mission
people are all rounded up again, except me. I am so tired
that I do not hear anything of what is going on. I sleep
soundly until the next day. The army leader then decides
to free everybody. We are all allowed to return to Djlu.
The commander even gives me a pair of slippers and a
shirt!
However, the local commander advises us to continue
our journey to Boéndé, since he cannot guarantee that the
soldiers won’t run amok. So we and all the white settlers
and civil servants board the trucks again and move to
Boéndé. There we pass the night in the dormitory of a
secondary school. Shops like the Sedec that have not yet
been looted distribute food for nothing. The next day all the Djlu people board the two
planes which were sent to collect us. We arrive safely at Njili airport in Léopoldville. The
airport has just been conquered by young Belgian paratroopers. They had little difficulty in
taking the airport, because the Congolese soldiers who were defending the airport had
branches stuck to their helmets. When these soldiers returned the Belgian gunfire from
behind the pillars of the airport, the branches stuck to their helmets betrayed their presence
and their positions from afar.
56
When we arrive, all is safe. Congolese civilians walk around looking at the unusual spectacle.
They say: ‘The Belgian commandos present are all youngsters. You watch the scene when the
veterans turn up!’ We are all offered free food and drinks. On the top level of the airport are
mattresses where we can sleep. Women and children are evacuated first. After three days we
can board an American globetrotter. We sit on the sides of the plane on seats normally
reserved for paratroopers. The tailgate of the plane does not close well. In flight they repair it
by opening and closing the gate a couple of times. Everything that is loose is sucked out of
the plane. We arrive first in Tripoli and see a mighty airport at the American airbase there.
The place is filled with planes. In the evening we watch a game of baseball. I receive a piece
of soap and a comb.
The next morning at 5am we are roused from our sleep. The Americans invite us to have a
drink by saying: ‘Have a beer!’ We can board a plane. One of the crew explains to us that in
front they have suspended a blanket behind which they have put a bucket. That’s for the
ladies. ‘You, gentlemen, just hold it. It is only a three-hour flight!’
We go to our Mill Hill House in Antwerp. A Canadian serviceman takes me to Grootenbroek.
Jacob Bos in Bovenkarspel gives an interview to the local newspaper saying that they should
hang Lumúmba on the tallest tree they can find.
We arrange with the others that fled the Djlu region to come together in Roosendaal in order
to exchange our views and our reactions to what happened to us. We are gathered in a
restaurant when Fr Thijs Wartenbergh barges into our gathering waving a paper saying that,
in ten days’ time, all the Mill Hillers should take the plane to Léopoldville. The local Mill
Hillers present declare us completely mad.
In October 1960 we are all in Brussels, clad in white cassocks leaving for Congo. Father Jan
Zegwaart and Bert Santbergen are not there, because they have taken up their vacation. Jan
Hanrath and Lau Dassen have excused themselves: they have decided not to go back
anymore.
Back again in Basnkusu diocese:
Once back at Basnkusu I accompany Piet van Run and Wim Tuerlings on the way to Djlu.
At Mmpn we are stopped by soldiers who insist to take us to Boéndé. When they present
us there to their commander, the latter tells them off. This commander has a notice on his
desk that says: ‘Dieu avant tout’ i.e. God before everything. We take the opportunity to look
around in Boéndé. We spot the car belonging to the Sisters of Mmpn. We take it along.
When on the way to Lingm we pass the Kitawála region of Likunjwámbá, we receive an
enthusiastic reception. People are overjoyed at seeing us back! We decide to stay put in
Yambóyó. From there Piet van Run looks after the parish of Yalisere, Wim caters for Lingm
and I am responsible for the Djlu parish.
Another rebellion:
At the beginning of December of that same year, 1960, rebels threaten us again, this time
coming from the Eastern Province. The administrator of Djlu, Mr Lomaté, lets us know not
to be able to guarantee our safety. So, we take a lorry and we flee towards Lisalá. But we do
not stay there for a long time. We are back before Christmas and spend much of our time in
hearing confessions.
57
On Christmas day I go to Lingm with a lorry. After Mass we play a football match. I am
one of the goalies. We win. The other side is not happy, saying they lost as their opponents
had a European goalie!
Father Tom O’Neill was on holidays during the Independence happenings. He is appointed
the parish priest of Djlu, though at first the bishop did not want him to leave the parish of
Yalisere. Tom takes all his time to receive and chat with people. He has one problem, namely
the fact that he is a bad sleeper. Therefore he stays up late in the evening and spends much of
his time drinking! I decide to leave Yambóyó and stay at Djlu as well. One day Fr Tom
suffers from a gastric haemorrhage. Brother Marinus takes Jan Zegwaart’s car and transports
Tom to Basnkusu.
One of my occupations at Djlu is being the headmaster of the primary school. Since the
town is the administrative centre of the whole region, we receive a lot of official visits. Every
time a politically important person visits the town, all the schoolchildren have to be present
for a public parade. Since the hour of the arrival of the official is never known, the children
often spend most of the day waiting by the roadside. So I decide to stop all parades. One day
a government minister called Marcus Bofóla arrives at Djlu. He is originally from Yambóyó.
To his great dismay the schoolchildren do not parade to welcome him. The next day a big
meeting is called. I have to be present as well. During the meeting it becomes apparent that
the meeting is called in order to inform me that I am no longer welcome in the region,
because they say that I am against the people and against the Bongandó. Father Jan Janssen in
the parish of Bongándángá has a similar experience. He too is expulsed from the region due
to a visiting minister. The two of us meet at Lingm and together we go and see Bishop van
Kester at Basnkusu. We arrive there in June 1963. I ask the bishop not to post me anymore
in an official government location. However, he decides to send me to the government town
of Befale where Joop Mous has had serious physical problems including fits. On 7 February
Father Mous is given the Sacrament of the sick. I join Father Niek Koelman since he is there
by himself.
Símbá rebellion in 1964:
In August 1964 the diocesan education office sends a load of school materials for the new
scholastic year that will start in September. Together with Father Jan Molenaar I take the
whole load to Mmpn. Some 25 km before arriving there, we hear from people that the
Símbá rebels have entered Djlu region and have arrested all the Mill Hill men and the
Sisters. We want to leave the scholastic material in Mmpn anyway. So we continue our
trip. At Mmpn we hear that Piet van Run and the other Bongandó missionaries have
passed already on their way to Basnkusu. We leave all the copybooks, writing materials and
so on in the presbytery. We feel ill at ease and return to Befale where we take our bags and
start on our trip to Basnkusu. When we travel on the way to the ferry at Mangánya via
Boonia, people inform us that the ferry which should take us across the Ló is not in place.
The men responsible have let the ferry drift downstream. We want to see the situation
ourselves. And indeed the ferry is no longer there. What to do? After ten minutes or so Father
Marinus Boonman arrives from Befale and turns up with a soldier and the captain of the ferry.
They had heard at Befale that we were stranded at the crossing. Something miraculous seems
to have happened, because we have been there only for ten minutes! Anyway, the captain
takes a dugout and people row him to the ferry. He puts the batteries back in place and starts
the engine. He takes us across and we go to Befale.
58
Someone said that the people in Befale knew of our arrival by the talking drum. But I dismiss
this explanation. Even after having received the information from the talking drum, Fr
Marinus Boonman would have to see the administrator who had to look for the ferry’s captain
and find a soldier to accompany people to the ferry. This is a twenty km drive. That’s too
many things to organise within some minutes. Boonman says a boy came to inform him. Who
was that boy? A little angel?
The following day we continue together with our people from the Bongandó.
It is the first Sunday in September. It rains cats and dogs. Several times cars get stuck in the
muddy road. When we arrive at Bauta, we decide to branch off to the mission of Baríngá.
The Bauta people tell us that the soldiers at Basnkusu have risen up in mutiny. Later a car
arrives with drunken soldiers from Basnkusu. We need to discuss with them for a long time
before they let us continue to Basnkusu. We arrive there just after dark. The next day, on 7
September 1964, the Belgians send a plane to evacuate a whole bunch of us. We are off to
Léopoldville.
During our forced stay in Europe, quite a few of our group go to France in order to study and
pick up more French. I find an address on the outside of Paris. I am given a room in the cellar
of the presbytery.
Back in Congo:
More than a year later I go back to Congo. I arrive at Basnkusu on 18 December 1965.
Abbé Albert comes all the way from Baríngá to fetch me and take me to the presbytery of
Baríngá parish. From there I go and see the mission of Befale. The whole house there has
been completely emptied. People have been using the presbytery as a toilet. The baptismal
registers have been used as toilet-paper. I return to Baríngá where Father Gerard van
Leeuwen (commonly called Heeroom Flip) joins us later. After some time I reopen the Befale
parish and decide to stay there. I have the place thoroughly cleaned. Beer crates are my
chairs. A European has comes to work at the plantation at Lifengo. They have a sawmill and
make a bed and some chairs for me. I find a refrigerator in the municipal garage in Befale
centre.
In 1969 I go on holiday and am back again on 15 July of the same year.
On 9 September 1969 Father Niek Koelman is appointed to Befale. In November 1969 Father
Gerard van Leeuwen working at Baríngá receives an appointment for Djlu where he moves
to on 2 January 1970. Piet de Moel is ordained in 1970 and appointed to Congo. After
spending a short while in Waka, he comes to Baríngá where he takes an interest in upgrading
the sheep and cow farm. With Piet we extend the meadows and have lots of grass planted.
When in Baríngá parish I team up with Piet to modernise our parish work. I find time to
teach a few young men car mechanics. Those years at Baríngá are the most pleasant and
fulfilling of my life.
Ekafera:
Ekafera penal camp lies at the other side of the L (Maríngá) River. It accommodates
mostly political prisoners who have no way of escaping. It is located at some 150 km north of
Boéndé. One needs to travel via Befale and Bauta in the direction of Djfra. There you need
to turn to the right and park your vehicle and go further on foot for about five km towards the
Maríngá River. There you need to take a dugout and people to row some 3 km upstream and
then cross the river. At the other side of the river you need to walk for another 7 kilometres to
59
Ekafera camp. This prisoners’ camp was put up at the colonial epoch by the Belgians to
imprison followers of the prophet Simon Kibangu. Most of them were Bakóngo. The camp
was well organised. The immense forest functions as a huge barbed wire fence. There are no
roads and the only access to the settlement is by river. It was furnished with big houses for
the Belgians and extensive buildings for the prisoners. The prisoners could learn a profession.
Facilities were good. There were even horses, something unheard of in the tsetse-infested
region of the Equator Province. At independence the Belgian personnel fled and the prisoners
were released. The camp stood abandoned for a period of twelve years. Between the river and
the camp there are two small villages. The nearest Catholic parish is the one at Baríngá.
Then Mobútu takes an interest in the camp and re-opens it. It must be around 1972-1973 that
Mobútu imprisons there three of his rivals: a general, a minister and Justin Bomboko.
Rumours have it that Mr Bomboko was badly beaten on his legs when he arrived in Boéndé.
But they are well looked after. Nearly daily a helicopter comes flying in to bring them food
and drinks. The soldiers say later that the food and drinks were the best of the best. The
military are extremely annoyed at seeing those exceptional provisions, because they
themselves can barely survive on what they are sent. The three gentlemen are held there for
about five months and then rehabilitated. Later Ekafera becomes more and more like a death
camp. It is to be noted that the name Ekafera means the giver, the one who gives. What it
gives is the slow execution of the death penalty. The first prisoners come from Kinshásá. At
the time there is a lot of crime in the capital and to put an end to that social insecurity, many
criminals are arrested and sent by plane to Ekafera via Boéndé. The only possessions they
have are a pair of shorts and a shirt. In Boéndé they do not receive any food. In order to
survive many of them barter the clothes they wear for food. When transported from Boéndé
to Ekafera (at times in two trucks at once), most of the prisoners are stark-naked. When the
trucks pass the mission of Befale on their way to Ekafera, the soldiers force the prisoners to
sing: Nzámbe apní y, ósálela yé, na nzóto mpé na motéma mwa y mobimba, Nzámbe
apní y (God has chosen you to serve him with your whole body and soul; God has chosen you).
It is immensely sad and cynical to transport prisoners to a death camp and then force them to
sing a hymn of the Bilng ya Mwínda which tells them that God has chosen them personally.
In fact Mobútu had chosen them to be condemned to death. As I mentioned, the nearest
Catholic parish is Baríngá. As the parish priest of Baríngá I feel it as my duty to visit the
camp and see what I can do for the inmates. One day I visit the camp the day after the arrival
of a new load of prisoners. The camp official takes me along for the official inspection. All
the prisoners have a vine around their waste holding up a page of a copybook to cover their
genitals.
The new prisoners are first confined to the prison for one month. If they behave well, they are
allowed out; they receive a plot to till the soil, where they can construct a small shelter and
prepare a field. This permissive attitude comes only later. Initially lots of prisoners die. There
is a very big cemetery. One day I take secretly photographs of the cemetery. Some inmates
manage to escape the horrors and flee into the forest. Later they are found dead sitting at the
foot of a tree.
In order to help the prisoners we buy up the big sleeping mats called lifónjóló which they
make. We facilitate the transport to Basnkusu. The Basnkusu trader, Mr Liyng,
transports a few loads also without any charge. The Catholic mission store sells them in
Basnkusu. With that money the inmates are enabled to buy food in the two surrounding
villages.
60
One of the prison inmates is a medical student. I supply him with some basic medicine so that
he can open a small clinic. In this way he treats tropical ulcers and malaria. The name of the
nurse is Nyamonde and he is from Kívu Province. Many prisoners are not criminals at all but
were rounded up in raids in Kinshásá and had no money on them to bribe their way out.
This I find out the day the headmaster of the secondary school in Baríngá who accompanies
me, tells me he had a very strange dream and knew for certain that in Ekafera he would meet
someone he knows well. That’s the day of the inspection of all those naked men. After the
inspection he informs me that he has spotted his own brother among the inmates. At his
request he is allowed to talk to him. His brother was working in Kinshásá. After work he
waited for a friend, the owner of a taxi. His brother was stopped and checked by soldiers. In
order to be set free, he had to pay a ransom he did not possess. So he was arrested and landed
up in Ekafera. The prisoners organise themselves to have their own football team. They call
their team after our bishop: FC Matóndo. When one day the inmates are escorted by the
military to Baríngá in order to meet Bishop Matóndo, the headmaster’s brother happens to be
in the group as well. He does not go back to Ekafera. The bishop who wrote that he loves the
youth and is ready to die for them, never ventures to have a first-hand look by paying a visit
to Ekafera.
At Ekafera there is a certain prisoner, the son of a Belgian father and a Congolese mother. He
had been taken along to Belgium after independence. He finishes his ordinary education and
then studies calligraphy. But his does not possess the Belgian nationality. On account of drugs
he is arrested and expelled from Belgium. He lands up in Ekafera. Because he can write so
nicely, he becomes the secretary in the prison office. Since the man speaks Flemish fluently,
we can easily communicate with each other. One day he gives me the complete list of all the
deceased inmates. I add the photographs I have taken myself and pass the dossier on to
Bishop Matóndo.
There is still another prisoner, a certain Mr Balin. He came originally from South America
but used to live in Paris. He was in contact with Gizénga, the leader of the separatist Oriental
Province. Mr Balin was arrested in Bukávu. He has a girl-friend living in Paris and via our
procure in Antwerp she sends him money on a regular basis. When money comes in and I
visit Ekafera, I tell the man to come for confession. On that occasion I hand him the money
without any witness. One day he receives quite a sum of money and escapes with a group of
prisoners. At the time Canadians are making an inventory of the forest. Those Canadians do
that job with a team of Congolese. Wherever Mr Balin arrives somewhere, he presents
himself as a Canadian with his team. All the village chiefs welcome him warmly. After an
epic journey he makes it to the Central African Republic. The French embassy helps him to
arrive in Brussels. One day I am on vacation and pass by Antwerp. Amnesty International lets
me know that Mr Balin is in Brussels and would like to see me. I decline the offer, but now I
know that Mr Balin has made it to Europe and that the whole world is informed about
Ekafera. In fact Amnesty International publishes a brochure about Ekafera with a detailed
map of the camp. Amnesty and the Red Cross press Mobútu about the conditions at Ekafera.
The president is not pleased at all. Since I am the only foreigner visiting the camp, it must be
my fault that things have become known. This means the end of my stay in Congo.
One day a delegation of Amnesty and the Red Cross comes to visit the place. The members of
the delegation are well informed that the soldiers abuse the Ekafera prisoners, eat the food
sent to the inmates who are forced to scour the forest and make small gardens to keep
themselves alive. When the camp authorities are informed that the Red Cross delegation is on
its way from Boéndé, the prisoners are sent into the forest. Soldiers dress up like prisoners so
that the number of prisoners appears to be limited and they don’t look underfed. The secret
61
service forbids me to come into contact with the delegation and sends me off to Basnkusu.
Together with Fr Dick van de Riet I go to Kinshásá to witness the pope’s arrival. By mere
fluke our plane passes via Boéndé. The Amnesty and Red Cross delegation boards that same
plane to return to Kinshásá. I am seated at the back. Fr Dick sits in front of me. In front of
him a security man is seated. During the flight this man turns round and asks Dick: ‘Where is
Father Yopy staying?’ Dick does not flinch and answers the question by saying: ‘He is still
there.’
A few months later a whole delegation of the secret service comes to see me in Baríngá. The
next day I have to present myself in Befale for a lengthy interrogation. Ekafera is then closed
down and the prisoners are transported to other prisons.
When Niek is appointed to Waka parish, I leave Baríngá and move over to Befale. I go back
to Baríngá when Dick moves to Befale, where Jim Fanning finds him in April 1976. In 1978 I
am chosen to be the Mill Hill Representative in Congo. In that capacity I do a lot of travelling
to visit the Mill Hillers across the vast diocese. In 1981 I am re-elected to the job.
After having been the Society’s Representative for 6 years, I return to Befale and reside there
in the company of John Kirwan. In the meantime (in 1983) Kees de Lange and Brother Gerrit
arrive in Baríngá and replace Piet de Moel who has left for Europe. When the in-laws of Piet
de Moel make the situation hazardous for Kees de Lange, John Kirwan asks Piet Korse to
come and reinforce the Baríngá team and solve the tricky situation.
When at Befale I find time to kill a pig now and again; I
smoke hams, make sausages and black pudding. Since
there is not a single butcher in the whole diocese, these
efforts are well appreciated by my various colleagues.
When I finish my holiday in 1988, my sister, my brotherin-law and their son Bob accompany me to Congo. I am
still stationed in Befale. Later I hear that I should have
stayed in Holland, apparently according to the wishes of
Bishop Matóndo. Since I am back in the diocese, he
exiles me to Mampoko in the company of Frans Kwik and Henk Noordman. Kees Vlaming
replaces me at Befale. He gets into conflict with Bishop Matóndo and has to leave for
Europe. I have to leave in the same direction. According to Matóndo the reason I have to
leave (which he never communicates to me neither orally nor in writing) is that Mobútu
wants to take revenge on me for having forced him to close Ekafera. But in my opinion this is
not true at all. At the beginning of 1989 I leave the diocese quite angry and frustrated.
P.S. Joop’s losáko being a reproach (totéfela tófé: speaking with two mouths) fits him well, since Joop himself is
a straightforward and honest person.
Result of an interview in Grootebroek by the editor.
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12. Report by Frs Frans de Vrught and Cees Castricum of their visit to the recently
liberated Missions of Mmpn and Yalisere.
Around 15 February 1966 the parish priest of Boéndé sends the
message that Bokóndó is free and that Abbé Camille Tókínd’ino is in
good health.
As I have been planning to go to Baríngá and from there reach
Mmpn, I ask the former parish priest of Mmpn, Father Cees
Castricum, to accompany me on a boat trip with the diocesan boat
called ‘Saint Paul’. He readily agrees to do so. We have to take the boat
since the bridge over the Botóngo River has not yet been repaired.
Frans de Vrught
We leave Basnkusu on Wednesday, 16 February. It takes us two days
to reach Baríngá. There we take the old army jeep of Fr Piet van Run
which he had left there a year and a half earlier. We drive to Boéndé where we borrow
another jeep. The curate of the parish is pleased to join us.
On Monday, 20 February, we are on our way to Mmpn, a distance of 150 km. The curate
has an automatic gun with him, because one never knows. A Belgian officer with two
Congolese soldiers travel with us in another jeep. The road is good. When we reach the
villages in Mmpn parish, we stop a couple of times to chat with the local people.
Everywhere there are jubilations and warm welcomes. Evidently people are glad to see us
back. Let us hope that the people have gained the insight that the rebellion did not bring them
the real freedom they had hoped for. People have suffered a lot. Many of them were hiding in
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the forest for over a year and a half. Others were killed by the rebels. Some youths though
joined the rebel ranks.
Towards midday we arrive at a local government office which has been transformed into an
army camp. This is a few kilometres from Mmpn mission station. We are well received
by foreign mercenaries. They serve us a good meal with a cold beer. They offer us a place to
spend the night. After the meal we become keen to check the state of the mission station.
When we arrive on the scene, we see immediately that the place has become inhabitable. It
will take lots of money and time to renovate the buildings. The forest has taken over the
compound. High vegetation has grown up around the various buildings. In the presbytery not
a single window-pane is left. Lots of windows and doors have been smashed. Not a single
piece of furniture is to be found. The floor is covered with broken glass and chunks of books.
The whole parish administration is gone.
The church is also a sorry sight to see. In 1964 the missionaries had started to build a new
church around the old one. The roof was finished at 75 per cent. The rest of the corrugated
iron sheets that lay in the church have been taken by the mercenaries in order to construct
kitchens. The new church made with cement blocks has withstood the weather, but the
sacristy has been ransacked completely. The tabernacle has been forced open. Three beautiful
statues stand maimed in the presbytery.
In the boys’ school not a single window-pane is left intact. Most of the school benches have
disappeared. Many doors and windows are destroyed. The blackboards are filled with slogans
like ‘Long live Lumúmba’ and ‘Long live Múlele’. In 1964 two days before the missionaries’
flight from the region, they had brought two tons of school materials for Mmpn mission
and the Bongandó missions. Nothing is left of the whole stock. We see boys walking with the
most recent books that were going to be introduced at the time. Someone must have made
some quick money from the supply.
At the convent the destruction is complete. Several roof tiles are missing so that the rains
have destroyed the ceilings. Hardly any pane is left intact. Here too several doors and
windows have been pulled to pieces or just destroyed. The main building is empty except for
the fridge and the washing machine. The fridge, however, is partly destroyed. The generator,
a Deutz, is still there but in the open air since the roof of the shed has gone. The girls’ school
has met a similar fate, but most of the benches are still there. The ransacking and near total
destruction are in sharp contrast to the warm welcome we received that morning in the
villages.
The next day, Tuesday 22 February, we drive to Bokóndó and Yalisere, a trip of about 150 km.
We take the road via Befolí. The bridge across the Duálé River has been repaired. That same
day the mercenaries with a group of soldiers leave Mmpn for Bokóndó from where they
want to push onto Yskí. They are confident that they will meet little resistance. Towards
midday we arrive at Bokóndó. We find Abbé Camille with the soldiers who have installed
themselves in a local government office. They liberated the region two weeks earlier. They
met some resistance only at Befolí.
Abbé Camille looks well given the circumstances under which he has lived in rebel territory
for a year and a half. He was on the point of going to Bokungú from where he would look for
an occasion to travel to Boéndé.
64
Before leaving for Mmpn, Abbé Camille is asked by the commanding officer to make an
official declaration concerning the death of Fathers Santbergen and Groenewegen, Brother
Piet Vos and Etienne de Pauw.
After having made his declaration we go and see the Yalisere mission compound. It is still
bushier than the one at Mmpn. The paths have disappeared. Since we have little time, we
visit only the presbytery and the church. The destruction and the looting have been thorough.
Only a few heavy pieces of furniture are left like a writing-desk without its drawers and a few
big tables. The window-panes have been smashed and doors and windows destroyed. In the
church we find the same desolation. There are still traces of a Christmas crib with broken
statues scattered all over. The crucifix, however, is intact as well as the big crucifix on the
road to the mission compound. We lack the courage to check on the convent and other
buildings. According to Abbé Camille everything is in smithereens. Around the whole plot
lots of yellow flowers are blossoming. These are the flowers Jan Zegwaart planted two years
earlier in preparation for Camille’s ordination. Permission is granted to clean the compound
and the plantation. Then we leave and go straight back to Mmpn. On the road we
encounter a military column on its way to Bokóndó. The soldiers ask Camille about eventual
danger spots in the area. The following day they intend to move to Yskí via the Yakírí
forest. Yskí used to be the rebels’ headquarters.
Towards dusk we are back in Mmpn. The next day we return to Boéndé. Since the five of
us do not fit into the small jeep on our way back to Baríngá, the visiting minister Marcus
Bofóla lends us his five tons Magyrus Deutz. That’s how we make the 150 km back to
Baríngá where we leave Abbé Camille in the hands of doctor Wright for a thorough checkup, because Basnkusu hospital still lacks a medical doctor.
The two of us sail back with the Saint Paul. Abbé Camille arrives ten days later. He adapts
himself quickly to living in a community. He is an example of punctuality. He does not suffer
from physical harmful consequences of his long stay in rebel territory. Like everybody else
he has lost all his possessions and all the things he received at his ordination in 1964: his
Mass kit, his bike and lots of money. But all the time he managed to keep his breviary, his
cassock and the Holy Oils.
13. Fr Jan Molenaar:
Congo-memories 1960 -1964.
It all being some 46 years ago I am sure my memory may fail me here and there and my story
may possibly even be a self-imagined memory, because time and the unconscious
suppression of events may distort one’s memory. So, whoever has a better memory of the
65
events that I experienced is welcome to correct the stories which Piet Korse invited me to put
on paper.
I was ordained on the 10th of July 1960 in Mill Hill, a suburb of London. We were 19 of us.
As usual after the ordinations we, the newly ordained, were called up by the Superior General
and were given our appointments. I was appointed to the diocese of Basnkusu. I must say
only on my way down from the superior’s wing did I learn that it meant I was appointed to
Congo, which had just gained its independence. Was that on the June the 30th, 1960? Later
that same day my elder brother, who with other family members had come over from Holland
for my ordination, got me a newspaper, because the news about Congo was not very good.
We know that alas things have not been very different since then.
For me the reality of it hit home, when our own Mill Hill Congo men, who worked in
Bongandó land of the diocese of Basnkusu (Yalisere, Djlu, Yambóyó and Lingm),
reached Holland and we were told the many scary moments they experienced on fleeing the
troubles in their area. The only ones that stayed put were Father Jan Hartering and Brother
Gabriël van der Eerde. They were stationed at Símbá.
Símbá is and was the only mission station of the Basnkusu diocese situated just outside the
Equateur Province. It lies in the ‘Province Orientale’. To get there one had to cross the river
Lofolí. This river separates the two provinces and cuts Símbá off from that part of Bongandó
land that is situated in the Equator Province. This river and the at-times-forbidden crossing of
it were to play a significant role in the story of my stay and of my escape from Símbá.
In Holland, in the meantime, the stories of the returned missionaries and their frustrated
comments on the situation in Congo, especially on Patrice Lumúmba (whose headquarters
and supporters were found in the Eastern Province) got splashed all over the Dutch papers. I
remember Fr Jacob Bos (my future parish priest) giving an interview to a paper in the North
of Holland in Bovenkarspel, where he came from. The next day the headline on the front
page of the paper was: “Father Bos says: hang Lumúmba on the highest tree.” Jacob never
said or meant this of course, but that’s how the paper printed it and for months it kept Jacob
praying that the paper’s splash would not turn out to be a reason for stopping him from going
back to his beloved Congo. Because if anything, what I noticed in the contacts all the time
was that they all wanted to go back...and to go back in a hurry, rather today than tomorrow.
And back they went three months later. I remember that it was on 3 October 1960, the feastday of St Theresa of Lisieux, patroness of the mission. A very appropriate day, I thought, for
me to start my missionary career under her protection! As it turned out she did - so to speak a good job. Though all young missionaries always go by boat the first time they go to the
missions (to get acclimatised), I was told to join the returning missionaries, when they flew
back from Brussels to Léopoldville and then by a smaller plane on to Basnkusu. And so I
got my first trip by plane. Together with a classmate of mine, Marinus van Emmerik, I faced
an uncertain situation and entered an unknown future. Though nobody said so, the group
leader was Piet van Run. We got safely to Basnkusu and were welcomed with great
enthusiasm. It seemed that Bongandó land was quiet, but for more than 3 months there had
been no news coming from Símbá and its men, Jan Hartering and Gabriël van der Eerde. The
next morning I was told by the bishop that in consultation with Piet Van Run it had been
decided that Jacob Bos and I should go to Símba. Jacob was to take over as parish priest and
me to be his assistant. This would give Jan and Gabriël a chance to go home on a richly
deserved break and vacation.
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So we boarded a truck with all kind of provisions and left Basnkusu. Being the youngest I
was put on the back of the (open) truck and in no time the red dust made me into a (goodlooking) Red Indian! Apart from the warm welcome in the various missions on the way I
remember little of the 602 km journey. But in my mind I do remember vividly my first sight
of the Lopolí River where Piet, Jacob and I arrived after two or three days. It was around
midday. The wooden ferry was on the other side of the river. It took four or five people to pull
it across the stream using wooden hooks along a wire that was hanging across the river. I was
more than a bit nervous and apprehensive, but Piet being well-known shouted across in
Longandó and the men readily came to pull us across. The people of the Lopolí village were
happy to see us and so were the Christians around Símbá mission. And though Jan and
Gabriël looked thin and tired and a little harassed, they were sound of mind and body. Apart
from many sometimes unpleasant visits from swaggering soldiers they seemed to have come
to no harm. And boy, oh boy, were they happy to see us and to hear some first-hand
Basnkusu news for the first time in three months. I remember little of what was said or what
the situation actually entailed for us, since all was so new and strange to me.
The church was an impressive red-brick church and the house had a spacious eating room. On
each side of the eating room there were three sitting rooms. At the back of each room there
was a bedroom and a shower. The toilet was a hole dug in the ground and situated some 20
yards away at the back of the house. The toilet-pot was made of wood and the shape was
what everybody is used to in a toilet; only there was no water to flush the toilet. Well neither
did we have this in my home in Holland.. in the fifties! The kitchen was at the back of the
house too, but not too near the toilet. A big veranda ran all the way round the house with - in
front of the dining-room - a patio with four solid home-made armchairs. It is there we had our
coffee or tea and in the evening a drink, if there was any. We had no electricity, but a pressure
lamp called Petromax or an Aladdin mantle lamp provided enough light to sit by on the
veranda in the evening or to read by when in one’s room. On the veranda at the back of the
house, opposite the dining-room, there was a pump, with which we pumped water into three
petrol barrels of 200 litres each that had been put on the loft. From there the water flowed
down by gravity providing all the rooms with water for the more-than-welcome daily
shower. Via the gutters rainwater was collected from the roof of the house and directed to a
deep pit, which had been dug and cemented all the way down. It was an ingenious system and
a real blessing in a heat that was pretty constant.
A day or so later Piet went back to Yalisele and that left the four of us by ourselves.
According to Jan Hartering it was not easy at all to leave for Europe. Moreover, the only way
was via Stanleyville and not via Basnkusu. And nobody was sure of who was in charge
along the road or in Stanleyville itself. Things sometimes changed overnight. This made a trip
to Stanleyville not something to look forward to. It looked pretty unsafe and uncertain. So the
fact that Jan had to stay a little longer was, I think, a godsend for the four of us, because Jan
knew the Bongandó people as none other and also knew how to handle the soldiers and their (
new) way of thinking following their recent independence and the fact that they held the gun.
He, Jan, always seemed to be a
step ahead of them.
One of the many ferries in Congo.
To give an example: Jacob took
care of the schools. Before the
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independence one of the priests was the overall manager and also headmaster of the mission
school that was right next door to us. Since independence the oldest local teacher, Simon
Ilonga, had been made headmaster of this mission school, but he continued to stay in one of
the teachers’ houses that were built in the teachers’ quarters behind the school. Jacob’s room
in our house (for teachers and pupils this was the headmaster’s room) was at the end of our
veranda. One day Jan told Jacob to move into another room of the house, because as he said:
‘One of these days the soldiers will argue that the new headmaster should be living in the
‘headmaster’s room’, if independence were to have any meaning.’ And true enough a week or
so later the soldiers asked why the headmaster was not living in the headmaster’s room (in
our house), since he was now the boss. So Jan took them to Jacob’s former room and said:
‘See, we are preparing for that. The room is empty already.’ The soldiers left content. Simon
Ilonga, the new headmaster, did, however, not want to live with his family and all in the
house of the missionaries. It would be too much of a disturbance, he said, with the small kids
etc. Anyway, he did not feel comfortable in what for him was the fathers’ house. So some
school items were put in the sitting and bedroom room for the ‘show’ and life went on as
before.
I also remember one day Jan came to me and put a parcel with money in my hand and said:
‘Hide it well and don’t talk about it to anybody. One of these days, the soldiers will demand
the key to the safe, because they have not been paid for a while. The safe should then be
nearly empty. And you being the youngest, they won’t ask you anything.’ And again it
happened the way he thought it would. The safe was nearly empty and his explanation to the
soldiers was: ‘We have no income, because we are not allowed to cross the river in order to
fetch money at our headquarters at Basnkusu. And we don’t have any income from the
people either, because we are not allowed to leave the mission compound or to visit our
Christians in the bush.’ The explanation was accepted and for another couple of days our
anxiety was allayed once again.
Anxiety was, however, a constant in our lives, always wondering what the next day or night
might bring. Jan was - nearly day and night - listening to the radio for any station he could
find: Holland, Belgium, England or the Voice of America, in order to get as much news as
possible on the Congo situation. No doubt, one of the most anxious days in my memory will
always be the day that Jan heard on the radio that Patrice Lumúmba had been killed. Was it in
February 1961? In the Eastern Province Lumúmba was the political hero and saviour. And for
the soldiers he was their top brass commander. Jan told us to pretend to have no knowledge of
Lumúmba’s death, if and when the soldiers would come. And they came soon enough, in full
force, some 30 of them in two trucks. With guns drawn they jumped out of their trucks and
took up position around the patio, where the four of us were ordered to sit down. You could
see the soldiers were angry and their attitude was very threatening. The commander asked:
‘Had we heard?’ Jan said: ‘Sorry, no, we don’t get any news, because the batteries in the radio
are finished and there are none in the village shops.’ We were then told of Lumúmba’s death,
killed by the Belgian colonialists. Would they know the difference between Holland and
Belgium? For them we all were whites and colonialists! I do not remember whether Jan or
we sympathised. All I remember is the icy cold that descended on the patio and the hateful
looks that were directed at us and the readiness in their eyes to turn violent and shoot, if one
of us even made so much as a move or said a wrong word. The silence lasted for hours with
guns pointed at us all the time and not a word spoken, neither by us nor by the officer or the
soldiers. Till today I remember the heavy, depressive and threatening silence that could
explode into violence any moment, though we did not know what would trigger it or when.
And there was not a soul around, just the four of us and the angry soldiers. Not a soul from
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the village or a teacher from the teachers’ compound dared to approach our house. Everybody
stayed away, hoping and praying the storm would blow over. That was a very sensible thing
to do indeed. If I remember well, all this lasted for some three hours, but it felt like it would
never end. And I am sure I now know what eternity feels like. Then, all of a sudden, the
commander and the soldiers got up in silence, climbed into their trucks and drove off. I still
don’t know what made them do so, but it certainly was an answer to our desperate prayers.
We thanked God. We knew we had escaped death by an inch. I believe it was soon after this
episode that a ‘security officer’ (we called him the ‘government spy’) came to stay with us.
He took up residence in one of the rooms in the presbytery so as to keep an eye on us. He
actually only slept in the room, but did not eat with us and to tell the truth: he was fairly
reasonable and most of the time he did not cause us any trouble. But he was there all the
same. For us his presence was very disquieting. Just as well that Múp Adlfi (Gutersohn)
wasn’t around anymore to have to witness all this. That world of his was gone forever and
here was the new reality and what a different world it was. But it was great how well Jan
could read their minds and sense what independence did to the soldiers’ way of thinking. And
the greatness of it was: he was able to accept it, live with it and act wisely in accordance with
it! We will never know how many times we were saved by those insights of his, which he
then translated into the right practical action.
I, the young missionary,
Soon after my arrival we were told not to leave the mission compound and to stop visiting
our Christian communities in the bush. We had to stay put. For the others it was very hard
because going to the bush normally gave great satisfaction and on top of that in the mission
itself there was little to keep oneself occupied with. For example, in Símbá we had no oil or
rubber plantation to look after like most other missions had to. Those plantations gave people
work and kept the mission going financially. I don’t know how Símbá was kept afloat. I don’t
remember anything about church tax like there was in Cameroon, where I was appointed after
my stay in Congo.
I kept myself occupied with learning the local language. Again I was lucky in that Jan himself
was the expert on Longandó, the local tongue. The first grammar (in Dutch) was written by
him and with it a dictionary of about 100 pages, all hand typed! And Jan was also keen on
collecting proverbs as they gave a great insight in the mentality of the people. At the same
time he translated the Sunday gospels in Longandó. He was a good teacher, especially in
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pointing out to me what the tonality of the words sounded like. And tonality was of the
essence for speaking the language correctly. During the day I learnt the grammar and some
new words whilst in the evening I used to walk over to the teachers’ compound to try out my
new words or to sit quietly around their kitchen fire to listen to their talking and storytelling. I
wondered whether I would ever understand all their abracadabra. But everybody was as
helpful as possible in trying to make me understand what they were talking about and quite
pleased when I made a little progress as the weeks and months passed by. After some six
months of hard work I was able to say Mass and preach in Longandó quite well. A year or so
later I even tried to translate the Sunday epistles. Jan Hartering and I had many a discussion
with teachers on the meaning of a word. Recalling those days, I must say Jan was very patient
with me. He was also good in giving me a lot of room and freedom in what I wanted to do
whether or not he himself liked it or agreed with it. For himself, however, he stuck to what he
was used to. He usually said: ‘You go ahead, but don’t expect me to do the same.’ He did not
want to tell me how he baptised 40 catechumens in one hour or so. ‘You do it your own way’,
he used to say. I was lucky to have him as my first parish priest because I learned a lot from
him and how he dealt with difficult times, besides his knowledge of the people.
Concerning the Bongandó people Jan knew in detail what he was talking about.
Let me give an example.
When after our house-arrest we finally were allowed again to go to the bush to visit the
Christians, Jan said: ‘You go’. So I went on my first trip. It was great. It felt as if I was saving
the world. There were lots of confessions, baptisms and three marriages. Jan’s comment later
was: ‘What! Three marriages, that can’t be right! There must be something wrong. I have not
had them in ten years.’ But after my explanation he said all was done by the rule, but he still
thought it looked strange. When three months later I went again to the bush I had Jan’s
specific instructions to find out how the marriages were doing. I did. I found out that two
marriages had broken up.
In the discussion with the catechist as to the reason for such a quick separation, it turned out
to be as follows: in our Basnkusu diocese there was a rule that the dowry of those who
married in church, could not be demanded back when the couple broke up. The reason for
this rule was that once the dowry was paid to the family of the bride, that family would use
that money to procure the bride’s brother a wife. Therefore if a woman wanted to break up
her marriage, her parents would tell her: ‘No way, we have no money to pay back the dowry.
Stay with your husband.’ But then - whoever the clever lawyer and theologian was! someone came with the bright idea that, if women would marry in church, they did not need
to pay back the dowry in the case of a divorce. And that’s what had happened. The
theological implications about the invalidity of such a marriage were clear to me. The next
morning I waved a self-written letter and I told the people that the letter came from the pope,
being an official instruction on Christian marriages. The letter said: ‘The church marriage of a
Christian woman who contracts marriage in order to avoid having to pay back the dowry, that
kind of marriage is null and void from the very start.’ The letter was signed by the Pope
himself.
There was great commotion. Everybody understood the implication. I read this letter in all the
churches which I visited on that trip. When I returned to the mission, Jan Hartering asked me
what the pope’s letter was all about. Some catechists had come to tell and ask him about it.
Jan could not help but smile at me playing the pope. However, I never got another marriage
in those four years. Jan understood the people all right.
Brother Gabriël I remember as someone who was a great handyman, as most brothers are,
and a sensible and good companion to have around in times of crisis, though he could be a
70
little cynical at times. And there was enough reason for cynicism. Times were difficult and all
those years there was little gratitude for what we, the missionaries, were doing. He was a
mechanic and good at the job. Even repairing a watch was no problem. And he was the man
who taught me how to drive Jan’s pick-up. We practised on a small one-kilometre-long
airstrip nearby, where at least one could turn the car. After two hours of practising Gabriël
said I had passed. He was so sure that, when two weeks later I got a sick-call at night from
the bush (half an hour’s drive) and I asked him to come along, he said it would be fine if I
went by myself. And so I did and I remember that all the way to the place I had only one
worry: how to turn the car on such a small road so as to be able to return to the mission. I
must have done it, though I no longer remember how. But anyway, it was a good practice for
later when I had to get onto the Lopolí ferry via two planks that were only slightly wider that
the wheels of the car. And in the rainy season it was worse, because the level of the ferry used
to be one or two metres higher than the embankment where the car was standing. Driving
unto the wet planks of the ferry one looked straight up into the sky; by day all one saw was
the blue sky and at night only the starry heavens. Tricky business, but practice makes perfect,
though there was always the danger of making a mistake. The critical point was the moment
when one got over the hump of the planks where they joined the surface of the ferry, since the
ferry itself was only two or three yards longer than the car itself. The mistake would be to
step on the accelerator instead of on the brake. As we know there is little space between the
two and when one is a little worried and nervous...! I was told that once upon a time, well
before my time, this did happen to Jan Hartering and he plunged straight into the river with
car and all. The car was lost but, thank God, Jan was safely picked up downriver by a canoe.
One more experience relating to Gabriël. One day the government nurse prescribed him some
injections. The nurse ran the clinic which before independence had been run by the sisters.
Gabriël, however, asked me to administer those injections to him. That day I learned I was
not meant to be a nurse. Try as I might, the needle would only bend and not penetrate the skin
of his posterior! That was the end of my nursing vocation. I was better at being a wet nurse.
One day a woman gave birth to a baby but suffered from postnatal depression and refused to
breastfeed the baby. The nurse called me in, because he had no powdered milk and hoped we
could provide it. But we could not help him either. Anyway, I went to visit her and talk to her.
And wonder oh wonder. When I presented the baby to her to breastfeed it, she accepted her
child and as long as I held the baby in my hands she fed her baby. This I did from then on
every three of four times a day for about three weeks till she went back home to the village,
where they found a ‘mama’ to help her out.
I am not sure anymore in which year Gabriël or Jan left for home. I believe Gabriël left first
somewhere in 1961 and Jan was definitely gone by 1962. Maybe it was the other way round.
Anyway, that left Jacob as the parish priest and me as the school manager. Of those days I
remember a couple of things that stand out in my mind.
The first was a game of soccer. One day we organised a football match, I forget between
whom and whom. But I do remember I was part of a team and a teacher called Lucas was on
the other team. By half-time they were leading by two goals and then the tumult started. As
we changed sides the goalie of the other team picked up something behind his goalpost which
turned out to be some ‘juju’ to prevent us from scoring. The discussion became heated, the
other side denying it, including the teacher Lucas. In the end we got together as a team, said a
prayer and as good believers we convinced ourselves that prayer and our faith would win.
And with ‘mon Père’ on their side who was to doubt it? And so we got on with the game...and
win we did! They never had a more convincing sermon. As people say: God never sleeps!
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Presbytery and church in Símbá.
Another time I had trouble and this time it was
about school discipline. I was the school
counsellor. Lucas was again involved. Because
we were not allowed to cross the Lopolí River,
there was no contact with Basnkusu and we did
not get any money to pay the teachers’ salaries.
This went on for months to the detriment of the
teachers’ motivation and the school discipline.
In a meeting with the teaching staff I proposed
that they should stop either teaching altogether or should take teaching seriously so that the
kids would benefit from the school and pass their exams at the end of the year and be able to
continue their education. After a long discussion they came to the conclusion that stopping
would be detrimental to the development of their children. Moreover, they probably would
lose their salary, since they would be on strike illegally. When they promised to continue
teaching, I, on my part, promised to recommend to the Education Secretary that they all
would be awarded the highest bonus a teacher could earn. At a given time Lucas, who also
was a relative of the area’s chief, lay down on the job. Even after a couple of warnings things
did not improve. In consultation with the headmaster I informed him that, unless he
complied, he would not receive any bonus and I would suspend him as well. He then
informed the chief that I was acting like the colonialists of former days. The result was that
the chief summoned him and me and all the teachers and some parents to a ‘closed’ meeting.
However, as the meeting took place on the patio of the mission veranda, the meeting was as
public as you can get it! Lucas told his story and I told them my complaints of Lucas’
behaviour and what I expected of him as a teacher following the agreement we had made.
The discussion went on for about two hours, but in the end everybody, including the chief,
agreed that Lucas should change and I had a right to correct him for the benefit of the
children. That settled that. However, the situation was tense at times. At the end of the year I
wrote my recommendations to the Education Secretary, who did not agree and asked for an
explanation. This would look too incredible in the documents he had to send to his bosses. So
he accorded them the second best bonus. But that was not what I had promised to do. So I put
my job as counsellor on the line and told the Education Secretary that I would no longer act
as counsellor. Would he inform the bishop of this! Nobody else was keen to come to Símbá
due to our difficult situation; so it was not difficult to put my ‘job’ on the line. I don’t know
which behind-the-scene consultations took place, but the end of the story was that the
Education Secretary agreed to my recommendations but told me not to repeat the move. At
the end of that school year the soldiers allowed three teachers (all brothers) to cross the
Lopolí and go to Basnkusu to fetch the year’s salary for all the teachers. The three brothers
came back in a VW station-wagon, which they had bought with the salaries which they had
received at Basnkusu. A whole van! There was great joy and everybody felt a sense of pride.
It was a ‘first’. Now ‘one of them’ possessed a car and no longer just the white man, the
chief, the mayor and the new director of the oil plantation in Yokána! The latter had taken
over the Yokána oil palm plantation (about 20 miles from Símbá) when the European owner
left just before independence. The first two months the new manager came every Sunday to
church in a big saloon car. Two months later he came in a pick-up because the saloon car had
broken down. A month later he arrived in a big truck which was meant to transport palm nuts.
The whole thing was nuts and one may guess how long the truck lasted. It was a sad contrast
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to the colonial days when one could order things in the local shop, from a pin to a sowing
machine, and when it took at most two weeks to arrive. A year after the independence,
however, there wasn’t anything to be had in the shops. The shelves were empty. The
shopkeeper was, as people say, only selling air. It was tough; it was tough for everybody.
The third incident I remember – though not necessarily in this order - was the following.
One night around ten I was called to a place in the bush, about an hour’s drive from the
mission, to a woman who was having a hard time giving birth. The husband wanted her to be
operated upon by the doctor in Yskí Hospital. Yskí was about 30 kilometres from Símbá
but one had to cross the Lopolí River. Only... the soldiers had forbidden us and everybody to
cross the river and the ‘pullers’ were forbidden to take anybody across by ferry under threat
of severe punishment. I decided to take the woman to Yskí all the same. I could not let her
die when the solution was in reality so near. When I approached the river at around midnight
with the woman, her husband and two other women, I stopped in the village where the
‘pullers’ lived, very near the river. In no time the whole village surrounded the car with all
kind of uhs and ahs seeing the condition of the woman.
But the ‘pullers’ did not budge; they were
scared to death of the consequences. I
think that then - for the first and only time
– I (ab)used my power given to me as a
priest. Playing on their fear of God and the
devil and all kind of spirits, I
excommunicated them in fact, threatened
to no longer baptise their babies nor allow
them to take communion and not to give
them a Christian burial. And the kind of
spirits that would take possession of their
village and their children was nobody’s
business! And as I was saying my prayers hoping it would work, they were shocked. It took
more than half an hour of hot discussions and high tempers, but the fear and the uncertainty
of a priest’s power with God or devil won the day. They agreed to pull me across that night,
but would not leave the ferry on the other side, but bring it back to their own side and pretend
it never happened, hoping that the soldiers would never know. I crossed and the woman was
operated upon that night by the doctor in Yskí and by 3am a healthy baby was born,
mother and child doing well. I took a nap in the doctor’s house and by sunrise I took the car
to return to the Lopolí and Símbá. On my arrival at the Lopolí, a truck full of soldiers was
standing on the other side. I asked the ‘pullers’ to come and get me, but first make sure the
commanding officer agreed. They came. As I landed on the other side, all the soldiers pointed
their guns at me. In my best French I asked who the officer was. He was pointed out to me. I
passed through a line of soldiers, went up to the man and said: ‘Congratulations, sir, your
sister has given birth to a healthy baby; mother and child are doing well.’ He looked at me as
if asking what on earth are you talking about? With a sour face he said: ‘I have no sister on
that side.’ And I said: ‘Well, sir, she is as dark skinned as you are and that certainly doesn’t
make her my sister and also the baby is dark skinned. She is one of yours and I saved her life
by taking her to the hospital. Would you not have done the same if you had a car and the
woman was your wife?’
I looked him all the time straight in the eye. It lasted for about a minute. Just as well that he
could not feel or hear my heartbeat. All of a sudden he turned round, motioned the soldiers to
73
the truck and drove off without uttering a word. Since then I could take people to and from
the hospital. A year or so later it turned out that this action would save my life too when I had
to flee for a new (very cruel) set of rebels.
But first I must still tell the story of the terrific driving skills of the Tuut as we called him, the
Tuut being Father Bill Tuerlings. When it happened, he was stationed at Lingm, I believe,
but it could have been Djlu or Yambóyó too. Anyway, the problem at the time was that all
the missions were running out of petrol and diesel to keep the cars and the generators going.
So with the Lopolí being open at the time it was decided that Tuut would come to Símbá.
From there we had to drive to an oil palm plantation at about 180 km. I forget the name of the
place. But at the time, in colonial days, it had petrol and diesel for sale. We wanted a full
truck-load. I went along with the Tuut. We loaded 13 or so empty barrels at the back of the
truck and off we went. At Yahúma, a hundred kilometres from Símbá, the administration
headquarters granted us permission to continue our journey to the plantation, where we were
lucky enough to get what we wanted. So the next day, loaded with diesel and petrol, we
happily went on our way back to Símbá. But somewhere along the road we had trouble with
the brakes. Every time Tuut did brake (and that was necessary with the frequent potholes) he
needed to stop and to drain some brake fluid from the back wheels. I don’t know the
mechanics of it. But that’s how it was. So from then on the game was not to use the brakes.
That became a real problem when we got to the top of a fairly steep hill, at the bottom of
which there was a river and a ferry to take us across. Moreover, the road contained lots of
bends! But Tuut went for it. At the top of the hill he put the lorry - with its 13 barrels of
diesel and petrol at the back- in first gear and kept it there as long as he could. I thought the
motor would explode. When it was impossible to keep it in first gear any longer because of
the speed and the weight of our cargo, Tuut put it in second and then in third and then in
fourth. He knew of course he could always use the brakes, if there was no other way out, but
he tried not to and he didn’t. My heart was in my mouth. But as the hill became less and less
steep, he went back to gear three slowing the truck and so to gear two and one. He stopped
actually the truck about 20 or 30 yards in front of the ferry... without having touched the
brakes! I take my hat off to Tuut. We got safely back to Símbá. We had enough fuel for the
cars of the missions to keep ourselves mobile. Moreover, the stock of fuel gave us a feeling of
security in case we had to move.
One day I was told to go on a trip that was none of my liking. It took place when soldiers
were around. They were forever inspecting the ‘border’ (which was the Lopolí River) against
possible intruders from the Equator Province. They usually made a stopover at the mission to
make sure of God knows what. We never knew how their visit would end. One day, when Jan
Hartering and Brother Gabriël had already left Símbá and were on vacation in Europe, the
officer on the truck agreed to take a woman on board who wanted to go to Yahúma where the
soldiers had their barracks. It was a trip of one hundred kilometres. Two soldiers, however,
objected to taking the woman. A hot discussion ensued between them and the officer. In the
end the truck left without the two soldiers. The next thing that happened was that the two
soldiers forced us (Jacob or me) at gunpoint to take them to Yahúma in the small pick-up
which Jan Hartering had left me when he went on vacation. It being my car, I drove the men.
On the way they forced me to stop in a village. They got out and forced the villagers to
supply them with eggs, chickens and even a goat. I recognised many of them as being our
Christians. Back in the car they told me to stop again in the next village. Just before reaching
the next village, I stopped the car and told them in my best French that these people were my
parishioners. Stopping the car in their village, they would regard me as the co-robber of their
chickens etc. This would put me in an impossible situation as I was their priest. Having found
74
out in the meantime that they did not know how to drive a car, I handed my keys to them
there and then and said: ‘Here are the keys, take the car to Yahúma and bring it back in a
couple of days. I am no longer going to help you to steal things from my Christians. Either
you stop stealing and I take you to Yahúma or you drive the car yourselves.’ Surprisingly they
easily agreed without further ado and I took them to Yahúma and returned without any further
trouble.
And so the days passed with us sometimes having trouble crossing the river and occasionally
having no trouble at all depending on what sorts of soldiers were in charge. We could not
inform our own relatives or friends at home about our situation. The mail came rarely through
or not at all. Anyway, we could never write as we would have liked to, afraid they might
censure the post and take it as criticism which would cause us further problems. When I had
been back in Holland for about a fortnight, my 3-month-old letter from Símbá arrived at my
parents’ home. The letter said all was well and we were doing fine.
And sometimes all was well. I remember I got a couple of trunks full of second-hand clothes
which were very welcome as there was little to be had in the shops anymore and what was for
sale, the ordinary people could not afford to buy. Jacob and I discussed what to do with the
clothes. Selling them would not help the poor people for whom the clothes were meant in the
first place. Dashing them out to people would bring trouble and lead to jealousy because not
all the clothes were equally nice and who was to decide what to give to whom? We found a
solution. The plot around the house was overgrown with elephant grass and though we had it
cut regularly, cutting it down was not a real solution, because every time the grass was back
in no time. So we came up with the idea to ask people to clean the compound by digging up
the elephant grass to get rid of it once and for all. We would reward them by means of the
second-hand clothes. So we agreed that the price of the clothes was to be measured by the
number of yards of grass that had to be dug up. The nicer the blouse, trouser or skirt the more
yards had to be cleared. All the clothes were suspended on the veranda and on each of them
was put the price in yards. Everybody flocked to our veranda and before I even could explain
the meaning of the numbers on the clothes, people came - money at the ready – to buy the
clothes for 2, 6 or 10 francs according to the number they saw on the clothes.
They were not too pleased when we explained the procedure. They replied: ‘Listen! We are
sick and not strong enough’ and a whole lot of other excuses. Finally I got a chance to explain
that, if one could not physically do the job oneself, one could hire somebody to do it and in
that way obtain the clothes. In the end they agreed that it was fair enough. After a couple of
weeks the bush in front of the presbytery had disappeared. Everybody was happy, including
the sick and some poor old widows, for whom I had kept clothes apart without letting people
know! Of course within a day everybody knew! But they did not mind. After all, they
themselves proposed to me for whom I should keep some clothes. This is one of the good
memories I have.
One day I started the movement of the Legion of Mary with a few faithful Christians. Every
week we held our meeting and prayers. They were very sincere and they touched me with
their faith and hope. The weekly meetings were still going, when 22 years later (in 1986) I
visited Basnkusu, the Bongandó including Símbá again. The ticket for this trip was given to
me by a rich Cameroonian parishioner, who came to congratulate me on my 25th anniversary
as a priest, and discovered that I had worked in Congo. ‘Has he ever gone back?’ was his
question to those around him at the reception. On hearing that this was not the case, he took a
serviette from the table and wrote: ‘Father John, this is good for a ticket and a trip to Congo. Come
and see me. Paul.’ And Paul Bamileke was as good as his word.
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Let us go back to Símbá as it was in the sixties. After Jan and Gabriël had left for Holland,
Jacob Bos took over as parish priest. He was as nice a man as one could get. He was gentle
and generous, but on the whole pretty nervous and not good at handling the frequent tense
situations. But he stuck it and we survived the comings and goings of all kinds of soldiers,
though we continued to experience the anxiety of what each new day might bring. The
headmaster, Mr Simon Ilonga, was a great help to us as a middleman between us and the
soldiers when local things turned tense or when the situation in the whole country seemed to
get out of hand.
Another precious help was François, a seminarian (who later left) and a gifted musician. He
composed a sung Mass in Longandó, the local language. I am a bit confused about the fact
that Vatican II took place as from 1962 and how we in Símbá were singing the Mass in
Longandó before I left in 1964. Were we ahead of our times? But whatever the case, I left
Símbá somewhere in September ’64 but till today I know the melody and the words of the
Gloria: It began with ‘Lokúmo enéká Njakomba ená loóla’! As I say it has me a little confused. We
still had benediction, that’s for sure. When one day the soldiers accused me in front of Jan
Hartering that I was a Belgian parachutist, Jan told them to go to church where I was leading
Benediction. That settled it.
In 1964, I forget the month when Jacob Bos left for Holland and, boy, did he need the
holiday! The daily experience of an anxious and uncertain situation had taken its toll. Jan
Zegwaart was appointed parish priest in his place. Jan was the school manager at Yalisere,
where
Jan Zegwaart and Bondombe Tarcisi (1952).
Piet van Run was the parish priest. Jan Zegwaart was not too pleased about the appointment.
He sent me the message that he was certainly not coming to Símbá for the time being and
asked me to leave Símbá as well, since things were getting too hot. And it was, because again
nobody was allowed to cross the Lopolí. It was at that time that the incident with the pregnant
woman occurred. So I received the advice to leave, but decided in consultation with the
headmaster not to. After having stayed on my own for a couple of months, Simon Ilonga
came one night to tell me the news that the situation was deteriorating, because, he said, a
group of rebels was on the way. They were out to loot and kill especially the whites, and to
plunder their houses and possessions.
I would not stand a chance with them, Simon said, and he could no longer be a restraining
influence on them as had been the case before. His information was that in a day or two the
rebels would reach Símbá mission. I should not wait any longer. He told me to depart quietly
early the next morning without telling anybody that I was leaving and to take nothing with
me as that would arouse suspicion, certainly with the guys who had to pull me across the
river. ‘Tell them that so and so has died at Yskí Hospital and that you are going to fetch the
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corpse. Don’t come back, but tell the Protestant missionary doctors to leave too, because the
present rebels intend (for the first time ever) to cross the Lopolí and to go on a looting spree
in the Equator Province as well.’ That night was a sad and lonely night. After Mass when all
people had left the church and gone their way, I emptied the ciborium of consecrated hosts
and locked the empty tabernacle.
Dressed in my white cassock I left for the Lopolí River. The ‘pullers’ were surprised to see
me and to hear that so and so had died. ‘How come, they had not heard the news?’ ‘Father
sometimes hears more than you do’, was my answer as they pulled me and the car across. I
noticed, however, that they did have a good look at what was lying in the cabin and on the
back of the pick-up. They saw nothing special. That made them believe my story. No doubt
Simon saved my life as indeed two days later (so we heard later) the rebels arrived at Símbá
and looted whatever they could find. There was one thing I felt very sad to lose. It was the
chalice my relatives had given me for my ordination four years earlier. After the situation
quieted down, neither the chalice nor the chasubles ever turned up. But with Vatican II on its
way, I did not feel sorry about my theology books!
I passed by Yskí Hospital and informed the expatriates the news. After some local
consultation they decided to leave the hospital the next day. They intended to drive towards
Boéndé to await developments. I drove on to Yambóyó since no missionary was stationed at
Djlu. I informed Fr Bart Santbergen, Fr Jan Groenewegen and Br Piet Vos the bad news.
Bartje or Bataké as he was called told me I needed a rest. Things had been too much for me
for too long a time. He said that it was good I had left Símbá and that I should stay with them
and get a good rest. I told them I was going to Yalisere, which had a back route just in case
the rebels crossed the Lopolí and occupied Djlu, because, if the rebels would occupy Djlu,
Yambóyó would be without an escape route to Lingm, Mmpn and Basnkusu.
Typical kitchen of a polygamist. The kitchen has two rooms.
So in the afternoon I left for Yalisere, not
knowing that neither I nor any other missionary
would see Bart, Jan and Piet ever again.
Sometimes it is a real blessing that we don’t
know everything that will befall us. I do
remember, however, how hard it was visiting
Jan’s parents after I returned to Holland at a
time when there was no news of them being
alive or not. Poor parents to be in a situation
like this. All I could tell them was that I had left them well and in good spirits in Yambóyó. I
am sure others have written down what became known about them afterwards. So sad, such
an apparent waste of good men! I know they rest in peace. But sometimes I still wonder: why
they and not me, who had been living far longer than they in the face of rebels and on the socalled frontline. There is no answer...yet!
At Yalisere I found Piet van Run and Jan Zegwaart. They were both happy to see me. I stayed
there for about a week (or two?) and we even drove from Yalisere in the direction of Yskí to
find out what the situation was at Símbá, but we were stopped on the way by Christians and
villagers, who seemed to know that the rebels had arrived at Símbá shortly after I had left,
though at the time they had not crossed the Lopolí yet. Then one morning we got news that
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they had crossed and were at Djlu. For a couple of days already, we had been ready to leave
at a moment’s notice and we did, Jan, Piet and me, leaving behind Abbé Camille to take care
of the mission. It was a tense drive, especially when somewhere along the road we saw a
roadblock and guns that soldiers pointed at us from the bush where they lay hidden. We were
travelling in our white cassocks and waving our white sleeved arms from the open windows
of the car and shouting: ‘Múp, Múp.’ We stopped and the soldiers came out of the bush
with guns drawn. It appeared they belonged to the regular Congolese army. They let us pass
to go to Mmpn. There, if I remember well, we did not find any missionary. But the
catechist and cook showed up and gave us a good meal. I remember now that we were told
that the day before Bishop van Kester and Abbé Joseph had been there planning to visit the
Bongandó region. However, people had advised them to go back as it was not safe to go any
further. I don’t know whether we slept there or whether we went on. I think we went on to
Befale or Baríngá.
The next thing I remember of the journey is what happened at Baríngá. I believe, we spent
the night there and in the morning as we were planning to drive towards Basnkusu, we
received news that a convoy of soldiers was on the way to our Baríngá mission. Nobody
knew where they were coming from or who they were: regular soldiers or rebels. They could
be rebels coming from Boéndé. That really scared us, all the more so as there were also sisters
in our company. I still remember how silent and tense we all sat in the sitting-room...waiting.
It was Símbá all over again!
When we heard the noise of cars, Piet van Run and I went to meet them in our
cassocks...heart in mouth. When the captain saw the cassocks, he greeted us warmly and told
us he had been sent by the army headquarters at Basnkusu to go and find the missionaries
who fled from Bongandó and to escort us to Basnkusu. No doubt the bishop had gone to see
the army and given the soldiers information about us. And so they drove ahead of us to
Basnkusu. Boy, what a relief for all of us. And once we got to Basnkusu, we were ready to
go home to Holland for a good break.
One more thing happened before I left Basnkusu. The second day at Basnkusu the bishop
let me know that the army had come to him to request my pick-up, wanting it for their work. I
informed the bishop that, since I had kept the pick-up out of rebel hands, I did not intend to
hand it over to the regular army that was supposed to take care of us and not rob us. The next
day the soldiers were back and told the bishop they would take the bishop’s car or my pick-up
as they needed transport to defend the country. I then gave the keys to the bishop knowing
there was no point in resisting any longer. Many years later I learned that the car lay crashed
against a tree somewhere near Waka.
I was at the end of my tether. We flew to Léopoldville and then on to Brussels, where Father
Zuijdervliet had arranged transport to take all of us to Roosendaal where there was the
‘Mito’, a fund-raising party, going on. After a good evening’s drink we spent the night there.
That evening I phoned home to tell my parents where I was. They could not believe their
ears. Early in the morning I went out with Father Zuijdervliet and bought myself a suit, a gift
from Mill Hill. My dad and a friend came to collect me next day by car. And since Joop Deen
had to go to Amsterdam, he accompanied us.
In Amsterdam the following happened: as we drove into Amsterdam Joop and I happened to
spot two men walking on the pavement, wearing army uniforms. Automatically we both bent
down in order to hide. My dad’s friend asked: ‘What is up?’ Sitting upright again, we said:
‘Something fell down’ and that was that...! When I asked Joop the other day whether he
remembered the incident, Joop said he did not. Whatever…it showed how I felt. Once I
78
reached home and met my mother, I totally collapsed and cried for hours on end. I just could
not stop crying. All the grief, hurt, tension and anxiety came out finally, now that I was home
safe.
It may sound strange now, but we never got any psychological help to sort out whatever
happened to us both in our hearts and in our heads. We had to work it out by ourselves. The
ones that were a great help with their sympathy and concern were our relatives and friends in
the parish and elsewhere. For instance, the butcher brought regularly a steak with no name on
it except: ‘Get well, Jan’. In fact, so many gifts were given that in no time I had back all the
items I had lost in the Congo. It is this that must have cured my heartaches and have taken
away the sense of loss and frustration that could easily have embittered my life. I am a lucky
man.
After three months I became an assistant in my home parish, because the assistant priest was
hard hit by a nervous breakdown. When the parish priest became too difficult for me to
handle, I went to America to do some preaching and to collect funds for the missions. That
was in the months of June/July 1965. Two months later I sat with Tuut in front of the Superior
General’s door as he was visiting Holland, waiting to get a new appointment. Tuut received
an appointment for New Zealand. I was sent to Cameroon. I was to remain there for 30 years.
But my final connection with Congo came to an end after I had been working in Cameroon
for three years or so. I was at Mamfe at the time. The councillor for Africa came visiting us
and asked me whether I would be ready to return to Congo, since they wanted me back there.
I answered that my parents would have to agree since I could not ask them to go again
through a similar period of uncertainties as they had done a couple of years before. The
response of my parents was ‘We gave you to God a long time ago. Go to where you are being
called by God.’ That’s how they saw it, people of great faith as they were. As it turned out,
the Bishop of Buea objected strongly as I heard later, and that finished any further
speculation. Strangely enough our Mill Hill headquarters never reported back to me. That
ended my connection with Congo, though I will never forget Símbá and its people who
introduced me to the missionary life and who saved my life. And I know: something of me
never left Símbá and Congo..
Jan Molenaar.
Amsterdam
September 2010.
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14. Abbé Albert Gwémbongo:
The rebellion of 1964 of Pierre Múlele started in Stanleyville. From there the rebels took the
direction of Isángí, Lókútu and Yahúma.
At a certain moment Piet van Run goes to see the bishop at Basnkusu to ask his position
about what to do in case the rebels approach. The bishop’s answer is clear: ‘Take care to stay
ahead of them.’ Piet goes back with that message. The Abbés Albert and Joseph go along with
him. The missionaries think that the rebellion is more against the white settlers and traders
than against the missionaries. Abbé Camille still stays at Yalisere since his ordination. They
leave the bishop’s message in the parishes which they pass. The missionaries from Símbá
have moved to Mmpn. The others follow. Albert and Joseph stay in Djlu. Piet van Run
leaves for Yalisere. He leaves immediately again for Mmpn via the Likongo road.
Camille stays behind in Yalisere.
Even the sisters from Símbá, Djlu, Lingm and Yalisere are at Mmpn. Only the Mill
Hillers at Yambóyó do not see the necessity of quitting immediately.
When Abbés Joseph and Albert hear that the rebels have reached Yskí, they go to Yambóyó.
One day later they go and see Camille at Yalisere. However, they can’t reach Djlu anymore.
They return to Yambóyó. The three missionaries have in the meantime left for Bongándángá.
The two abbés want to follow them, but, when they reach the crossroad at Lilnga, they
decide to go back and report to the bishop at Mmpn. So they don’t dare to follow the
three Yambóyó missionaries.
The following day is a Saturday. At Mmpn the missionaries consume all the remaining
sacred hosts and leave for Basnkusu; they drive in a column of 12 vehicles: the bishop,
fathers, brothers, sisters and the two Congolese priests. Some stay behind at Befale, others at
Baríngá. The latter move the following day in the direction of Basnkusu. On the way they
meet government soldiers who are on their way cut the bridge over the Botóngo River into
two, halfway between the parishes of Baríngá and Waka. Yet, Brother Marinus still manages
to cross. The bishop makes arrangements to have a lorry with soldiers and the catechist
Bompongo sent to Baríngá to fetch Abbé Albert. The latter comes along but has to leave his
vehicle behind on the southern side of the Botóngo at Mánge. He arrives with the lorry at
Basnkusu.
The three missionaries from Yambóyó arrive at the Lofolí together with some European
traders from Lilnga. The missionaries are allowed to cross. But when the other expatriates
are not allowed to do so, the missionaries do not want to abandon them. They all go back to
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their respective places. Some days later Bart Santbergen is shot dead, whilst Brother Piet Vos
and Father Jan Groenewegen are taken along by the rebels to Djlu. They are imprisoned
there together with European traders. The whole group is put on a lorry and taken to the
Eastern Province. They meet their death between Mosité (near Lókútu) and Isángí.
When one and a half years later the rebellion dies down, Abbé Camille is liberated on
February 9th, 1966. Fathers Frans de Vrught and Cees Castricum collect him near his native
village Bokóndó and take him to Boéndé. Not much later Albert and Joseph go to the
Bongandó region to pay the teachers. They go to all the parishes except Símbá. Its
headmaster comes to Djlu to fetch the money of the salaries.
Soon Frans de Vrught with possibly Cees Castricum go in the direction of Kisangáni to
enquire about what happened to our two missing missionaries. They hear that they were
killed by the rebels, hacked to pieces and fed to the crocodiles in the Congo River. (Interview
by Fr Harry Reusen).
15. Abbé Camille Tókínd’ino:
Camille narrates about his stay among the rebels from September 1964 till his liberation in February 1966:
I am ordained a priest at Yalisere on 5 July 1964. Two months later the Símbá rebels occupy
Djlu on 3 September 1964. When that news comes through at Yalisere, I advise Father Piet
van Run to pack his bags and leave for a safer place, i.e. Basnkusu. I myself intend to stay,
thinking that it will be like 1960 when I could save the presbytery against robbers by staying
put. But if I had only known what would follow, I would certainly have joined the fleeing
missionaries.
In the course of the night of the 4th/5th of September, rebels reach Yalisere to arrest me. But I
had been forewarned and flee into the forest near the mission. In my stead the rebels arrest a
worker of the mission and assault him. When I hear this, I decide to come out of the forest.
At the beginning of October 1964 the rebels return to fetch the mission car. Gradually the
mission stores are plundered and emptied. At first I manage to pass my days staying at the
mission. I can even hide Etienne de Pauw, a white settler. But when the situation becomes too
dangerous, Etienne decides to return to his plantation. After the killing of Father Santbergen,
Etienne is arrested and taken to Djlu.
Mid October I decide to hide anew in the forest. On All Saints, November 1st, I still say Mass.
On November 9th I hear that Father Santbergen has been shot dead at Yambóyó and that I am
the next one to suffer the same fate. So, I stay in the forest all the while till the end of
November, but I am shadowed all the time.
I hear from eyewitnesses the following story concerning the murder of Fr Santbergen:
It happens on Sunday, November 8, 1964. Father Jan Groenewegen says the High Mass and
Father Santbergen is just going to preach, when the commanding rebel of Djlu, called
Bosíní, enters the church with a number of Símbá and orders to be given food. Father
Santbergen tells them to wait until after Mass. They do not take this remark for an answer
and force the Father to come along. Near the church door he is shot down. They loot the
presbytery and take Father Jan Groenewegen and Brother Piet Vos along to Djlu. The
people in church, who initially panicked and fled, come back later after the departure of the
Símbá. They bury Father Santbergen behind the presbytery.
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At Djlu the two missionaries are interned in the sisters’ convent. In the same building there
are also five Europeans from Lilnga. Later on Etienne de Pauw is brought in as well. On
November 25th, after Stanleyville has fallen into the hands of the Belgian paratroopers, they
are transported to Stanleyville. It is only at the ferry at Isángí, that the Símbá hear that
Stanleyville is no longer their capital.
At Christmas I celebrate my last Mass with the little wine that is left. The Símbá rebels sing
Bishop Malúla’s Mass. I have the courage to speak out in my homily about the rebels’
misdeeds and people’s desire for real peace. After Mass the Símbá show their anger and
threaten me. I pack all the church vestments in suitcases and store them in the sacristy. After
Christmas till the end of January 1965 I am in the forest again. Once I go to Bokungú to ask
for a Mass kit, since the rebels stole my chalice, which they use for drinking lotoko, the local
gin.
When the rebels are looking for me and cannot find me, they arrest some of my relatives
instead. That’s why I decide to come out and present myself. I am chased from the presbytery
which in the meantime has been thoroughly looted. The rebels steal the personal belongings
of the fathers and the brother. They take whatever they find in the church and the sacristy
including the suitcases with vestments and chalices. They take me along to Djlu where I am
forced to work for the rebels as secretary to the rebels’ president, since I am well versed in
French and in typing.
I manage to flee several times; but each time I am arrested until the beginning of 1966 when I
flee for good together with my brother Marcel. I manage to escape the day the town is
bombarded by the government army. At times we still our hunger by eating soil. In the forest
I do some apostolate. I baptise more than one hundred children. Once Yalisere’s headmaster
and his son betray me. After a tremendous detour of about 300 km I manage to arrive near
Befolí where I am found by Djlu’s headmaster Albert Bakolwa. He informs me that the
government soldiers and mercenaries are trying to find and liberate me. However, I do not
swallow that story. The headmaster then returns to Befolí and obtains two soldiers who locate
me at some 40 km in the forest. This takes place just after the liberation of Befolí. That day, 9
February 1966, I and 154 persons, not counting the children, find our freedom.
A few days later, on February 12th, news reaches Basnkusu that I have been found alive after
passing one and a half years in rebel territory. At the same time the sad news comes through
that the three missing Yambóyó missionaries namely Fathers Bart Santbergen and Jan
Groenewegen plus Brother Piet Vos have been murdered way back in 1964. On Tuesday, 15
February, a solemn Requiem Mass is celebrated at Basnkusu cathedral in their memory.
The following day, on Wednesday the 16th, Fathers Frans de Vrught and Cees Castricum leave
Basnkusu by river to meet me at Yalisere. They find me wearing a white cassock and
holding a pistol. I have grown thin and am pretty tense. I have packed my bag as I intend to
travel to Boéndé via Bokungú. I am ready to leave my native village and the once rebel
territory. I often ask myself why I wasn’t murdered after having escaped and being arrested
so many times. The reason may be that the rebels wanted to keep me as a hostage. The
biggest cross which I had to carry was the ridicule I had to endure concerning my celibate
priesthood.
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Bokóndó village is liberated by mercenaries coming from Bongándángá. The mercenaries
from Boéndé push on quickly to Djlu and Yskí. Two mercenaries and nine Katangese
soldiers take Djlu without firing a single shot. The commanding rebel officer, Bosíni, is
apparently executed after he and a few Símbá have surrendered. The population of Djlu
helps trace the remaining rebels. They realise that they had bet on the wrong horse. Some
young people did actively join the rebels, but one cannot speak of any popular support for the
rebellion.
In the course of their occupation the Símbá make numerous victims:
In Djlu, six elders among whom the father of Minister Bofóla are buried alive. At Yskí
forty people are burnt alive. At ‘Rokalifoir’ 54 women, children and elderly people are
massacred because five Símbá were killed. Now and again there are massacres of elders and
other people.
At Lingm the rebels turn the church into a dance hall. There two teachers die: Ernest Ingalí
hangs himself. Gerard Menzi dies suddenly. It is he who started looting the mission. He then
goes round dressed in Mass vestments and says Mass. In the end he becomes crazy and dies.
Abbé Camille.
16. Harrowing events on the Lulónga River.
It is 9 September 1964. Everything is quiet in the village and in the mission station of
Mampoko, though there is some tension in the air. People hold their breath as they hear
rumours about rebels approaching from the eastern provinces of the Congo. People appreciate
the work being done by the missionaries and by the sisters. The lives of half the population
have been saved by the good care of Sister Loyola Delporte who has been around there for 28
years. Sister Cypriana too has assisted so many people during the thirteen years she spent in
Mampoko. The local population will not inflict any harm on them, but any river boat can
bring rebels.
That Wednesday morning of 9 September Father Spanjers wonders what is going to happen
when he fixes his gaze upstream on the Lulónga River. All of a sudden he discerns a line on
the distant water surface. This means that a boat is approaching. He walks over to the room of
the parish priest, Father Janssen, saying: ‘Something on the river is approaching’. The parish
priest picks up his 50-year-old binoculars. ‘Yes, indeed; it seems to be a speedboat.’ Father
Spanjers informs Brother Hugo Brits. The line on the water surface approaches rapidly. They
are all gripped with tension as they ignore whether the speedboat will continue its journey or
stop at the mission. Then they see a white man in the boat. It is Father Jacobse from the
neighbouring parish of Abunákombo.
Father Jacobse speaks first some reassuring phrases. He then informs us that on account of
the rebel threat most fathers and brothers have left for Europe and that more will be going.
The Mampoko fathers and brother Hugo are free to stay put. But at least one of the Mill
Hillers has to pack his bag and take the sisters to Basnkusu. Father Spanjers volunteers to
accompany the sisters. The parish priest walks the five hundred metres that separates the
presbytery from the sisters’ convent. He informs the Belgian sisters and asks them to ready
themselves to travel to Basnkusu. The news spreads like a wild bush fire and people come
running as they are curious about what is going to happen.
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Father Spanjers addresses the crowd and says: ‘We are going to take the sisters to a safe place
near the airstrip. If things stay calm and quiet, we all come back.’ By observing silence,
people seem to approve the decision. A big and sturdy fellow then puts the following
question: ‘And you, are you going as well? ‘’No, we don’t go. I am going along, but
tomorrow I’ll be back. Only the Mfull (Brother Hugo) is going.’
At 10.30am the whole village congregates at the river. The parish priest has prepared and
brought down all they need for the trip of some 120 km. The sisters have hurriedly gathered
their most necessary belongings. They hand over the keys of the convent to Father Janssen.
They are seven to embark: Pierre Etúmola, who has served the missionaries for over 23 years,
Sister Cypriana Vlamynk, Brother Hugo Brits, Sister Marie-Loyola Delporte, Sister Raphaël
Berbaix, Sister Marie-Chantal Vanleberghe and at the helm Father Spanjers. Each one of
them settles in a convenient spot. The outboard engine is started. People exclaim: ‘Okínio.
Mamá Mónganga, okí ooo’! This means: ‘Have a good trip. Sister nurse: have a good trip.’
This last greeting concerns the old well-known Sister Cypriana but especially Sister MarieLoyola.
The locally made canoe of a length of nine metres is extra wide and deep and cuts
marvellously through the water. The sky is clear and the river calm with no breath of air at
all. Pierre Etúmola sits in front and shows the helmsman with outstretched hand where to cut
through the river bends. There is no danger of running into a sandbank because the waters are
high on account of the actual rainy season. They keep to the right-hand side and pass Loboló
village. Around midday Mr Etúmola shows the way towards the middle of the river so that
they pass through a channel between two islands. Father Spanjers clearly follows the
indicated direction. All of a sudden the water surges wildly. The helmsman looks around
where the wind might come from and shuts the engine down. They need to face the waves
squarely. It’s five to twelve. Then it happens. Huge waves come rolling high against the bow.
The water enters the moving canoe. A second and more powerful wave pounds the side of the
dugout. In the twinkling of an eye the dugout turns over and capsizes. The seven passengers
disappear into the mulling water.
Father Spanjers is a good swimmer. When he emerges from the water, he has to come to
himself. He then understands what happened. He does not spot the dugout or its engine
anymore. Pierre Etúmola grasps Sister Cypriana and with an enormous effort he manages to
drag her along to the island. Father Spanjers hears cries for help. He hurries to all the
drowning persons to hand them some flotsam: a box, a suitcase, some wood. He hopes to take
them all, one after the other, to the island by swimming from the one to the other. But alas! In
front of his eyes they disappear into the water. Only Sister Raphaël hangs on clasping a
suitcase whilst crying for help.
The Lulónga River.
Panting with exhaustion Father Spanjers reaches
the shore of the island. He sheds his wet clothes
and stumbles towards the spot where Mr Etúmola
must be. Sister Cypriana sits on a big broken
branch and her saviour lies panting on the ground.
Fr Spanjers informs them what he knows and
gives Sister Cypriana his watch. It is ten past
twelve. He pleads with his helper to accompany
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him. However, when the man tries to swim, he cannot continue since he is at the end of his
tether.
Fr Spanjers goes alone for about ten kilometres, sometimes on foot on the island, sometimes
by swimming in the river. He tries to reach Sister Raphaël but in vain. He himself is dragged
along by the strong current. Right at the end of the island he is completely exhausted and
flops down. It must be about three o’clock. To make matters worse a storm rises above the
river and unloads itself dashing all hopes to reach and save Sister Raphaël. Pierre gives her
the general absolution. In the morning the deceased had unknowingly received their
‘Viaticum’. Yet Father Spanjers feels himself the most miserable missionary in the world. He
tried hard to reach Sister Raphaël but in vain. He himself was dragged along by the strong
current.
In the meantime Mr Etúmola continues to cry for help. But nobody answers. After about two
hours he receives an answer from an old man and his wife who descend the river in a dugout.
They are coming from the direction of Abunákombo. After the powerful storm has died down,
the four of them descend the river together towards the end of the island where they embark
the shivering Father Spanjers.
Only then they understand that the huge waves were caused by the diesel boat called the
‘Remorqueur’. This boat came from the left-hand side and could not be spotted by our people
in their dugout due to the heavily wooded island. When their dugout reached the point of the
island, the boat on the other side of the island had just passed leaving in its wake the huge
waves that engulfed the missionaries.
At 4.30pm they reach a village. There they receive help in the form of strong men and a big
canoe. They take the survivors aboard and row them towards Mampoko. In the meantime,
those who drowned have floated down the river for quite some distance. At the next village
called Bonginda, a whole fleet of dugouts comes towards them at great speed. Mr Etúmola
fears that rebels are coming to meet them. But no, they are Mng. They shout: ‘só e’ (it’s
us). All of a sudden they form a circle and drag a suitcase out of the water. They haven’t
spoken yet, because they carry a body with them. In one of the dugouts lies the body of
Brother Hugo.
Brother Hugo Brits, born in Arnhem on 24.5.1909, had been in Congo
since 1947, was supposedly a good swimmer, but he too disappeared
into the water and did not surface alive again. He died 55 years old.
Then Sister Marie-Loyola too is dredged up from the river. When
these rowers return to their village, they still spot Sister Raphaël’s
body. They deposit it in the dugout of the old couple from
Abunákombo.
When the rowers approach Mampoko, they slow down. It is pitchdark. The sad cortege arrives at 6.30pm at the port. With great
difficulty they climb the steep bank leading to the mission. The
population starts intoning lamentations and never stop. The parish
priest gives Sister Cypriana a companion to take her to the convent.
Father Spanjers gets dressed. They try to compose a report for Bishop van Kester in
Basnkusu. Sister Cypriana still has the courage and the energy to lay out the three bodies
which are then transported to the church. People kneel and sit down for hours to pray and
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sing their traditional dirges and religious hymns. The next day, 10 September, the solemn
funeral takes place. The church is packed. Many people stand outside in the pouring rain. The
village people have managed to make four beautiful coffins. They refuse to be rewarded or
compensated for their generosity.
On 23 September 1964, a solemn funeral celebration takes place at Moorslede. Father Joseph
Sinnesael assisted by Bishop Vangheluwe presides over the ceremony. They pray in the
conviction that the deceased have finished their journey and that they have landed safely in
the divine harbour.
Six weeks later, on Thursday 20 October, the people of Djb, a village at 5 km downstream
from Mampoko, find the body of Sister Marie-Chantal. The following day they bring this
news to the mission where not a single missionary is present. But in the evening of that same
day the mission boat called ‘Saint Paul’ reaches Mampoko bringing Fathers Janssen,
Goessens, Mertens and Abbé Martin. The next day Father Janssen goes to Djb with a coffin
for Sister Marie-Chantal. In a dugout tied to the Saint Paul the body of the Sister is taken to
Mampoko and buried next to Sister Raphaël and Sister Marie-Loyola. People prove again to
be very helpful indeed.
Wasn’t it providential that Sister Marie-Chantal was found when the missionaries returned to
Mampoko? People would have been afraid to transport the body to Mampoko, scared as they
would have been to disturb the poor Sister’s spirit after the body spent six weeks in the water.
(This is the report sent in by Sister Rolande of the Ten-Bunderen Sisters)
17. Toussaint Goessens (born on 18/11/ 1930 in Gronsveld, Netherlands)
Interview on 11 September 1984
I start my missionary life at the Teacher Training College in Bokákata in 1959. I teach
mathematics, biology, French and physics.
The staff consists of a number of missionaries and three local teachers. The colonial
government pays the teachers’ salaries including those of the missionaries, though the
religious receive less than the lay people. The State subsidizes the boarding-schools. The
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seminary in Bonkita and the Teacher Training College of Bokákata are the only secondary
schools in the whole region (diocese).
In my opinion, the colonial rule caters well for the health and education sector but it does
poorly in the formation of an elite. This becomes painfully visible after Independence (1960).
Several fields in the administration and education sectors lack people who enjoyed a
thorough formation. After independence the new government abolishes the subsidies for
boarding- schools.
When Thijs Wartenbergh, the diocesan school inspector, dies on 15 November 1963 due to a
motorbike accident, I am called to replace him. I become the inspector of all the Catholic
schools in Basnkusu diocese. I hold down that job for sixteen years.
As school inspector I take care of 17 primary boys’ schools and ten girls’ schools, numbering
25,000 pupils. My task is to pay the teachers’ monthly salaries, to provide didactic material
for pupils and teachers, to engage and transfer teachers, to make periodic inspections of the
educational level in our schools and to look after the upgrading of the teachers. In each parish
one of the priests has the task of looking after the running of the schools and the well-being
of the teachers and pupils.
The periods of the Independence and the rebellion of 1964-1965 are very trying. For two
years one part of the diocese is in hands of the rebels. In that area schools are closed; later it
becomes clear that buildings and the furniture are not only vandalised but also completely
destroyed. In the other regions of the diocese the number of missionaries diminishes
considerably. This has a backlash on the normal functioning of the schools concerning the
general supervision, the payment of salaries and the provision of didactic material.
When the number of seminarians drop, the Bonkita seminary is transformed into a college
for boys, who are all allowed to stay at the boarding-school. At the end of 1974 all schools
are nationalised including buildings, offices, cars and so on. When after the nationalisation I
am left in a vacuum, I take a vacation and stay with my fellow villager Bishop Willigers in
Uganda. On my return I take upon myself ‘the pastoral care of the intellectuals.’
A small mission school far away in the forest.
An ever-growing discontent among parents concerning the normal functioning of the
nationalised schools forces President Mobútu to sign a convention between the Churches and
the State in February 1977. Part of the school administration is given back to the Churches.
The diminishing number of the missionaries and their growing lack of enthusiasm for the
school apostolate makes it impossible to put the education sector back on its old feet again. It
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is true that the numbers of schools and of pupils increase dramatically. The intellectual level
in the whole school system, however, declines as the years wear on.
I am known to be a perfectionist. I want my administration to be up-to-date at any moment.
For years on end I put in long hours. Even at night I am working on my papers. No wonder
that in the end due to those long working hours and all the stress and unrelieved tension due
to government and administrative upheavals, I develop health problems and risk experiencing
a nervous breakdown. I have lived through various periods of transition: the colonial rule,
Independence (30/6/1960), rebellions, reconstructions, nationalisation of the Education
Sector and a new covenant between State and Church. The lack of good health forces me to
throw in the towel.
In 1979 I return to Holland to become the Mill Hill financial coordinator of development
projects in the Third World. I reside in Roosendaal, Holland.
Toussaint Goessens in ‘Mill Hill in Congo 1905-2005.’
Note of the editor: Toussaint had the nickname Isingl, the diminutive of the word singlet. In his office he often
removed his shirt and worked vested in his isingl.
In the latter years of his life Toussaint moved to Yonkers, New York, where he coordinated the Mill Hill effort to
raise funds for the Missions in various parishes in the U.S.A. Toussaint died in Yonkers on 25 January 1994 at
the age of 64.
18. Fr Frans Kwik: (Lolango lófa la nsúko: love is without limits).
I am born on 12/05/1931 in Roermond.
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After my ordination on 8 July 1956, I am sent to the seminary of Lochwinnoch in Scotland. I
regard this appointment as a punishment. I teach Greek and French. I stay there for three
years until 1959.
After my Scottish episode, I receive an appointment to Congo. Since I am obliged to follow
the Belgian Colonial Course in Brussels, I am put up in our Mill Hill house in Antwerp. The
main topics taught at that course are the history of Belgium and the history and the
constitutions of Congo. Since I am Dutch, I do not need to follow a course in Flemish. I have
time to spare and so become chaplain to the Canadian Forces who have a number of barracks
around Antwerp.
I go to Congo in September 1960. At the beginning of October I receive a provisional
appointment for Waka parish to learn the local language, Lmng. I am a quick learner, and
on 12 December I deliver my first sermon in the local language! I try to show my artistic
talents by putting up a beautiful Christmas crib.
I participate at the midnight Mass and read Mass later at a side altar.
In February 1961 I receive an appointment for the Teacher Training College in Bokákata. Fr
Roël takes me there on February 16th. I teach the following subjects: technology, drawing and
music (singing).
Since Independence the missionaries are no longer allowed to be the principals of primary
schools. So we become the ‘conseillers’, i.e. the advisors to the new headmasters. I become
the advisor to the headmaster of the primary school in Bokákata.
On 23 December 1961 I travel to Waka parish to assist there for about ten days. I preside at
the midnight Mass.
I continue to teach until the school holidays in July 1964. I leave Basnkusu on 1 July 1964
for a break in Holland. When I come back on 3 September of that same year, the Símbá
rebellion is in full swing in the eastern provinces. Since the rebels make rapid progress in
overrunning the country, the evacuation of the missionaries is already on the way. All the
missionaries from the Bongandó region as well as from the Ló missions come dropping into
Basnkusu. A plane comes to evacuate them. The plane’s pilot says that he has to load the
plane up with passengers, because this is possibly the last flight to come to Basnkusu. The
bishop asks me to board when the next plane arrives and to seek safety in Holland for the
time being.
When I am back in Holland, I receive an appointment to be the spiritual director of Sint Jozef
Huis, the formation centre for the Mill Hill Brothers in Arnhem. I replace Hans Wijngaards. I
have to give meditations and an explanation of the Mill Hill Constitutions.
However, when the situation in Congo takes a turn for the better, I am asked to return to that
country. This is in November 1964. The rector of Sint Jozef’s, Piet Jacobse, is not very
pleased with my departure. He says: ‘This place looks more like Waterloo Station.’
I return to Congo in the company of Father Jan Spaas. Once back in Basnkusu diocese, I am
appointed advisor to the headmaster of the big Mpoma primary school in Basnkusu. The
headmaster is called Pierre Bml. At the same time I am called to be the pastoral
administrator of part of the parish. I concentrate my attention on the CCP palm plantations in
Lisáfá and to Lisáfá village. Bishop van Kester promotes me to be his secretary.
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When in 1975 Father Ignace Matóndo of the Scheut Fathers is welcomed and consecrated
bishop of Basnkusu, I continue to serve as the bishop’s secretary. This time I am given real
secretarial work by drafting the bishop’s letters. On two occasions circumstances force me to
forge the bishop’s signature. The Goirle College had collected some 40,000 guilders for
school funds. I ask the bishop on several occasions to write a letter to thank the school for
their splendid effort. But the bishop never gets round to do so. In the end I do it myself and
sign! In the second case the relatives of a Mill Hill Brother working in our house in Antwerp
(Theo Heesterbeek?) leave a car to Basnkusu diocese. The car arrives at its destination, but
the Bishop never thanks the brother’s family. In the end I write the letter myself and forge the
bishop’s signature!
I continue my pastoral work in the parish. In 1977 I follow a month’s course in Kinshásá
together with Pierre Spanjers. The course is given by the movement ‘Pour un Monde
Meilleur.’ In the diocese the course becomes known as ‘Ecclésia mpé Mokili’ (The Church
and the World). At the same time I give Bible courses both in Lingála for the people of the
township and in French for the teachers. I follow the system of bible sharing during which we
confront our personal situations and challenges with Jesus’ teachings. This proves to be a
very thorough and moving form of evangelisation. I am assisted by a very capable parish
assistant called Pius Botoko.
At the time of Bishop Matóndo’s arrival, Abbé Joseph Ekôndó is the parish priest of
Basnkusu. He is succeeded by Abbé Martin. The bishop finds it befitting that the main
parish is headed by a Congolese priest. But when local parishioners come and complain
frequently to the bishop of their parish priest, I am appointed parish priest of the large
Basnkusu parish in 1982 for a term of three years. I am now in charge of the cathedral. In
1985 the bishop asks me to stay on as parish priest for another period of three years. I accept.
In 1988 I go on holiday and the bishop requests me to stay on as parish priest of Basnkusu
for another period. But I decline the honour.
I am then appointed to be the parish priest of Mampoko. I stay there for three years (198891). As I am especially pastorally orientated I find it extremely difficult to focus my attention
and care on the cows and the sheep which I have inherited from my predecessor. After having
spent so much time and energy in Basnkusu parish in organizing sessions about the bible,
family life and development, I find it a waste of time to be a traditional parish priest and to
look after mission personnel, cows and sheep with its concomitant logistic challenges. I
appoint the parish assistant to be in charge of the animals and another person in charge of the
carpentry shop. Once a week those in charge come and meet me to discuss any developments.
Moreover, I have to interact with Congolese Sisters, who came in from another diocese and
who insist on the daily use of our radio-call and on transport by the parish’s outboard engine.
One day my refusal to provide instant transport to those sisters sets me on a collision course
with the bishop. On top of those wrangles, I decide one day to do away with the last couple of
sheep. Their numbers have dwindled since a number of catechists received four sheep each,
three females and one male. Some animals were stolen, others succumbed to a mysterious
illness and some forty of them were sold to Theo Groot who is running an agricultural project
near Abunákombo. The shepherd looking after the sheep has put a number of his own into the
herd. Whenever sheep are stolen, his sheep never disappear. I ask the teachers to buy the last
animals so that the continuous hassle will finally be terminated. The catechists write an angry
letter to the bishop accusing me of selling off the sheep whilst each of them had been
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promised sheep for breeding purposes. The bishop comes to investigate. He heads straight to
the Congolese sisters to receive the necessary information. When he ends his conversation in
the convent, he reprimands me for squandering diocesan property. He orders me to pack my
bags.
I decide to go on holiday in Holland. That is in 1991. I happen to meet two lay volunteers
working in Basnkusu diocese namely Hans Eykhout and Gerda van Kerkhof. They work in
a medical project at Lingm in the eastern part of the diocese. They suggest to me to
become the parish priest at Lingm, since their parish priest, Marinus van Emmerik, has
cancer problems in his intestines. However, very soon it becomes clear that the sickly Father
Marinus still wants to return to Lingm despite his colostomy. I then decide to take a
sabbatical and to enjoy a period of reflection. Pierre Spanjers, who is in Chicago at the time,
arranges for me to take the ISL course in Chicago. I follow the course of nine months and
then add another period at Loyola University in Chicago so as to follow a course in pastoral
ministry.
In 1993, when I finish this last course, I write to Bishop Matóndo that I am willing to come
back to the diocese on three conditions:
1. To a place without Congolese sisters.
2. To a mission without livestock.
3. Not to be a parish priest.
Bishop Matóndo welcomes me back and gives me an appointment to the town of Djlu in
order to found a Pastoral Formation Centre. When I arrive at Basnkusu, I meet Brother
Marinus de Groot and Father Kees Vlaming who are ready to join me and travel to Djlu. We
organise a dugout with an outboard engine and travel to a small landing site not far from
Bongándángá on the Lopolí River. We had arranged to be collected there by Jacques Baambe.
The latter turns up in a Land Cruiser. We pass the night at the mission of Bongándángá in the
humming company of thousands of mosquitoes. The next day we continue our journey. At
about 11 km from the mission of Lingm the car breaks down. We all walk the remaining
distance. Later Brother Marinus manages to repair the oil pan.
Since lay missionary, the Belgian Maria van Herck, has left for
good, I move into her nice habitation in the Djlu mission
compound. The bishop suggested to me to build a big pastoral
centre. He would sign any request for funds. But I rely on the
Protestant and my own experience in Basnkusu to organise
sessions in the villages which, each in turn, welcome the
participants of the courses. I usually furnish a packet of 100
fishhooks, a kilo of sugar for the morning coffee and a couple of
bottles of paraffin for the lamps. The villagers take care of the
meals. There is rivalry between the villages of who can receive
the visitors best. In this way one does not need to build a centre; the costs of holding sessions
are minimal and people sense that they are the church; this is the most important factor for
moving away from the more paternalistic and colonial attitude that everything is expected
from the European parish priest residing in the parish centre.
In that way I organise my sessions ‘The Church and the World’, ‘Christian Marriage’ and a
course for Catholic men. At the same time I show the three bakambi (lay people in charge of
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parishes), and the parish assistants how to give these sessions themselves. The local priests of
the other parishes in the region are invited also to participate but they never participate
wholeheartedly and are loath to participate in the bible sharing according to the seven steps of
Lumko (South Africa). I get the impression that I am expecting too much from them when I
invite them to act on an equal footing with lay people.
At the time Father René Graat is the parish priest at Djlu. But one day René gets serious
back trouble. The roads i.e. the dirt-tracks prove to be too bumpy for his constitution. It
becomes impossible for him to stay in the region. As Dick van de Riet stopped being the
bishop’s secretary, Bishop Matóndo invites René to take his place. I receive the appointment
of being the interim parish priest and the dean of the deanery which comprises all the parishes
in the Bongandó region.
In 1997 we have to flee another rebel advance and move on to Europe. It is not sure whether I
can return to Basnkusu diocese. I decide to look around in other African countries whether I
can be of any use somewhere. I visit Kenya, Uganda and South Africa. In the town of Jinja,
Uganda, I meet Fathers Pierre Spanjers and Piet Korse, two comrades in arms of the Congo.
Though I am offered plenty of opportunities elsewhere, I resolve to return to Congo once
more and go back to Djlu.
In the course of 1998 the national army feels the pressure of the upcoming rebellion of Jean
Pierre Bémba, whose ‘liberators’ threaten to come in from the North. The soldiers of the
National Army become very nervous. Their numbers at Djlu are reinforced till they are
about 300. At any time they come to the mission requesting fuel. They carry off sacks of rice
which Brother Marinus has bought in the villages and has polished in his machines at the
mission. Neither Brother Marinus nor Father Kees Vlaming can bear the exacting presence of
the soldiers. Brother Marinus, who has gone through the experience of mutinying soldiers
during earlier rebellions, becomes very nervous every time the soldiers turn up. So I go and
see the top government official to ask him that, in case the soldiers need something, they need
to see me as I am the boss of the mission. They should not turn to the brother. Moreover, the
coffee companies should also assist the army. The Catholic mission should not be the only
one to support the ‘war effort’ of the national army.
One day that same official confiscates our radio-call. Kees says: ‘If they do not return the
radio, I’ll leave the region.’ I pay a visit to the official and manage to retrieve the radio.
Father Kees Vlaming had come back to the Bongandó region from
Mampoko where he had been stationed for some time. In fact, Kees
had taken over the Mampoko parish from me in 1991. In Mampoko
Kees worked well together with his cousin Mariette. The two of
them had collected a good sum of money for the rehabilitation of
schools and clinics. But when Kees went on holidays, the local
priest, who succeeded him, ‘ate’ all the money.
When Kees is in Holland, he dreams of returning to the Bongandó
region and of settling in Yalisere to revamp the mission, the schools
and dispensaries. He collects money, clothes and free medical
samples. He sends the whole lot to Congo. The bishop appoints Kees to Djlu. Kees occupies
himself with the supply of medicines and the supervision of the clinics at Djlu, Yambóyó
and Yalisere. In the course of time Kees has specialised himself in providing good dental
care. He does so in all the parishes in the region. He tours the region with a nurse. He gives
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free care. But in order to finance his service, he asks a small amount of money for the free
medical samples. When the medical and other supplies eventually arrive at Djlu, he
distributes the medical samples to all the clinics in the surrounding parishes. The local priest,
who had ‘eaten’ all his project money in Mampoko, has in the meantime been appointed to
Yalisere parish. Kees vows not to give any of the supplies to him. As he distributes the
medical samples to the clinics, he bypasses the Congolese parish priests. The latter are
annoyed that they do not receive anything, because nothing passes through their hands. When
one day one of them seizes the antibiotics from the supply to their clinics and sells them
privately at a higher price than indicated, Kees does not hide his anger and condemns that
move in public for all to hear, saying the priests are earning money at the expense of the sick.
The local priests soon hear the accusation and retort that Kees does the same by selling the
free samples. Isn’t he a big thief himself? The relationship between the missionaries and the
local priests suffers much on account of it.
At the same time the members of the Djlu parish council fear for our lives. The security
situation becomes worse and worse. The rebel leader Jean-Pierre Bémba threatens to conquer
the whole of the Equator Province. In 1964 three missionaries lost their lives in Yambóyó.
The members of our parish council do not want a similar shameful act to be repeated on their
soil. They advise us, the missionaries, to retire for the time being to other regions of the
diocese.
For different reasons the Congolese priests stationed in Yalisere, Yambóyó and Lingm are
not happy with the missionaries. As indicated the medical supplies to the clinics are one bone
of contention. Another bone is my pastoral approach which the local priests do not master and
which in their eyes belittles the clerical role of the priest. As mentioned, they are not keen to
participate in bible sharing sessions as the method used puts them on a par with the laity.
During the monthly deanery meetings they often walk out and do not participate fully in the
sharing. We ourselves have the impression that the local priests are scared that we, the Mill
Hillers, report their lifestyle. The fact is that they seldom come to see us. The Congolese
priests stationed in the region at the time are Calvin, Ephraim and Jean-Clement. We feel that
for a number of reasons our continued stay at Djlu is not feasible for us and not appreciated
by our local colleagues. We decide to call it quits.
Before our departure we receive the blessing from Abbé Camille Tókínd’ino. We report his
farewell speech later. We, the last three expatriate Mill Hill missionaries in the region, do not
inform the population that we are leaving for good as we are afraid that people will insist that
we stay on and will prevent our departure. We receive a ‘laissez-passer’ from the top state
official allowing us to travel to assist at a meeting in Basnkusu. Since Brother Marinus
wants to stay and work in Basnkusu, he does not want to miss his moped. He sends the
driver Jakki Baambe ahead to Mmpn on his Puch. We leave before dawn as thieves in
the night, sad to leave a region where we laboured with so much dedication and all the energy
we had. It is 5 January, 1999.
After our departure the soldiers empty the parish store completely. As we leave Djlu,
Bishop Joseph Mkb of the diocese of Bokungú-Ikela had been on a visit to Basnkusu
diocese as its apostolic administrator. He tries to reach his own diocese via the river from
Basnkusu to Mmpn. The bishop has taken a too heavy dugout in Basnkusu. Mr
Itómbaté from Bokákata is the captain. The nose of the canoe does not rise out of the water
and so the engine consumes too much fuel. When they arrive at Baríngá, they obtain another
dugout that demands less petrol. As the canoe has used more petrol than initially calculated,
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we at Djlu are asked by radio-call to bring an extra barrel of fuel with us. This barrel helps
us in another way as well. The extra weight in our car prevents the vehicle from toppling over
as we try to dodge the awesome craters and potholes in the road in the Likunjwámbá region.
When crossing a big bridge, Kees and myself walk ahead. Marinus and the driver of the
Yambóyó mission move constantly all the planks and boards from one part of the bridge to the
next so as to get across. The road is so bad that Brother Marinus and all of us regard it as a
miracle that we manage to cross the Likunjwámbá region and reach the place where the canoe
used by the bishop is waiting for us.
Marinus de Groot, Frans Kwik and Kees Vlaming leaving the Bongandó region.
This marks the exodus of the last expatriate Mill Hill missionaries in the Djlu region. We
certainly regret to leave as we did: as thieves in the night!
In Basnkusu Harry Reusen advises us to return to Europe for a good break and then come
back to the diocese. But Kees and myself are so discouraged that we decide to leave for good.
During my last days in Basnkusu I am awfully sick, have high fevers and feel extremely
miserable. Once I am in the plane, I am fine again. A big load has fallen off my shoulders. I
have crossed the Rubicon. So many laborious but inspiring years in Congo have come to an
end.
P.S. Frans had as his losáko the adage: lolango lófa la nsúko = love is without end. This is a fact and a challenge
at the same time.
Interview by the editor.
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19. Fr Ben Jorna:
(Nzámbe alálaka t: God never sleeps)
My connection with Congo started during the week-long retreat
before my ordination. The retreat father told us there was a lot of
trouble in the former Belgian Congo, independent since 30 June 1960.
We should pray for those who were going to be appointed there.
That’s what I did. Dear Pope John XXIII had ordained Father
Anthony Galvin, who had been our rector for three years, to be
Bishop of Miri. We were to be his first fruits. He ordained us on 10
July 1960. That same day we received our appointments. I was
appointed to Congo, together with Jan Molenaar and Marinus van
Emmerik. We had to face our relatives, lamenting about the dangerous
Congo. To distract my relatives, I took them to my room, and showed them a map of the
diocese of Basnkusu, wedged in between the equator and the bend of the Congo River to the
north. Marinus and Jan left for Congo that very year, bravely. I was told by Bishop van
Kester, the bishop of Basnkusu, to study for an education diploma in Antwerp, at the Pius X
secondary teacher training school. I would be qualified to teach in the lower classes of a
secondary school and would earn a salary that would contribute to the finances of the diocese.
I stayed in our Mill Hill procure in the Arthur Goemaerelei. As I had obtained the Dutch State
Diploma thanks to the MH staff in Haelen, I could start immediately and finished in two
years’ time. I chose to do the section geography-sciences. Before leaving for Congo, I still
stayed a few months with the Scheut Fathers in Jambes to learn more French. Matóndo
Ignace, who was to be our bishop, was a novice there at the time.
I left for Congo on 13 January 1963, in the company of Bishop van Kester who came back
from the first session of Vatican II. Leaving Europe for the first time was quite emotional. No
wonder I got sick, when after a stopover in Genève we took off again. I was lucky: the
stewardess gave me a place to lie down across three seats all the way to Léopoldville. We
stayed in the procure Sainte Anne. After dinner and a siesta I went out to have a look around.
Everybody said ‘Sángó’ to me. It sounded like hallo in my ears. So I said to an old mama:
‘Sángó’. She looked at me as if I were nuts. Well, Sángó means Father.
Teaching in Bokákata.
The next day, we flew to Basnkusu. There, in
the afternoon, Bishop van Kester told me to go
and teach ‘for the time being’ at the Teacher
Training school in Bokákata. Frans de Vrught,
the Mill Hill Society Superior and parish priest
of Bokákata, took me there in his Landrover
that same day in the late afternoon. On the way,
in the middle of the forest, we found a car
almost blocking the road; on top of the bonnet
were plenty of documents and a bag full of
money. They were paying 6-month-arrears of
teachers’ salaries. That showed me how deep the Congo had sunk already. When we arrived
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at Bokákata mission, I found there sitting on the veranda or barza, the tall and imposing Cas
Sommeling, headmaster of the ‘Ecole des Moniteurs’ and Frans Kwik, teacher at that school.
They invited me to a glass of cool orange juice, fresh from local green oranges. No, not a
beer!
After an hour or so they took me to the school compound, a clearing 1,5 km further in the
forest. They showed me the new refectory and my own little cottage with an office/livingroom, and a bedroom with a shower which was connected to a barrel with rainwater outside.
We had supper, I unpacked, and slept.
Next morning I found the makeshift chapel and said Mass. The real chapel was being
enlarged by Brother Piet Tweehuysen. After breakfast I had hardly sat down at my desk,
when there was a firm knock on the door and Cas entered with a pile of books about maths,
biology etc. plus the timetable of the lessons I was to give. “You can start preparing”, he
suggested. And so I did.
After ten days I fell ill. ‘Malaria’, they said. They took me to Bonkita, the nicest place in the
diocese, to Father Fons Mertens. He gave me some pills and after a few days I felt well again.
So far I had seen no students yet. They had rioted against Cas and had been sent home early
as a punishment. They returned on 1 February 1963. Father Toussaint Goessens arrived too.
He had been camping with his scouts quite far away. He was a bit of fresh air in the fairly
gloomy atmosphere caused by the riot. On 2 February the books were distributed during the
first period and at the second period classes started. No time was lost!
At first French was a difficulty for me. I prepared my lessons word for word and when they
asked questions (I like questions), I would repeat what I had said. If they hadn’t understood
yet, I would ask them to put the question again the next day. In the meantime I would search
for a clearer explanation. I settled down to the daily routine of four classes in the morning and
two in the afternoon. The routine did not bother me. Every lesson was a challenge, because
every time I taught something new and every year I taught other students. The routine helped
me to settle in the job. Every day I had about two periods free to prepare my classes.
Frans Kwik soon offered to teach me Lmng, the language of
the local tribe. He explained the tonality and the classes of nouns
and so on. He gave me a grammar written by Father Gustaaf
Hulstaert MSC. I studied a list of words in it whilst lying on my
bed until I put the book down to take my siesta, I found no better
time. In the July-August holidays Frans took me once to Djmb
and Kdr. We went to look for a piece of really virgin forest
as a student maintained it was there, but we did not find it. When
we came back in the village, the chief asked us angrily whether
we had gone into the forest to cast a spell and to drive the animals
away. In the end he let us go. At night, when we were sitting
together on the veranda, a man turned up and asked if, please, his
son could be the manager of the shop we would open there in the
forest. These incidents show how people interpret our actions in
unexpected ways.
Father Thijs Wartenbergh was the diocesan inspector of schools. One day he was on the way
to take the teachers’ salaries to Abunákombo. He first passed the night with us. The evening
meal was very pleasant. We had grated chocolate. Thijs said: when you enjoy yourself, do so
thoroughly, and then he poured the chocolate on his slice of bread quite generously. The next
morning he drove off on his big Harley-Davidson. In the afternoon we received the sad news
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he was being transported in a dugout, unconscious. He had hit three potholes, one after the
other, had flown through the air, fallen on the road, the motorbike falling on top of him. He
died on the river just before reaching Bokákata. It was a very sad day indeed. It was 14
November 1963.
In January 1964 Bishop van Kester called Toussaint Goessens to Basnkusu to be the new
inspector of schools. That meant that I had to take over his classes in the 3rd and 4th year of
maths, physics and chemistry. The reason was that I had done the same section at the
Normaal School as he: geography-sciences. It proved not to be too difficult as Toussaint had
painstakingly written out all his classes in detail. I liked the science classes. I used to tell the
students: ‘The sciences sing the glory of God’. Father Jaap Kroon came to Bokákata as he
was specialised in languages. Frans Kwik took charge of the scouts, and I of the cubs at the
primary school next to our school.
Rebellion.
In September 1964 rebels in the east were approaching Basnkusu. We were called to
Basnkusu and put on a plane to Léopoldville from where we went on to Europe. I stayed a
few months at home, then Cas, Jaap and myself went to Paris to learn some more French. I
stayed in a parish on the outskirts of Paris with a very good and patient parish priest. He had a
female cook who would faint in the oddest places, even in the middle of the road. I was
worried something would happen to her. Once I even went along with her to do some
shopping in Paris instead of meeting Cas and Jaap. A sister who came to check the parish
accounts at regular intervals, saw how pre-occupied I was with her and warned me. Then I
realised what was going on. I told the parish priest: either she leaves or I will leave. He sent
her away. The sister said I had done the parish a great service.
In April 1965 I left Paris and went back to Holland and returned to Congo in May. As the
schools would not start yet, I spent some months in Basnkusu, where Wim Breukers was the
acting parish priest. He allowed me to read the gospel in Lmng turning to the people
during early morning Masses. It was 1965, the time of Vatican II. Wim liked paw-paw, eating
it at the start of breakfast. It made me feel weak. So one day I asked the cook to bring the
porridge first. When Wim saw the porridge, he sent it back to the kitchen, because paw-paw
had to come first.
At some point I became ill and stayed in bed for several weeks. I felt lonely at night. But
through prayer and Holy Communion I recovered.
When school started I returned to Bokákata.
Unfortunately Frans Kwik did not return to
Bokákata but stayed in Basnkusu. The scouts
fell to me as well as the cubs. However, Father
Lieuwe van der Meij joined us in 1965. We had
only three of the four recognised classes. But
Cas planned to make the school a full-fledged
pedagogical institute with six classes so as to
take part in state exams. This was a real challenge for all of us. In June 1969 our sixth year
was ready to sit the State Exam. The examination centre was organised in our school, just for
our students. Later the Baríngá Protestant school joined us. Still later the centre moved to
Basnkusu.
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Crisis.
Little by little a crisis built up in me: ‘What is the point for me to be a priest? The work I do
can just as well be done by a layman.’ I heard about priests leaving the priesthood as e.g. our
colleague, Klaas Rood, who had started the agricultural school in Bonkita. I did not dare to
celebrate my 12 ½- year-jubilee of my priesthood, afraid that I would give up soon after.
Mobútu had forbidden the scout movement. He was promoting his policy of authenticity.
Bishop van Kester had lost his dynamism as a leader. He left the stage all of a sudden. It all
made for a great emptiness in my life. But I got through my crisis as I started to pray better,
hearing that prayer was ‘in’: the charismatic movement had started in the U.S.A.
People in Europe became more and more convinced that missionaries should not disturb
people in their religion and their culture. Development work became now all important. We
did not yet have a clear picture where to place other religions. What is mission? What is it
for? Several decades later I stumbled on the idea of four levels or stages of mission work: the
human level where personal contact and friendship is made with the people and people are
assisted with schools, dispensaries, hospitals, agricultural and social centres and development
work; the religious level: the level of comparing religions through dialogue; the Christ
level when the goodness and the person of Jesus are proclaimed; the ecclesial level of
catechism, and collective baptism and Basic Christian Communities and church-building. The
newly baptised should in their turn make friends and so on. This is a holistic approach in
which all the elements of missionary work find a place.
I kept on reflecting a lot about celibacy. When I was ordained I had had little preparation for a
celibate life. I took the chance to get proper information about sexuality in 1962 in the classes
given to the Scheut novices in Belgium. Why a priest should be a celibate, we had to find out
ourselves. It was said that priests should be pure like Old-Testament priests had to be pure.
But this ritual purity-idea did not convince me. There is nothing wrong, nothing impure in
truly human sexuality. Celibate priests were said to be cheaper for the church; all right, but it
is a poor reason for obliging priests to be celibate. Celibate priests can be sent to difficult and
dangerous places unlike married people. So missionaries should be celibate. Celibates are
free from family responsibilities, free for service to all. Celibacy is a gift of self for the
Kingdom. ‘A married man concerns himself with worldly matters, because he wants to please
his wife, but an unmarried man concerns himself with the Lord, trying to please Him’ (see I
Cor. 7, 33-34). For me celibacy is a covenant of a human person with God, in which he gives
and dedicates himself to the Lord out of love. It is a love affair. And in this love for God he is
at a service of love for all people. This insight, however, I had not yet discovered in the years
1970-1975.
A new bishop: Matóndo Ignace.
The Lord has always looked after me very well; as they say in Lingála: Nzámbe alálaka t:
God never sleeps. In January 1975 Brother Marinus de Groot came to announce to us that
Matóndo Ignace was to be the new bishop of Basnkusu. Our students shouted
enthusiastically: ‘Père Ignace, Père Ignace!’ They danced. They had known him in
Basnkusu when he preached there a retreat to the sisters. He had walked with them in the
streets. He was the founder of the Bilng ya Mwínda in Kinshásá.
Within days after his arrival he came to Bokákata and spoke to us and the students in our big
hall. He spoke half French, half Lingála. Soon he was on his way and visited all the mission
stations east, west and north of Basnkusu. He wrote out a diocesan plan and had it printed.
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He himself taught everywhere how to celebrate the Zairian Mass with twelve servants, and
how to dance during the entry and the Gloria. He also taught lovely Lingála songs. He
himself had written and put to music many of these hymns. People sang them everywhere. He
himself taught us priests how to dance up and down the steps, the day before his episcopal
ordination.
The ordination was a feast for the whole diocese, with
delegations from all the parishes. We had a big celebration
outside the cathedral with Cardinal Malúla, and a
multicultural meal, with bush meat and soup with monkeys’
hands and heads. Matóndo’s arrival felt like us being swept
up in a fiery char to heaven. My crisis was gone.
In September 1975 our students came back changed. Many
had become involved in the Youth of the Light. Their fourth ‘mystique’ or commandment of
the LIFE force taught them to respect all those who give life: parents, teachers, civil and
religious authorities. And yes, they had become respectful and were keen on religious matters
and the Church. I wanted to be part of that movement that could bring about such a change.
Matóndo gave us the task to be initiators or counsellors. I did this together with Fr Lieuwe
van der Meij. He had arrived in 1965, and had become headmaster in 1971, when Fr Cas left
for Abunákombo. Later on he switched places with our former pupil Eéke who from teacher
became headmaster. Lieuwe stayed on as a simple teacher. It worked out very well.
Unfortunately, Lieuwe later suffered from a loose retina and left for Europe. Now the whole
work of the Bilng ya Mwínda fell to me.
Priestly vocations.
At some point round 1977 one of our students said he wanted to be a priest. When I passed
this on to the bishop, he told me to start a home for seminarians like Fons Eppink had in
Bonkita. This meant still more work but I managed. I applied myself heart and soul. Those
seminarians followed classes in our Teacher Training School; for the rest of the time they
were at the parish, in the home. One day one of them, Ngmb André, asked to join Mill Hill.
I directed him to the Scheut Missionaries, telling him to see Bishop Matóndo. We, Mill
Hillers, had not yet started thinking of accepting Africans.
In 1980 the diocesan vocations committee proposed that the seminarians do some pastoral
work during the holidays in the east of the diocese. I volunteered to accompany them on their
journey on the big diocesan lorry. We made an overnight stop at Befale. There the
seminarians asked me why Congolese could not join our Mill Hill Society. I was stuck for an
answer. ‘We don’t do it; it’s in our Constitutions.’ I referred them to Fr Joop Deen, the parish
priest and the Mill Hill Society Superior. Back in Bokákata after the journey I searched the
Mill Hill Constitutions and found nothing about stopping non-Europeans from becoming
members. I continued perusing various documents. And there, in the report of the Renewal
Chapter (1970) I read: ‘Mill Hill is ready to accept candidates from churches we have helped
to build up to help them to realise their missionary dimension.’ I was astounded and happy.
Via the radio-call I informed Joop Deen who answered: ‘It’s time to do something about it.’ I
went to see Fr René Graat in Abunákombo. He was enthusiastic too. In 1981 our Superior
General, Fr Noel Hanrahan, was with us and the question was discussed and put to a vote in
our assembly. ‘Should Mill Hill start accepting candidates from where we have worked?’ Yes,
unanimously. ‘Should we accept candidates from Zaire?’ Yes, with only two negative votes.
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When I was in Mill Hill in October 1981 I wrote a short article about it in the Millhilliana: ‘A
Question and an Answer.’ I wrote it in one go, fired by a hot discussion with John Rooney.
The 1982 Chapter endorsed the openness of the 1970 Renewal Chapter and said: the Society
is ready to recruit in areas other than the traditional ones, although not directly at present.
(See Documents of that Chapter, page 26). After the Chapter the members at large were very
much divided on the issue. The subject was discussed again in 1988 and the decision was
reaffirmed.
Parish work in Bolómba.
I have run ahead. In 1980-1981 I found that teaching was becoming physically too exacting
for me. After having given two lessons, I often had to lie down for a rest. So tired I was. It
was decided that I would stop teaching. A nice farewell dinner was prepared for me by the
headmaster Eéke and all the teachers. I left for Europe, did a renewal course in Hawkstone
Hall, and came back to Congo in January 1982. I took a boat in Mbándáká and got off at
Bokákata. A week or so later Fr Jaap Kroon went to Basnkusu, saw the bishop and returned
with a letter. He said: ‘You are sacked as rector of the Home. You are not to put one foot into
the Home anymore. Here is the bishop’s letter.’ I was devastated. It appeared that some
people had told the bishop that I had recruited candidates for Mill Hill from among the
seminarians in the Home. I myself would have considered that worse than a theft. And it had
not even been decided yet to accept Third-World candidates, because the chapter was to be
held only in June of that year. Well, I stayed on at Bokákata till Jaap came back from his
holiday. Then I was appointed to Bolómba together with Fr Harry Reusen. I quickly left for
Bolómba where Marinus van Emmerik was on his own as the parish priest, Simon Smit had
died on 12 May 1982 at Basnkusu because of a lung infection. I had given him still the
sacrament of the sick. He was already unconscious when Sr Josephine informed me: It is time
to give him the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. It was a very special, sacred moment.
In Bolómba I lived in the Byng House, and started learning Lingála. When Marinus had
left for Mampoko, I said Mass in Lingála and tried to give little reflections, half a page long.
It was a good exercise. Harry Reusen came much later. He had been the parish priest at
Yalisele for many years, and it took him of course much time to wind down there. But I was
anxious for him to come, being all by myself in an unknown parish without knowing neither
Lingmb nor Lingála. So I felt really relieved when Harry arrived. He had always done
parish work and knew Lingála quite well. He helped me a lot in many ways, and yet left me
free to do what I wanted to do and was good at. We were of one mind and heart about
pastoral activity.
Within weeks after his arrival Harry made a tour of the villages along the main road to
Basnkusu. He went from village to village to make contact with the people. I was alone
again. I suspected the cook of pilfering. One day he gave me three slices of pineapple, but I
found four rings of pineapple skin in the dustbin. I confronted him with the difference. He
went away angry, slamming the door and never came back again. I was afraid what Harry
would say. But he called it a good riddance. We engaged a certain Joseph, our repentant thief,
who had been condemned to 25 years in prison for having killed someone accidentally whilst
hunting and for having hidden the body. Whilst in prison he was free to work outside the
prison during the day and so earn a living.
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The church in Bolómba.
Youth of the Light again:
Marinus van Emmerik, had started the
movement of the Youth of the Light in many
villages. I now helped them to go thoroughly
through all the ‘mystiques’, and went with
them through all the chapters of St John’s
Gospel. At the end they had to know the
Gospel inside out, and to be able to recite the
text, when chapter and verse were indicated and vice versa. That was in preparation for the
Promise of the Fundamental Option, their choice for Christ. They promised: ‘Lord Jesus, I
believe in you, I choose to follow you with all my heart. Be the light, the truth and the way of
my whole life, Amen.’ This first group of ‘Fundamentalists’ was a reservoir of manpower for
all kinds of future activities.
Soon I started a group of youngsters interested in a vocation as priest, religious or missionary.
To explain what a vocation is I said: ‘Think of your mother calling you and asking you to
fetch water at a source in the forest. In the same way God calls you and asks you to work for
him as a priest, a religious or a missionary. It grew into the story of Felix that I used to tell to
the candidates in Baríngá and later even in India. I tried to start such a vocation group in all
the villages. But the people objected: you want to grab our children. Then I called the group
Mabóta (families) as to include the mother of all vocations: married life.
Basic Christian Communities:
But the basis of our pastoral work were the Basic Christian Communities which we wished to
establish in every village. The parish was to be the community of communities. The Pastoral
Centre in Waka had elaborated a seminar of three days: the Church and the World, adapted to
people in the villages. I trained a group of Youth of the Light to give these seminars in all the
villages of the parish. That made the people aware of how to be a Christian in one’s own life.
Everywhere a community leader was chosen as well as his helpers. They used to gather every
week, reading a part of the Gospel and relating it to their daily life. Later on the members of
each Basic Community chose different helpers who looked after the youth, catechesis, liturgy,
vocations, finance, development and so on. All these helpers needed to be trained.
Later on the bishop introduced the idea of parish sectors: each parish was divided up in
sectors; each sector grouped all the Basic Communities in its area together. Each sector had a
leader and helpers for the various activities. Ideally they had to train and encourage the
leaders and helpers of their area. So these sector leaders needed training and encouragement
themselves. Each kind of helpers formed its own parish committee e.g. the liturgy committee.
The leaders of these committees became members of the parish council, together with the
leaders of the sectors. It all worked well provided there were capable leaders.
In much the same way the diocese was divided in deaneries at the service of the parishes. Our
deanery counted four parishes: Abunákombo, Bolómba, Byng and Mampoko. Harry
Reusen was our dean. We met twice or three times a year, in one of the parishes. I remember
how the bishop was going to give confirmation in each of the parishes. He asked that the
candidates be well prepared. The deanery council consisting largely of lay persons, charged
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Fr Gerrit van der Arend and myself to provide a little manual in Lingála to prepare the
confirmation candidates. I wrote the text of eight lessons, Gerrit’s secretary typed them on
Xerox whilst Gerrit provided the drawings. The following deanery meeting studied and
corrected the proposals and Gerrit printed the approved version. Each parish recruited and
trained people that would teach the lessons. When they had finished doing so, the bishop
came and confirmed 200 adults and children in our own parish and still many others in the
other parishes. We all were very satisfied with the results. This happened in 1986.
Byng presbytery.
The bishop took me along to Byng when he
went there for confirmation. Byng is a real
parish led by a Mokambi, a lay pastor. On Sundays
he usually holds a Word-and-Communion Service.
For that he comes to fetch consecrated hosts at
Bolómba and transports them in a plastic box. But
part of the parish namely the area south of the
Ikelemba River had not seen a priest for many
years. I talked about that with Bishop Matóndo. He, in reply, appointed me and Harry
‘animator’ priests with the duty to assure Mass and the other sacraments to the Christians.
That was in 1986. We undertook several trips.
Once I did a trip on my own. I was extremely tired when I returned. It was raining, the road
was treacherous and I arrived exhausted. I got a fever I could not get rid of for a long time.
Then, wanting to get better again, I asked Harry to give me the Sacrament of the Sick and to
take me to Basnkusu. There the MSF doctors did not manage to cure me either. I went to
Kinshásá and was taken to a doctor who hospitalised me and gave me three bottles of
glucose-infuse. When I took a shower, I was astonished how thin my thighs had become. The
next morning Jan van Luijk came and took me out of hospital without informing anybody!
Jan took me to the airport. I arrived well in Brussels and ended up in our house in
Roosendaal. I stayed there for a month, slowly recuperating, informing my relatives only
after a few weeks. Then I took a two-month-holiday and returned to Bolómba. That was in
1988.
Marriage (mabóta) apostolate:
The Mabóta apostolate grew into a big thing. Pierre Spanjers had elaborated a seminar of
Christian marriage. He and his team came to try this session out in Bolómba. People loved it.
I trained a team of leaders who would give this course in most of the villages. People like
Mwáko and Duma were on the team. It was great. At the deanery level I gave a few monthlong sessions to Christian couples in the buildings of the former catechist centre at Mampoko.
Gerrit van der Arend, his secretary and Jo Lammerse helped me. I saw the process of a
marriage as the climbing of a ladder of five steps: the personal contact between boy and girl;
the boy or his father seeing the girl’s father to ask for her hand (‘closing the door of the
fence’); the girl coming to live with the boy’s family; the boy’s family handing over the bride
price to the girl’s relatives; and finally the sacrament of marriage. African marriage is a
covenant between husband and wife and between both families. Everybody has to agree and
that takes time. Many couples become estranged from the Church as they are refused the
sacraments as long as they haven’t married in church yet.
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In my opinion, marriage is a covenant between husband and wife and a covenant between the
couple and God who is represented by the priest. It is much more than a priest witnessing a
marriage contract and then blessing it. Who knows whether this idea will ever be widely
accepted?
Formation in Baríngá.
In 1988 our Mill Hill Chapter endorsed the decision taken by the 1982 Chapter to accept
candidates from Africa and Asia, where we have roots i.e. where we have worked. I was very
happy with that decision. Two candidates came to do their stage at Bolómba : Stan Bondoko
and a younger one from Baríngá.
They lived at the mission but had to fend for themselves. They were teachers in our
secondary school, lived in a teacher’s house, prepared their lessons, cooked for themselves,
participated in the Basic Christian Community of Bolómba and in all our religious services,
worked for Harry to earn some money to contribute to their fare once they would go to
Uganda. On top of that, they had to learn English under my guidance. But this did not work.
When they arrived in Jinja (Uganda), they hardly understood a word of English. Stanislaus
Bondoko kept going; the other candidate was advised to return home.
So this way of preparing candidates was not very satisfactory. Moreover, our candidates were
spread out over several parishes. Bishop Matóndo gave us the advice to establish one centre
of formation so as to give the Mill Hill programme a face.
In the first months of 1990 our new Superior General, Maurice McGill, and his vicar-general,
Fons Eppink, participated in our annual local Mill Hill assembly. They proposed to have a
formation centre, a residential one, with full time formation. It was to be located at the
mission of Baríngá where two candidates had already finished their first year. And I was to
be in charge.
How did I feel about it? In a way I felt relieved of the charge and the heavy task of being
responsible for Byng. I hoped that someone would be sent there who could do better than
I did. Moreover, I believed in accepting African Candidates. I had pushed for the acceptance
of Third-World Candidates and so I should try to implement its realisation. I felt it was not
only a challenge but also a privilege and a chance to assist men from Basnkusu diocese to
participate in the missionary work throughout the world.
But I felt I was not a good judge of people. However, the local assembly parried that I had a
lot of experience in working with youth. I should take courage. Yes indeed, I had a lot of
experience with youth by teaching for 18 years, by working with scouts and with the Youth
of the Light in Bokákata and Bolómba, by teaching Bible to the novices of the brothers in
Abunákombo and by looking after the seminarians of the Home in Bokákata. So I accepted to
start the formation centre.
I soon found a name: CEFAS namely Centre de Formation ‘Aimer et Servir.’ It was a sort of
wink to CEFCAD, the former catechist school in Mampoko, and to Abbé Pierre Kephas. It was
to be a centre, a place where people gather and from where they go forth; not a house where
people stay put inside the four walls. Amare et Servire, to Love and to Serve, is our
founder’s, Cardinal Vaughan’s, motto. It is a challenge put before the candidates and the
‘formators’ too.
Life in CEFAS.
Cefas was a new venture; later it was called basic formation. I had never heard of that
appellation in our Society. Only several years later I heard there was a Basic Formation
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Centre in Dublin. But in our diocese bishop Matóndo had something like it; he called it a year
of initiation; his seminarians had to spend such a year before starting philosophy in Bamanya
near Mbándáká. In this initiation year Matóndo made his candidates reflect on the general
vocation of being a Christian and only then on specific vocations: vocations of married life,
religious life, the life of a lay person, the priestly life and the missionary life. But before
mentioning those vocations I would still put the general vocation of a human being as a
creature or religious being. I hoped it would give the candidates a clear idea about the
vocation of a Mill Hiller.
Congolese Rite at Baríngá church.
The students needed to learn English, that
was a great priority since they would continue
their studies in Anglophone East Africa.
Because of so much time spent on English,
our basic training and formation were spread
out over two years. We had four classes a day,
six days a week.
Apart from classes and study, the candidates
had many other activities. They had to look
for food themselves (they received one
guilder a person a day). Some women prepared cassava bread and cassava leaves for them.
They bought fish and meat from fishermen and hunters. They prepared the meat or fish
themselves. They catered for their own firewood and drinking water. They also had a
vegetable garden.
We had Mass with the parish at 6am. We formed a team to give in turns a reflection on the
gospel of the day: Kees de Lange and myself, the parish assistant, the headmaster and ... our
candidates! They were also leaders of the Youth of the Light, and helped me in the vocations’
group. One year we went to Djlu and Símbá, and gave there the session ‘The Church and
the World’. Father René, the dean of the Djlu area, fetched and brought us back in his
Toyota. But as for the other years, I would have liked they had done more apostolate. They
should also have done more sports, but they had too many obligations.
I myself lived in the presbytery, and had my meals with Father Kees and Brother Gerrit. The
tasty steaks from Gerrit’s cows remained an attraction. Gerrit built for Cefas a little kitchen
and two buildings with five rooms each. We also built a house for a second formator. Piet van
Vliet came from Basnkusu to put on the roof of galvanised iron sheets. He did so speedily
and expertly.
The first two years I gave all the classes myself as there was only one year of candidates.
Then Francis Hannaway, a MHM associate, helped us for two years. He was a good teacher. I
noticed the difference he brought about in the students’ English. After he left us, Mwáko
Hubert volunteered to come and teach English. He had studied English at the Kinshásá
university. He and his family lived in the new house built for the second formator. Hubert was
a former pupil and colleague of mine in Bokákata, and a great co-worker in Bolómba. He was
a great example to the students as to his family life especially.
We had a lot of visitors. Our colleagues of the Bongandó parishes often spent a night with us
on their way to and from Basnkusu. Jim Fanning came from East Africa once, and Fons
Eppink from Mill Hill a few times. Our Superior General also came to see us as well as Tom
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Sinnot. I had the privilege to participate in the formators’ meeting in Jinja (Uganda) in 1992,
organised by Fred Franklin. Later on, with the roads becoming worse and worse, very few
visitors dropped in.
Bad news from Holland:
In 1996, on 18 June, when Kees de Lange and the Cefas were on holiday and I had only the
company of Brother Gerrit, Jan van Luijk called me up on the radio. He had bad news:
My mother had died on 15 June. It happened very
suddenly: she did not feel well, the doctor was
called and came. She died in the doctor’s arms, with
a final deep sigh. Jan asked me whether I wanted to
go home. He gave me fifteen minutes to decide. He
was to pass on the answer to the procure in
Kinshásá. From there the message would go via
Brussels and Antwerp to Odijk, to my elder brother
John. I resolved not to go, since going to the burial
would mean that I had to leave Gerrit alone. It
wasn’t sure at all whether I could make it in time for
the burial. I would be exhausted by the journey. I
had once talked about mother’s possible death with
my brother John and his wife Cor and they did not think it necessary for me to come. So my
answer to Jan was that I would not go. Everybody proved to be very sympathetic: fellow
missionaries, diocesan clergy and the parishioners of Baríngá. That evening we had a vigil
and an evening Mass the next day. I still thank God for having given me such a good and
wise mother. She was very proud of me, perhaps too proud. Every time I left for Congo, I
used to recommend her into the hands of God, as an oblation. ‘Whoever leaves father and
mother… for my sake…’ Later I received a video of her Requiem Mass and funeral. It helped
me to mourn and to let go. My mum was 89 when she died. My dad had died already in 1953
at the age of 45.
Hútu militia:
On 22 March 1997 Gerrit, Kees and myself were having breakfast when suddenly by radiocall Jan van Luijk asked our attention. The message was: ‘come immediately to Basnkusu.’
The reason was that armed Hútu militia were approaching. We left one hour later, taking with
us our three Cefas students. We covered the 180 km to Basnkusu in six hours, a record time,
thanks to our good driver Délicat! At Basnkusu we, the Mill Hillers, decided that all of us
would leave for Europe. Only John Kirwan insisted on staying. I wanted to stay too, for the
Cefas students’ sake. But my proposition was not accepted. And indeed I doubt now whether
I would have been able to stand the strain. John Kirwan promised to look after the students.
They stayed with the Abanda family for six weeks, then went home. Thirteen Mill Hillers left
by plane on 25 March. That same day well-armed Hútu militia entered our Baríngá parish
and looted especially Kees’ and Gerrit’s rooms.
I hoped to be able to return to Congo as soon as possible. But we had to wait for quieter
times, and so, encouraged by John McCluskey, I followed a renewal course in St Anselm’s,
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Margate, Kent, a course for leaders and formators. It proved to be a very good course. It
finished on 14 August. I got a lift to Vrijland from our Superior General, Fr Maurice McGill.
I still had to wait till 22 September when we all went back to Congo. Yes, the name Zaire had
been abolished and the old name Congo reintroduced. We arrived at Baríngá 25 September,
exactly six months after our departure on 25 March. People gave us a warm welcome. We
looked around. The veranda was as before and the refectory was all right too. But the storeroom was empty. In my own room I found back my own courses and my books. The stock of
soap, oil, salt, rice and sardines for Cefas had disappeared. But most things were there.
Hubert Mwáko, my helper and English teacher, had looked well after my possessions and
after Cefas.
Sunday Mass in Baríngá main church.
But Kees and Gerrit had lost practically everything. Later Kees found out that the two people
he trusted most and to whom he had entrusted the keys of the mission, had stolen more than
anyone else. It was very disheartening. Mwáko told me how after the first wave of soldiers he
had taken all my things out of my room to his house and during the night had hidden
everything in the toilets of the Cefas as they have been constructed at some distance. His own
things he had buried in his henhouse. At the third wave of Rwandan soldiers, a man from the
nearby village led them to my room. They forced the door and stole some things. The door
remained open for two days as Mwáko and most people were hiding in the forest. On coming
out of the forest Hubert nailed the door up.
Before starting the normal classes, we all shared among us what had happened. The students
had remained in Basnkusu for seven weeks. Then they left for their respective villages and
travelled for six weeks, arriving home just when their parents came out of the forest. They
had been wondering what would happen, because everybody thought we had left for good. Fr
John Kirwan had been a great support for them and had restored their trust and hope. After
five days of sharing we started classes again, hoping that the new leader Kabíla would
establish peace in the country. The diminishing number of visitors was a strong indication
that the roads had become impassable and that Baríngá had become isolated. Basnkusu
would be a better place for Cefas, all agreed. So Harry started to prepare a new Cefas next to
the Mill Hill Central House. He bought a plot, made bricks of anthill soil, drew up plans,
bought murram and so on. It would be needed sooner that we thought.
Threats:
After some time, the diocesan committee of the laity sent a letter to all the parishes inviting
them to report on what had happened and what role the laity had played. Kees called a
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meeting of his pastoral team, inviting also Mwáko. Bakli happened to be absent. Many
talked openly about the past events. It was said that the counsellor and primary-school
headmaster Bakli and the parish assistant Delikú had stolen more than anybody else. These
two culprits were soon informed of what transpired at the meeting.
A few days later Bakli’s wife visited Mwáko’s wife. They started quarrelling and fighting. At
a certain moment, Mwáko’s wife butted the other with the head in such a way that Bakli’s
wife’s two lower teeth broke off and fell out of her mouth. This led to still more fighting.
Mwáko tried to separate them, but no way. He called me and Kees. We separated the two
women. But Bakoli's wife did not want to stop; she kept on screaming. Her daughter came
with a machete in her hand. At that Mwáko took a hoe. I got hold of the big knife and Kees
sent Mwáko away. Then came Bakli’s son with a machete and a spear. I shepherded Mwáko
and his wife into their new house. I went inside too to calm them down. The boy with the
spear started menacing Kees as if he wanted to pierce him. Finally Bakli himself entered the
scene, seeing his wife minus two teeth, he took his little bible out of his pocket and put it in
the pocket of Kees’ shirt, saying: ‘Today you have robbed me of my faith.’ Then the family
went home, Kees retired to his room and the Mwáko’s fled into the forest but came back later
on to pass the night in the refectory of our presbytery.
Bakoli’s wife was taken to Basnkusu. She went on to Kinshásá and was fitted with a small
denture. Kees paid everything.
The next day, when Mwáko was sitting in my room next to the door and we were chatting,
Bakli entered, grabbed Mwáko in his neck, opening with a click the knife he held in his free
hand. But Mwáko struggled himself loose. I stood up and came round from behind my desk.
Then Bakli withdrew, saying menacingly to Mwáko: ‘I will get you later.’ This attack on
Mwáko in my own room shocked me deeply.
After this attack it was clear Mwáko could not stay in Baríngá. The family passed the night in
my bedroom. I slept behind my front door. The next morning our driver Délicat took the
family out of harm’s way to Basnkusu. From then on I also gave Mwáko’s English classes
besides my own.
From the day Bakli’s son menaced Kees with a spear, the latter did not feel well. Moreover,
Bakli came to bother Kees time and again, demanding payment for all the work he had done
for the parish, asking specifically for corrugated iron sheets for his house in the village. Kees
suffered more and more from pain in his stomach. Baríngá hospital’s senior nurse gave him
antibiotics, which did not help. He confided to me it might well be cancer. Kees decided to go
to Basnkusu. There the doctor gave him more antibiotics, and sent him on to Kinshásá
where they referred him to Europe. Kees suffered a lot in Vrijland. He had cancer of the
pancreas. People admired him for his patience and good humour. He died 14 June 1998 at the
age of 69.
As Kees had left, I had also the parish on my hands. I did what I could. I said all the daily
Masses and the Sunday Mass with a homily. I paid the workmen, provided pens and
copybooks to the schools, all that besides my work in Cefas as Mwáko was at Basnkusu.
Brother Gerrit continued his work and took charge of the kitchen of the mission.
As Kees was gone, Bakli’s aggression turned against me. He had heard rumours about
measures that were going to be taken against him. One afternoon we had a long chat. He said:
‘If they take measures against me, I am going to kill you.’ I did not take it seriously. But his
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teachers came to warn me. ‘Be careful. He really means to hurt you, to kill you. He wounded
his own daughter, remember!’ Then I realised how dangerous the situation was. I passed a
restless night without any sleep. I realised that I could not stand the tension any longer. The
Cefas was to move to Basnkusu soon anyway; that had already been decided. I reasoned
that, if someone menaces me and I withdraw, I won’t be hurt and the other will not be able to
commit the crime he is planning. So I took the decision: ‘We are off to Basnkusu tomorrow.’
The students agreed immediately as Bakli had menaced them as well. Via the radio-call both
Harry and Bishop Matóndo gave their assent. At first Gerrit did not want to leave, but later
gave in. I continued giving classes so as to rouse no suspicions with Bakli. We stealthily
packed our belongings. After dinner we all got into our Toyota, and drove off and passed
Bakli’s house before he could react. We all heaved a big sigh of relief when we left the
nearby village of Bóílinga behind us. We were on our way to Basnkusu. It was 15 December
1997, at 1.20pm. We passed the night at Waka and the next day we arrived safely at
Basnkusu. Everybody was happy that things had ended well. I was the happiest of them all!
With Cefas at Basnkusu:
As our move to Basnkusu was realised months earlier than planned, nothing was ready yet.
Even the Mill Hill Central House wasn’t finished yet. Fr Harry was still staying at Mpoma.
Only the Cefas refectory and kitchen were ready. But our three candidates received two
visitors’ rooms in the Mill Hill Central House as their sleeping-quarters; a third room would
serve as a classroom. Gerrit and Harry went to Baríngá to fetch some of our belongings.
Three days before Christmas Harry and myself moved into the new house.
At the start it proved difficult to procure sufficient food for the students. Moreover, some Mill
Hillers were of the opinion that formation at Basnkusu should be stopped. After some
hesitation, it was decided to continue the formation programme as long as valid candidates
would present themselves. Harry would build rooms and classrooms and a unit for the
formator, next to the central house. For the time being I received a big room in the Central
House.
Moving Cefas to Basnkusu was a big change all
right. Baríngá was a small out-of-the-way place,
whilst Basnkusu was for us an important centre with
several Mill Hillers living there or nearby. René
Graat, the bishop’s secretary, and John Kirwan offered
to give classes. Harry helped out in whatever material
need. We found a cook: Mamá Charlotte, mother of
six children and abandoned by her husband. The candidates had many friends in town. We
participated in the liturgy in the Cathedral. During the week we used the chapel of the Mill
Hill Central House. There were some shops (with mostly empty shelves), a central market
and some government offices.
But basically we carried on as before: the same timetable, the same programme, and one
might say, the same routine. But there is never much routine in a formation house. One may
present the same matter but every year one interacts with another group of students that have
their own questions and that have their own personalities. Life is always new and surprising.
A few times I had a very fast heartbeat. The Congolese MSF doctor prescribed some valium
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tablets and told me to do some brisk walking, twenty minutes a day, which I did though at a
moderate pace.
The big event of the year 1998 took place on the 30th of August: the ordination of our first
Congolese Mill Hiller, Stan Bondoko. It was a great joy for all, and a great example for all
young men, but especially for the Cefasians. Stan was appointed to East Africa.
His ordination was to be the last ordination by Bishop Matóndo at Basnkusu. He was soon
moved by Rome to Gbadolíte, the home of Mobútu, to establish peace between opposing
factions in that diocese. Matóndo had been for me a guru, a teacher-father. I owe him very
much. Even though he had sacked me from the home for seminarians at Bokákata, I never
thought of it when he visited us and presented his latest ideas and plans. Before moving to
Baríngá, I had written him a letter about the sacking, and handed it over to him personally.
He gave some kind of answer, but I put the whole question aside. It is sad he is so ill these
days.
Harry worked very hard on the new Cefas building. He finished it and went on leave in May
1999 together with Brother Otto. The seminarians moved into the new building. I stayed in
the central house to keep an eye on it. Like at Baríngá, we listened every day at 6pm. to the
BBC world news for five minutes. I used to record the emission and used the contents as a
lesson in general knowledge.
Bémba rebels:
New clouds were gathering in the North. Bémba, a rich businessman, started his own
liberation movement with his own liberation army in the north of Congo, in Mobútu’s former
homeland. Bémba advanced slowly to the south, crossed the big Congo River, captured
Bongándángá and Kdr and was then aiming at Basnkusu. The government army tried
to oppose him, day and night. They asked me not to run our generator after nightfall,
otherwise they would not hear the rebels approach via the Lulónga River, which flows at 250
metres from our house. I complied. The whole month of November a cannon nearby used to
fire away ever so often. It was nerve-racking.
On 30 November 1999, in the morning, there was a lot of shooting. It came from all sides.
Where could we go? We put the tables in the refectory against the wall and hid underneath
whenever the shooting became more intense. We sat and read the psalms. That calmed the
tension within us. We were scared; when we had to urinate, we did not dare to leave the
room. Instead we utilised plastic flasks, which we emptied out of the window. Towards
evening long rows of soldiers passed by. Were they rebels? ‘Do, please, close the shutters’, I
asked. Only minutes later a bullet hit the shutter where Mamá Charlotte was sitting. It would
have hit her if the shutter had still been open. Her compliance saved her.
The night was calm. I slept in my own bed. The boys slept under the tables. The next morning
the rebels came and requisitioned Harry’s car for the war effort. I feigned not to have the key
of the garage. Then a soldier told a small boy to hold the padlock in the right position, aimed
his gun and shot at the padlock held by the frightened boy. It sprung open.
Later, a man who said he was an officer’s helper came and asked for water. I refused fearing
we wouldn't have peace anymore once the soldiers would rely on our water-supply.
Still later a soldier came and asked one of our seminarians for his belt; he insisted and the boy
gave it to him. No wonder the seminarians felt very unsafe. The rebel soldiers camped all
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around us at the airstrip, at only 100 metres away from our house. Our boys asked to be
allowed to go to their relatives or friends in town. I let them go. After their departure I felt
very much alone. Fortunately René invited me to come and stay with him in the bishop’s
house. I went there before dark on my Puch moped. Mamá Charlotte carried my bag with my
most important belongings under her wrapper. After dark the captain of the rebels came and
met the Mill Hillers at the bishop’s house and assured us that we would be protected, and that
we even could go to Uganda by plane if we wished. We chose to remain with the people.
Once we would be gone, when would we return? That night I slept like a log.
The next morning one of the Abbés heard that the rebels were looting our Mill Hill house. He
went to see the captain, who asked for a lift on the Abbé’s motorbike. The captain entered the
Mill Hill compound, went into Harry’s room and shot one of the three looting rebels. The
other two carried their friend towards the hospital but the wounded man died on the way.
It was astonishing how they stole so much so quickly. They had emptied the kitchen, the
storeroom including the freezer, Harry’s bedroom and his sitting-room. In his office they had
taken the satellite radio-call. I crawled into my own room through a gaping hole in the door,
since they had kicked out the lower panel. They had left my books, the dirty bedding and the
mattress, but they had taken all my clothes, the sheets, radio, cassette recorder, photocopier,
medicine and so on. But they had not entered my storeroom where I kept Harry’s moped and
two bicycles, nor the chapel nor the Cefas building. They had only been in the Cefas
refectory and kitchen. The candidates had hidden many things on the ceiling of their rooms. I
only dared to approach the Central House three days later. In the meantime, Brother Marinus
had boarded up the various places.
For nearly a month I stayed with René in the bishop's house, giving classes there in the
morning and going to the Mill Hill compound in the afternoon to clean up the place. When
one has lost nearly everything, even a piece of carton becomes valuable. I found a tablet
against river blindness underneath my emptied cupboard; it became at once a treasure. The
next day a boy asked for exactly that kind of medicine for his father and he received the
tablet.
Was I angry at the rebels? Yes, I was. But then I heard that they had not been paid for months
and had not eaten for days when they entered Basnkusu, and my anger cooled down. One
day I stood in front of my room and stared at the spot where an old mama used to sit
presenting her paw-paw fruits. I remembered how I used to haggle over the price of the pawpaws. And I felt ashamed about myself. I had been no better than these robbing rebels. At that
thought I could forgive them.
Each time before going to the Mill Hill House, I used to take a quarter of a valium tablet. I
was scared of the soldiers who were camping round the airstrip and near our house. I was
afraid of the daily government plane which would drop one crude bomb, filled with nails and
other pieces of metal. Often enough it would not even explode. These bombs never killed or
wounded anybody. But it was very terrifying; it was pure terror. At first we would run and lie
down in our one-man holes. But the scare wore off, first with the seminarians and later with
me. I stayed with René till after Christmas. Then the students and I moved back to Cefas. We
celebrated the millennium with a service of thanksgiving and asked for forgiveness.
Gradually we got used to the rebel soldiers around us. They were fairly disciplined, also
thanks to the Ugandan soldiers who received their regular pay.
Via Cameroons:
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At Cefas we had a first and a second year. The second year was to continue its formation in
Jinja, Uganda. And those who had finished their first year - so it had been decided, - were to
do their second year of basic formation in Bamenda, Cameroons. The problem was how to
travel to these two countries. Normally people could fly to Kinshásá and from there proceed
to Uganda or Cameroons. But we lived in rebel territory, cut off from Kinshásá. The only
way was to cross the northern frontier and move into the Central African Republic. But none
of us had ever passed that way. I decided to accompany our seminarians on the way to
Cameroons and from there to continue myself to Europe. We could fly to the Central African
Republic since Bémba had a plane. How did he get it? On 1 December, the day after the
rebels had entered Basnkusu, a plane approached Basnkusu and landed on the airstrip. As
quick as lightning the rebels surrounded the plane, which carried food, fuel and ammunition.
These items were destined for the government troops. But these troops had not yet informed
Kinshásá that the rebels had captured Basnkusu. The rebels were very grateful for the food
and especially for the plane. And I was grateful too, as it would allow us to leave the Congo.
The rebel plane used to come to Basnkusu about twice a week. Father Jan arranged that we,
like many other people, could fly north. But our patience was put to the test. Only when, for
the seventh time, we presented ourselves fully packed, could we indeed board the plane. By
chance this was the plane with which Harry and Otto arrived. We had hardly greeted one
another, when we were called to board the plane. We quickly entered the Antonov by its tailend. These planes open by their tail-ends for people, cargo and even for trucks. There were
some wooden benches along the sides with ropes for us to hold on to. We were quickly in
Gbadolíte. A kind priest took us to the border formed by the Ubangi River. We crossed into
the Central African Republic. After a day’s waiting, we got a place in a small pick-up, already
full of goods and people. For some of the seminarians it was their very first ride in a car. In
the middle of the night, somewhere on the road, the pick-up stopped: the fuel was finished.
Someone went ahead on a bike to the next town to buy diesel. We slept in a dry ditch along
the road. We arrived in the capital Bangui the next day, red like Indians due to the dust of the
road. The procurator there had been in radio contact with Fr Jan van Luijk in Basnkusu. He
got us on the plane to Yaounde, the capital of Cameroon. From there we took the bus to
Bamenda. We arrived exhausted but proud of our odyssey. I confided our seminarians to the
good care of Sister Angela.
Separation:
The next Sunday we went to church. It happened to be the celebration of the Mill Hiller Fr
Joseph Boekema’s golden jubilee. The church was packed. The bishop was there and a lot of
priests. I was invited onto the sanctuary to concelebrate. It happened to be my ruby jubilee.
At the first occasion our second-years went on to Jinja, the first-years joined the community
of the basic formation at Bamenda. I had delivered the candidates, I had done my job, I could
now relax. I started looking around. On a noticeboard near the bishop’s house I found an
invitation from an English university to Cameroonian students to come and study there. It
was around that time that a whole bunch of Cameroonian students walked out of Mill Hill St
Joseph’s College to join universities in England. Would there have been a connection?
I visited some parishes, especially Piet Droog’s parish at the foot of Mount Cameroon. We
celebrated our forty years of priesthood together. I went on to Europe, to Oosterbeek, and
from there on to St Anselm’s in Margate, Kent and joined the course on 3 October 2000.
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Early 2001 the General Council decided to suspend or close down Cefas. I was most
surprised and very unhappy about the decision. I had expected that the Review Board would
first report on Congo. And what was I going to do myself? Would I go back to Congo and do
something else like family apostolate? Bishop Mkb wrote I could work for the domestic
church. But I did not understand that term. So I left it to the General Council to judge where
the need was greatest, in Congo or elsewhere in Africa. One day Fr John Taylor met me and
said: ‘Ben, come to India.’ I was surprised and attracted to the idea, as I held John in high
esteem. ‘Well, if they send me, I will go.’ India attracted me more and more and I told Fr Jac
Kirchler, member of the General Council, about it. One day our Superior General, Fr Jacques
Hetsen himself, came to St Anselm’s and asked me if I would accept to go to India. I replied:
‘Yes, I do, but, please, give me one more year in St Anselm’s to adjust my mind, and prepare
for such a big change.’ And so I was withdrawn from Basnkusu diocese and sent to India. I
left for India on 1 October 2002.
When leaving Congo in 2000, I expected to come back. I left without taking leave, leaving
behind all my books, all my friends and an experience of 37 years. I had, however, a chance
to return and have a last look in 2006 when via Kenya and Uganda I visited Basnkusu and
Bokákata. From there I returned to India.
God, bless Congo!
Ben Jorna.
Note of the editor: Ben was nicknamed Movímba, because, when Ben becomes embarrassed, his head flushes.
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20. Fr Pierre Spanjers
Congo memories (1962 – 1989):
Congo instead of Borneo.
It was a great experience when the DC-3 took off from
Léopoldville to take us to Basnkusu in November 1962. A
week earlier we had arrived in Léopoldville by train from
Matádi, after a relaxing 17-day sea voyage from Antwerp to
Congo. I travelled with two fellow Mill Hill missionaries:
Brother Piet Vos and Fr Wim Hoenderboom. Léopoldville
was a rather sad city that year: the shops were almost
completely empty, except for a lonely tin of sardine on a
shelf. It was two years after Independence.
Congo had not been my first choice. I wanted to go to
Borneo. My missionary vocation had started when a Mill
Hill missionary, named Fr Harry van Erp, came to our public
school in Oss, where I was a student, to show us slides of Borneo. I was so impressed that I
wanted to be a Mill Hill missionary in Borneo myself, just like Harry van Erp, and live with
such people in the jungle. But I was sent to Congo, and now I was hoping to see the same
jungle.
But looking out of the airplane window I didn’t see any jungle, until the scene below began
to change and the jungle was there and was going to stay with me for the next 27 years.
After a two-hour flight we arrived in Basnkusu. It was great to have arrived. In the
afternoon I had my first shock. We were invited to a siesta in the guest-house, and as I lay on
the bed, not able to sleep on that first day, I saw the grass from outside growing underneath
the door and covering part of the floor inside the room. Disgusting! And this is only the
beginning, I said to myself.
Mampoko instead of Byng.
The bishop of Basnkusu, William van Kester, had appointed me to Byng and Fr Wim
Hoenderboom to Mampoko. But the vicar-general decided to swap the appointments, with
no reasons given, at least not to me. So I was to take the steamer to Mampoko, a two-day
trip to a mission station more than a hundred kilometres downstream.
It was a primitive journey. The captain, Joseph was his name, gave me the only cabin there
was on the boat, if you could call it a cabin. The toilet nearby was completely flooded with
water, and when I asked the captain how to use the flooded area, a man was told to solve
the problem. He dumped some pieces of firewood in the water and said to me: ‘Stand on
top of them’. My second experience of adaptation!
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When on the second day we saw Mampoko at a distance, people enthusiastically shouted at
me: Mampoko! It had been a slow journey. The steamer was pushed forward by means of a
huge wheel at the back, such as they used on the Mississippi River at the time, energised by
firewood. “Paka-paka” was the sound the wheel made in the water, and so the people called
the steamer by that name. They are fond of onomatopoeias, names based on sounds.
As we drew closer to the beach I saw many people waiting for the boat; among them were
my future companions: Fr Zachary Krijgsman, the parish priest and Br Hugo Brits. Krijgsman
was later succeeded by Fr Piet de Groot and shortly by Jan Janssen. From 1965 till 1978 I
enjoyed the company of Henk Noordman.
They came to greet what they thought was the visitor they were expecting. They were not
pleasantly surprised when they found out that it was me, the newcomer. And to make
matters worse, I was to stay and take the place of Gerrit van den Arend who was appointed
to Basnkusu. To console them I showed them the two bags of cement I had brought with
me, so they could finally install their new generator and have electricity. But that was off the
mark: the two bags were left to harden on the beach and were finally dumped. Our only
light for years to come would be generated by Aladdin-mantle and hurricane lamps.
Mail:
Mampoko is quite isolated from the rest
of the diocese. There are no roads, no
cars, only indigenous canoes and our
‘pakapaka’ steamer. It was this boat that
took and brought our mail at best once a
week. So we always looked forward to its
next arrival. But letters from home could
take a long time. Communication to and
fro could take 3 months. Once I received a
packet of a Dutch weekly (Katholieke
Illustratie) that had been sent off from the
Netherlands more than 10 years earlier!
The pages were all yellow but still intact.
Lingmb:
“It will take you about a year to learn the language”, they told me. But they never said that
this language was very different from European languages. So I began the wrong way.
Lingmb, the language of the Ngmb people, is a tonal language like other Bantu
languages. After about two years of swatting to learn all the words, I noticed that I spoke
very differently from the way the people did. I then invited people to conversations which,
with their permission, I registered on a tape-recorder. Afterwards I listened to each
conversation until I could (more or less) speak like they did. It became clear to me that I had
to learn all the words again, now with the proper tones. Especially the tones of the verbs
needed careful study. It was a tedious job to learn a language a second time. But the people
encouraged me, they said: ‘you, white people with your machines, you can do anything;
they even make you speak our language!’
I remember one day the parish priest saying loudly to the people at his doorstep: “Basnzi!”
(monkeys! uncivilised people!). The people felt duly offended. What he meant to say was:
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“Básnzi!” which means: they changed (in this case: the value of stamps to put on a letter)
How ‘ba’ (low tone) instead of ‘bá’ (high tone) can change the meaning completely and
cause real embarrassment.
Apostolate:
Apart from looking after the primary schools in the parish, I was also to visit the villages for
pastoral work. I would go for a few days, even a week, and come back again. The parish
priest told me I had to take a cook along, so that he would prepare food for me. But the man
was constantly drunk in the villages. I not only felt hungry, but also very ashamed. I decided
never to take a cook with me again, and to completely rely on the people to feed me.
At the beginning I did everything on a bicycle which I had brought from home. It was the
Union bicycle my father had still used during the war! But later on a Puch (moped) arrived,
which made the work so much easier. The children gave me a new name, which they would
chant aloud as I passed by on my Puch: Yóndoko!! It is the name of a small bird that comes
flying into the village and out again into the jungle at fast speed.
"Missionaries to Yourselves”:
My apostolate began to change when I heard the Comboni missionaries in Congo say that
we should let the Africans convert the Africans. Pope Paul VI, speaking to the African Bishops
in Uganda in 1969 had used the expression: "missionaries to yourselves”. Hence it was clear
to me that training people was more important than doing village apostolate myself.
I began with a three-day retreat somewhere in a village to explain this. The success of these
three days was enormous. Not so much because of my input, but because of a huge
elephant people had killed the day before we started. There was so much food for everyone
that God must have been the one who wanted this meeting.
A concrete decision was that they should no longer wait for the missionaries to cover their
churches with iron sheets, but that they should all help one another to do so. The first
church was covered in 1970. I remember the enormous feast we had in that village. They
now called it: our church! What I liked about the feast was the way they organised it. All
those who came to the feast from all the villages brought their tools and worked the whole
morning to make a new field, which was the start of fund-raising for iron roofs of the church
building in the next village. It must have been a very festive morning, singing and working all
together until the field was ready for planting. Luckily I was only invited for the afternoon!
CEFCAD:
Pope Paul VI’s message had reached the rest of the diocese and the bishop was asked to set
up a centre for training catechists. Mampoko was chosen for this, and Fr Gerrit van den
Arend came back to Mampoko to set it up. This was in 1968.
I was happy to participate, but it meant learning a new language: Lingála, as the catechists
came from three different tribes, each one having its own language. Lingála, a kind of lingua
franca, was the only language the three tribes had in common. I still remember preparing a
lesson, writing it down carefully word by word, reading it out to the catechists, telling them
not to ask any questions as I would certainly not hear what they were saying, let alone be
able to answer.
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The centre was named CEFCAD (Centre de Formation des Catéchistes-Animateurs de
Développement), expressing that development was to be part of their task. A Dutch lady, Jo
Lammerse, trained the catechists’ wives in the same spirit.
As I worked both in the parish and at the CEFCAD, I could combine the two. With the help of
the catechists we made a book for the Sunday Services in the villages, with a sermon for
each Sunday, and a new catechism which followed a more African style with stories instead
of the question-answer method.
NT in Lingmb.
Whilst staying at Mampoko I took a real interest in the local language, Lingmb. I came to
realise that knowing the language well makes one communicate with people on a deeper
level. I liked working on the dialect, the Lijenga, as it is spoken at Mampoko. To give people a
real taste of the Bible, I wanted to offer them a good translation of the Bible in Lingmb.
1. As I translated the four Gospels into Lingmb. I worked together with Lucas Iyóma who
had worked hand in hand with Father Harry van Thiel at Kdr. I asked Mr Iyóma to come
to Mampoko, because we found the Kdr dialect called Miwéa more classical. Of course
the Mampoko people did not quite agree! We worked together for many years. In 1973 the
Saint Paul Printing Press in Kinshásá published the booklet under the name “Bwndi Bópélé”
(Good News). Father Nol Jurgens (mhm) who worked at the time for the Bible Association in
Stuttgart assured the financing of the publication. We had finished also other parts of the
New Testament when Bishop Matóndo insisted on using Lingála in the liturgy and in
catechetics. Big wooden boxes full of copies had been sent to all the Ngmb parishes, but
most copies were left undistributed after the change over to Lingála. That was painful for us,
after all the effort and time we had put in the work, but perhaps it was the best way forward
for the people.
2. Time spent in the villages was ideal to appreciate the local culture. I began to gather their
songs, stories, proverbs, wrote some kind of grammar and with the help of schoolchildren
composed a Dutch-Lingmb dictionary. The following persons assisted me in making that
dictionary: Isidore bongíti, Henri Bomwenga, Yángala Alphonse and tongola Jean.
3. With the help of Lucas Iyóma I published a booklet with Lingmb proverbs. We made
another booklet in two parts with the explanation of each proverb.
Ggaba Institute, Kampala:
In 1972 Bishop van Kester sent me to the Ggaba catechetical school in Kámpalá, Ugánda.
The following year the Institute moved to Eldoret in Kenya owing to the troubles caused by
President Idi Amin Dada and his henchmen. For the first time I was able to share and
compare my experiences with so many other missionaries. And I began to read again! That
was a grace in itself.
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Basic Christian Communities, as practised in South America, were in at the time. So back at
Mampoko I started with evening prayers and sharing once a week in little groups. It was not
very successful and in fact it died a natural death.
What was very successful were the committees we set up in each village. Committee
members became as important a factor in the villages as was the catechist. They really
encouraged the Christians to move forward. Each year we organised gatherings of all the
committee members of all the villages together. I remember a meeting in 1973 when had
360 guests for three days in one village. It was a most impressive gathering. The bishop had
given permission to let people drink the chalice by means of “intinction” (dipping the host in
the chalice). People were so happy that they had participated also in drinking the Sacred
Blood. How different from sitting in an office in Léopoldville and work for a press agency, as
I was to do next.
Press Agency DIA:
In 1973 the bishop asked me to replace Fr Jan Spaas who worked for Press Agency DIA in
Léopoldville and was due for holidays. The office work consisted in translating French news
texts from the Vatican into English. It also meant representing the diocese of Basnkusu:
doing the shopping for the diocese, fetching people from the airport, and so on. It was a
good experience for once, but not something I would want to do again. The dull sky and the
fuming cars and the thieves in the streets ready to empty one’s car, made me long for the
bush life in Mampoko.
In 1974 Fr Gerrit van der Arend went to Ggaba and I assumed the responsibilities of the
CEFCAD for a full year. Mr Antoine bongíti assisted me in teaching the catechists.
Bible Studies in Jerusalem:
In April 1975 Matóndo was ordained bishop of Basnkusu. He was the founder of the
movement ‘Youth of the Light’ (Bilng ya Mwínda), which made us all draw in young people
again. He was also a great promoter of “Missionaries to Yourselves”. To enable myself to give
leaders a better training I asked him permission to follow a one-year course of Bible studies
in Jerusalem. He agreed, but the General Council of Mill Hill was more reluctant. At that time
there were no sabbaticals yet. But the Lord was stronger than Mill Hill, because He sent me a
sponsor who paid for all the costs. Mill Hill then reluctantly agreed. In 1981 I went to
Jerusalem to follow bible studies at Ecce Homo and at the Ecole Biblique and participated in
many journeys in the Holy Land, from Mount Hermon to Mount Sinai. The charismatic
movement was also very active in Jerusalem, and it was a great experience to be part of this
movement with so many others.
CAP, Waka:
During my studies in Jerusalem I received an invitation from the bishops of the Equator
province in Congo to set up an interdiocesan catechetical school in Mbándáká. I accepted
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the appointment, but at their next conference the bishops decided it should be set up at
Gémena, and run by the missionaries there.
As Bishop Matóndo was at the conference in 1982, he immediately told me of a new plan he
had for me, namely to set up a CAP (Centre d’Animation Pastorale). I was supposed to form a
mobile team to assist the catechists who had been trained at Mampoko. I chose the parish
of Waka as our base, as it was more or less at the geographical centre of the diocese. The
only drawback was that the language at Waka was Lmng. I could do my work in Lingála,
but once you have tasted a local language, you know how much closer it brings you to the
people. So I started all over again, day after day, to get all the words and tones correct of this
new language.
The parish priest at Waka was Fr Nico Koelman. He was extremely helpful in everything I had
come to do. I still remember the first favour I asked him: could I use his VW-van to make a
trip to Basnkusu, simply for the joy of going so fast to Basnkusu. He agreed, and I enjoyed
it immensely. A two-hour drive at 60 km per hour, instead of travelling a whole day or more
by boat. And it was also my first time to drive a car in the bush!
Waka was the right place. Not only was there much help and appreciation on the part of the
parish priest, but also because I was in easy contact with the bishop, and also with Fr Frans
Kwik, parish priest at Basnkusu. Frans enthusiastically helped me to improve on the
sessions we composed and which we tried out in his parish before we went to other
parishes. I could sometimes get really depressed when the session did not go as I had
wanted, but Frans was always good at seeing the bright side.
Two laymen were with me on the team: Hubert Baende, who had worked with Fr Koelman
for many years as catechist at Waka, and Isidore Mándundu, who had been trained at an
interdiocesan catechetical centre in Kinshásá. The two made a real sacrifice in being away
from home so often.
We were greatly helped in this work by the movement “Eglise-Monde” which was started in
Kinshásá by the Scheut Father Daniel Delanote. We followed their sessions in Kinshásá, used
their publications and with their permission adapted them to our local situation and made
our own publications. These were printed by Epiphanie in Kinshásá: in 1985 “Eklézia mpé
Mokili” (Church and World), and in 1988 “Libála lya Bakrístu” (Christian Marriage). They
became tools not only in our own diocese, but also in other dioceses similar to ours.
Leaving Congo:
It was during one of these sessions somewhere in the diocese that one of the catechists
said: ‘You teach us many skills, but what we need is the spirit to keep it up. Give us more of
that spirit, otherwise even our best intentions won’t keep us going’. I took these words
home with me, and back in Waka I decided I needed to take a year off to renew myself
spiritually and then be able to better share with others.
Mill Hill was now encouraging sabbaticals and in 1989 they readily gave me full permission
to go to the ISL (Institute for Spiritual Leadership) in Chicago where I went together with Fr
Piet Korse. It was great to go together, and I am very grateful for what happened to me
there.
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I stayed for two years. The first year as a participant of the programme, learning spiritual
direction first of all by learning to listen to oneself. The second year as a part-time staff
member, and as a student in spirituality at Loyola University of Chicago.
It was during that second year that Mill Hill asked me to be Rector to our philosophy
students in Jinja, Uganda, which I accepted. Luckily in our Formation House in Jinja there
were some students from the diocese of Basnkusu. Otherwise I would have felt really
homesick for Congo. From 1991 till 1998 I was the Rector of the Mill Hill Formation House
at Jinja (Uganda). From there I went to stay seven months in India.
From 1999 till 2004 I accompanied Religious in Rome.
From 2004 till 2010 I had the responsibility of being the Rector at Missiehuis Vrijland in
Oosterbeek, Holland.
At the moment (2011) I am the spiritual director of the Charitas Sisters at Rooosendaal.
Pierre Spanjers
P.S. Note of the editor: At Basnkusu people nicknamed Pierre Loweya or Yaekáloweya meaning cat on
account of his way of striding along.
21. Fr Frans Lampe:
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The following event happened in 1965:
These days, Father Mahon, our Mill Hill Superior General, has come to Congo for a second
time, because he was informed of our needy and delicate situation. Father Jan Janssen comes
by speedboat from Mampoko mission to thank Father Superior for the Johnson outboard
engine which Mill Hill provided. This gift had come at my request. As a consequence Bishop
van Kester may feel that he has been bypassed.
I notice another passenger in the speedboat. She remains seated. Jan Janssen informs me that
the passenger is a highly pregnant woman with a too narrow pelvic opening. She hopes to
find help in Basnkusu hospital.
Because she can no longer walk, I lift her out of the boat and carry her up the beach towards
the seminary. Father Fons Mertens with his medical knowledge examines her with a
stethoscope and says that the baby is still alive and that she needs urgent help.
I quickly have a bite and bring out the car which we had hidden. In the company of Abbé
Albert we put her in the car and drive her to Basnkusu. I am glad that the Abbé volunteered
to accompany me.
The attending nurse sends someone to call the sister in charge of the hospital. The nurse, the
Abbé and I carry the woman into a ward and give her a bed. She is scared stiff and in pains.
She cries out with sorrow and fear. I commiserate with her. The sympathetic Abbé is able to
console and reassure the woman in her own language. Very soon two sisters turn up and take
the woman into the delivery room on a stretcher. The Abbé and I wait outside the door and
hear the woman moan and cry with pain. We have pity on her though we are not aware of
what is happening in the room. When the sisters leave the delivery room with the woman on
the stretcher, I point out to them that the bleeding has not stopped and that blood is dripping
through the stretcher. The sisters return to the room with the poor woman. When the nuns
take her later to the ward, the woman does not bleed anymore; she does not cry anymore and
she does not move anymore. ‘She has been damaged and lost a lot of blood, but she is still
alive. The baby is dead but I baptised her’. That is the top nurse’s response to my questions.
I sneak behind the sisters into the delivery room in order to see the baby. It is a beautiful girl
whose head has been squeezed together with the obstetric forceps in order to force it through
the narrow pelvic opening. It makes me cry; it upsets me and the Abbé as well. On the way to
the car we are both immensely sad about the woman who has lost her first baby and who is
still in danger on account of the loss of blood and who is physically damaged in such a way
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that she may never experience another pregnancy and that she will never be regarded as a real
woman in her community. Both of us, we are sad about so many other women whose pelvic
bones will never develop properly due to syphilis and whose babies cannot be saved, because
all the available doctors have returned to Belgium, to England or to Italy. They left for good,
because they do not want to risk their lives or those of their families.
On our way back we discuss the chances of survival of the woman whom we took to the
maternity ward; we ask ourselves the question why the sister nurse who assisted at so many
caesarean operations is not allowed to do the operation herself, what the future of the medical
service is going to be in our area, what the Catholic missions can and should do now that the
state, the United Nations and the Protestant mission have withdrawn their personnel owing to
the repeated rebellions. Abbé Albert comes back time and again on the future of the woman
whom we took to the hospital with so much hope and so many expectations! ‘What a misery;
how sad it is!’ Can the Catholic mission really do nothing about this situation?
I lie on top of my bed. Others encourage me but not the bishop nor our Mill Hill Regional
Superior, Frans de Vrught, to try my good luck and convince the Superior General in England
to call me back to Europe and allow me to pursue the studies necessary to become a doctor
and a surgeon so that I complete my otherwise useless university education. I decide to take
the plunge and to write to the Superior General and introduce my request. There is sufficient
reason to expect a favourable answer. I take my decision and fall asleep.
From Mill Hill in Congo 1905-2005.
Note of the editor:
Frans Lampe was deeply touched by the sad medical situation in Basnkusu diocese. He felt himself capable
enough to remedy the situation. He volunteered to help the population in its dire need. We know Mill Hill’s negative
answer to his request. Until his dying days in Vrijland Frans was bitter about Mill Hill’s refusal to allow him to
pursue medical studies for that God- and man-forsaken region of the world. He died convinced that he had failed to
follow his God-given vocation.
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22. Miel van der Hart
Mill Hill and Congo/Basnkusu in retrospect:
September 1959:
The ferry from Hoek van Holland to Harwich in England departed around midnight. This trip
from Herpen to the ferry was an enjoyable outing for my brothers and sisters and my close
friends and neighbours. It was a memorable journey for me: my first definite bordercrossing, my first exodus that brought me definitely outside the narrow confines of my small
country. The final phase of my long preparation for a life as a missionary had arrived.
I don’t have specific memories of my first encounter with the place and the building of Mill
Hill College. I only vividly remember the tiresome dragging of suitcases and other luggage
onto the boat, into the train, into the subway, onto a bus and finally from the bus station
walking through the village and up a steep hill.
Now, looking back, what memories do I recall of the four years in that majestic building?
Sure enough, there are many happy memories: the sports we learned and exercised those
years, the hobbies in all varieties we could embrace, the amusement that brought us the
regular cabaret shows and sketches orchestrated by amongst others John Hogg and Frans
Baartmans. The friendships we developed in the course of those years, some of which would
last a lifetime.
Annoyances too present themselves: the conservative Hanrahan who always stuck to strict
observation of laws and regulations, the boring Duyvesteijn, who taught the most important
part of our study, theology, the unfathomable De Swaaf, but also the funny Fink, the Orson
Welles resembling McLaughlin, the then reigning Superior General.
Of course I remember at least the curriculum of our study: Tanquerey on Spirituality, van
Noort on Theology, Noldin on Moral; all abstract, theoretical stuff that did not have much to
do with the reality we were to face afterwards in Congo or elsewhere.
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If only we would have been slightly prepared for the discovery and interaction with various
cultures we were to encounter shortly. Anthropology should at least have been on top of our
curriculum, or some medical information, or a first-aid course including guidelines how to
treat tropical diseases. And last but not least, they should have added a thorough course on
sexuality, since sexuality was surely going to be the basis of many problems we were going
to face. Alas, nothing of all this……
In retrospect, the lack of all these practical courses is incomprehensible. How on earth did
they think to equip so many capable students, with so little baggage whilst expecting so
much result of their future endeavours?
Why in all those years no moment of doubt arose in my mind whether this was indeed the
correct path for me? I do not recall any hesitation about the question whether I was really
engaged in giving sense to my existence. I did not have any doubts concerning my choice,
nor did I sense a need to look over the walls that surrounded me and that concealed the real
world from my eyes, from my mind and heart. I had eyes fixed only on the realities of my
immediate surroundings. Indeed, the real world was indeed screened off brilliantly. Each
year we enjoyed the privilege of having six days off during which we could “breathe some
fresh air” in London. Most of the time, we filled those days by visiting a museum or the
home of a fellow student. In terms of introduction to pastoral or socio-cultural work in
London nothing was organised. And most astonishingly no attempts were initiated by the
students either!
Without questioning our programme, we followed the course that was set out for us. In one
way or other we were convinced that this was the right course despite inner conflicts or
irritation which we felt at times. And those feelings of irritation or discontent were – so we
were told – due to our own limited lack of understanding of what was good for us.
Gradually the 7th of July 1963 approached, the day we were to dedicate ourselves by
ordination to the priesthood. The momentum of this step was elaborated upon on several
occasions, but somehow the seeds of doubt whether or not to take this step were discarded,
minimised or considered as temptations we all had to face. After all Christ too had his
serious moments of doubt during his stay in the desert. My first serious doubts arose after
and indeed very soon after I had left these protected surroundings. But then it was too
late…..
November 1963: Africa!
Soon all my attention and energy were directed towards the departure for Congo. If I had
had the possibility to choose, I cannot say that I would have chosen Congo as my favourite
mission. As a matter of fact I was rather reluctant to the idea especially since Congo in those
days was a politically very unstable country.
Names like Lumúmba, Kasavúbu, Katánga and Belgian paratroopers became known to
practically everyone because they appeared almost daily in the news bulletins. That country
was in heavy turmoil. And to start my missionary life in such a setting was not a very
palatable idea and beyond doubt it appeared to me a bit early to apply already for
martyrdom!
Why the three of us, Piet Korse, Dick van Veen and myself were chosen for the Congo is
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anybody’s guess. Was there a specific reason on the part of the authorities or was it just a
matter of choosing us at random and hoping for the best?
In any case, I did not feel the enthusiasm which I should have felt. After all, I then belonged
to the happy few who were immediately sent to the missions whilst others had to do some
dull jobs at home or were to continue their studies at a university.
I did not have much time to worry. I had to be practical and start gathering information
about the journey. I had to decide which things to buy or collect. I gathered the items which
I was told were necessary for a missionary and specially for a Congo missionary, because we
were told that hardly anything could be bought in the country itself. I had frequent contact
with our Mill Hill houses in Roosendaal and Antwerp. Piet van Run – a Congo missionary on
holiday, visited Herpen several times in order to acquaint himself with me and my relatives. I
also visited several times the home of Pierre Spanjers, a missionary of my village. Pierre had
left for the Congo a year earlier. Both Piet van Run and Pierre’s brother and sister-in-law gave
me useful information as to what to take along and what to forget about. Suitcases were
bought and filled; the village carpenter made a big wooden box for my bicycle. I filled the
empty spaces in the box with khaki trousers and other clothes. But all these items would be
stolen somewhere along the journey.
One day in October 1963 a large delegation of relatives and friends waved me goodbye from
the quay of Antwerp. The Charlesville, a huge boat for passengers and cargo, started its
three-week journey to Congo at sunset. It was a magnificent journey along the European
and African coasts. Beautiful vistas, blue skies most of the time, a luxury aboard I wasn’t
accustomed to, elaborate dinners, nice people, beautiful women, and all kinds of
distractions organised by the crew. Never a dull moment though I do not remember much of
the other passengers. I think Gerard Overbeek with his beard and moustache must have
been instructed to protect us from too intimate contact with all these mundane matters.
After two and a half weeks we arrived at Lobito where some time was reserved for
unloading and loading cargo. So we had the possibility to visit the town. Angola was still a
Portuguese colony and that European influence was obvious. At the same time it was the
first time that I was surrounded by so many black people, a very special experience. After
these first steps on African soil we set sail again towards and on to the Congo River. Once we
passed between the hills of the Bas-Congo, the surrounding temperature rose to a damp,
sultry and breath-taking height.
In Matádi our luggage was unloaded and we paid a short visit to the mission procure. The
same day or the day after we boarded the train to Léopoldville; this can’t have been a very
long journey, because I do not remember we passed the night on the train. In Léopoldville
we were welcomed by Fr Jan Spaas and at the mission procure by a very kind Scheutist
Father called Etienne Verfaille. He gave the impression of a capable manager in full control
of his elaborate task namely to give temporary board and lodging to numerous missionaries
arriving from Europe or coming in from the greater part of this immense country and to
book their national or international flights. He had already arranged our tickets to
Basnkusu for the next day. It proved to be a flight on a DC-3 for the three of us with
practically no other passengers. We hopped from one window to another, astonished as we
were about the vast equatorial forest that revealed itself beneath us.
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In Basnkusu we were welcomed by the Fathers Jacobse and Verbruggen at the airfield, a
murram strip surrounded by forest and possessing one simple building that functioned as
terminal. I still remember the astonished look on their faces when they saw the beards Piet
and I had cultivated in the course of the last three weeks. For a reason quite
incomprehensible to us, we were forced to shave off our beards; if not, they would not
transport us to our respective mission stations!
First impressions:
The first period in Africa was of course a great
revelation that can hardly be described in
words. My biggest surprise was the common
African lifestyle. Apparently life can also be lived
like this: carefree, light-hearted, cheerful, playful
and sexy in a sunny fascinating landscape.
Everything here was different to what I had seen
so far of the world. Despite the poor conditions
most people seemed to live in, life appeared
intriguing, exciting, and full of surprises: the people, their clothing or the lack of it, their
sunny characters, their way of life, their contacts i.e. their way of interacting, their inimitable
language and their funny gestures. I remember that every week I wrote lengthy letters
home, always filled with fresh anecdotes.
On my journey to the Lingmb region I spent a few days at Bokákata, a mission of Fr Jan
Smit and at some distance from the road the “Teacher Training College" of Cas Sommeling.
Among the teachers were Frs Frans Kwik and Toussaint Goessens. The first day after my
arrival we heard the terrible news of the murder of J.F. Kennedy (22 November). I happened
to be in Frans Kwik’s room listening to the radio when this news crossed the world. After a
few days we went by boat from Bokákata to Wénga, the palm plantation of Mr Désirs, an
enterprising and cordial Walloon. We had to take a boat, because the road between
Bokákata and Wénga was impassable. From Wénga we continued our trip by car to
Abunákombo and to Bolómba, my first mission station.
Bolómba was a small village with the air of a provincial town. The mission was approximately
a mile from the main road. Between the main road and the mission was a swampy area with
lots of croaking frogs. The mission station itself had a fairly large church and a small oblong
bungalow with four rooms. The bungalow possessed a corrugated iron roof. The house did
not have a veranda and there were few trees around the house. Moreover the ceiling was
very low. So I bet you, during the day the house was steaming in that tropical climate right
on top of the equator.
At my arrival I found three priests living in the bungalow: Henk Noordman, a tall man with a
De Gaulle-like stature and radiating the same importance as the French president, Fons
Verbruggen, a cosy Limburger with a boyish, roguish appearance, and Nico van Leeuwen,
nicknamed Bobbes, a mysterious and nervous character.
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Henk Noordman was a highly competent host, always dignified and in control, kind and very
sure of himself. Indeed the adage “La Mission, c’est moi” could easily be attributed to him.
He was the parish priest, although the terms parish priest and curate were not in
use. Manager would be a better name, because in addition to pastoral duties, there were
many other things that needed to be organised. There was always something to be built,
harvested, repaired, transported or arranged.
Then Fons Verbruggen was the one who mainly visited the out-stations. This preference of
his would become clear to me in the course of the months ahead. It had certainly not just a
pastoral basis! He was the first priest who took me along on his visits to the out-stations and
who acquainted me with the villages, far away from the main road and deep into the
equatorial jungle. These trips provided me with indelible memories that provoke a great deal
of nostalgia until this very day!
Nico van Leeuwen, the mysterious Bobbes, on the one hand, helped me right from the start
to learn the difficult Lingmb language, but on the other hand, he held himself at such a
great distance that I strongly suspect that he did not really appreciate me. That feeling never
faded away. In my opinion Bobbes feigned friendliness. This culminated once in
Abunákombo when for months he enthusiastically followed the Dutch football competition
on the radio because I did so. Then one night during an altercation he suddenly told me that
in fact he did not give a damn about the whole football league. That night I was so angry
that for the first time in my life I drank the major part of a bottle of whiskey and went to bed
as drunk as a lord. Mr Désirs very aptly formulated it once when he addressed Nico with the
words: "Père Nicolas, je vous sers la main à travers l’abîme qui nous sépare"! Bobbes lived
very soberly, travelled often by bike (the only missionary I've ever seen doing this) but
mostly he reacted very shyly and sometimes puzzlingly in such a way that he contrasted
sharply with most other persons I came across in those circumstances.
If only I had been more alert that first year, I could
have given my life another direction. That first year
right on top of the equator, deep in the Congolese
forest, I really had only one sensible aim, namely to
learn the local language as soon as possible. I very well
realised that knowledge of Lingmb was a
prerequisite to any further activity. What those
activities would be, I did not fully realise, though I
could have obtained a fairly exact idea during those
first ten months.
Learning the language was in fact not such an easy
task. I remember that after about five months I started doubting whether I would ever
succeed. My friend Hans Lotstra once characterised that moment of doubt when he wrote
that he seriously considered the option of teaching Bantu people Dutch instead of him
learning a Bantu language!
I can hardly remember which activities I undertook in those days. Apart from the daily
routine of saying Mass, having meals, taking siestas, doing some work in the vegetable
garden, preventing red ants from wandering through the house, I do remember
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* My daily struggle with the language.
* Chatting with pupils, teachers and their wives, who often sat in between their homes
and the kitchens behind them, cooking their meals on a wood fire.
* My continuous astonishment: everything was new and different from what I was used
to.
* An occasional visit via the Ikelemba River to Byng, where Fik Smit and Brother
‘Mobútu’ walked around like real bushmen.
* Regular visits to a certain Monsieur Vliegen, an inventive Frenchman with his beautiful
wife, who ran a rubber plantation at a distance of about 30 km.
Rebellion:
Rumours about advancing rebel troops came to me in fragments. I cannot say that I crawled
daily into the radio to keep me abreast of the latest news, and I do not remember that
Noordman showed any panic. No doubt the people back home followed the news much
more closely. I saw too many things around me that kept my mind astonished, surprised and
in awe.
One can say that the evacuation came for me at the wrong moment, since I hadn’t taken
time yet to seriously reflect on the kind of work that lay ahead or on its usefulness. The
rebellion – so to speak – came for me one year too early.
Before I realised what was happening we suddenly left our mission post. That day, at
approximately four o’clock in the afternoon, I heard that we were to leave that same night
by boat. The other priests must have held extensive discussions about this operation, but
they did so without consulting or informing me. Fik Smit had arrived at Bolómba by boat via
the Ikelemba River. Soon after sunset we left leaving behind all our belongings. I don’t
know how or whether our departure was communicated to the locals.
Usually it was very crowded on the banks of the Ikelemba when one of us planned a trip by
boat or returned from a journey by river. This exodus of the ‘Mindl’ (Whites) can hardly
have taken place unnoticed, but all the same I do not remember having seen many people
on the banks. And in my recollection we did not leave anybody in charge at the mission
station.
In the middle of the night we arrived at Byng, where we moored and where only Fik Smit
went ashore. He came back moments later with Brother Herman and some belongings. We
then continued our journey to Mbándáká under a dark starry sky and amidst numerous
nocturnal jungle sounds.
By the time dawn lit up the sky, we were near the spot where
the Ikelemba River flows into the mighty Congo Stream. I still
see the shadowy outlines of that immensely wide Congo River,
with dozens of green islands floating past us. Not much later
the Stream became a golden reflection of the rising sun which
was already shining brightly when we moored in Mbándáká.
At the mission procure in Mbándáká many people were
arriving and leaving at the same time. It was a very hectic time,
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but I do not recall a sense of panic. On the contrary everything looked quite normal. Possibly
news circulated that the rebels would most likely not reach Mbándáká.
I think that that was the reason why Jacobse and Verbruggen decided to stay in Mbándáká
for the time being in order to return eventually to Basnkusu via Mampoko. I, however, was
put on the next plane to Léopoldville and almost immediately on a Boeing heading for
Brussels. I heard recently that some of my siblings were at the station in Roosendaal to pick
me up. I haven’t any memory of that moment at all.
Vendée:
So I was unexpectedly back at Herpen. Fairly soon I received a letter from Mill Hill explaining
that the situation in Congo would apparently be dangerous for quite some time. So we were
advised to look for a place somewhere in France to boost our knowledge of the French
language. That would come in handy by the time we would return to Congo. After all, Congo
was the only Mill Hill mission where French was used as a second nationwide language.
My brother John had contact with a French teacher at the Rythovius College in Eersel. This
teacher knew a parish priest in the Vendée, named Gérard Baudry. This priest ran the parish
in St Martin de Fraigneau, near Fontenay le Comte in the Vendée, a province along the west
coast of France. There I was welcome to be the priest’s temporary guest to brush up my
French. There was a railway station in the village. So not many days later I dragged a suitcase
from Gare du Nord into the tube heading for Gare Orléans in order to catch the night train to
Tours, Angers and Fontenay.
Around six o’ clock in the morning I arrived at St Martin; once the train had departed, a
deadly silence surrounded me. There was not a living soul at the station; I was the only
passenger who had disembarked. So I walked to the village. The first French text that struck
me was a signboard on one of the buildings: "La Marie". The thought crossed my mind that
there must have been a wedding the day before. Some old people looked frightened as they
saw me and retreated behind their fence. Eventually I ended up meeting a by-rheumatismwarped man, who let me in and left to look for the parish priest, a few houses down the
road.
Not much later I was sitting at breakfast in a gloomy house, which hardly deserved the name
of presbytery, at least not by Dutch standards. Very soon I was introduced to Marie, the
housekeeper, who was to feed me during the months to come.
She did well, although she had to manage with a pecuniary minimum. Beans were first
cooked, the next day they were fried and ended up as vegetables in the soup on the third
day.
According to good French tradition curé Baudry considered meals, whether they were
extensive or quite sober, social happenings. He chatted happily and was always in a good
humour.
Marie stayed in the background, never sat down at our table and took her meals in the
kitchen. She was not very tidy. I have long been troubled by fleas in bed, because she did not
have the habit to let in any fresh air into that dark house.
Once again, I went through a similar experience as the one in Bolómba, but now in a very
different setting. During another year I was just taken in tow, now by curé Gérard Baudry,
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who resembled in a way Fr Noordman and who likewise wasn’t accustomed to delegate.
He was very kind to me, but had a minimal confidence in my abilities, regardless of the poor
French that I spoke during the first months. I was a curiosity at his side and he could show
off regularly with the saying: “Look, a missionary evacuated from Congo, le Père Emile!”
My task was limited to learning French. For the rest I was allowed to attend and observe all
the parish events whilst no action was expected from my side. After all, that at least was my
impression, he thought he could not entrust me with some of his work, if there was work to
delegate at all. I never saw any action on his part besides saying daily Mass, chatting
endlessly with people in the village, being invited for dinner, organizing some activities for
young people and an annual festival in order to raise money for maintenance of the
presbytery and the church.
Almost daily, after Mass, we paid a visit to a lady who lived in a large house opposite the
Rectory: Madame Aurélie Gazeau. She stuck either to her kitchen or her garden. It seemed
as if the rest of the house was never used. The regular contacts with Aurélie became soon
more important for me than Baudry’s pastoral activities.
St Martin was a nice village; the people were friendly and we were frequently invited by
almost every inhabitant for ‘une goutte’ or for a meal. The first time Baudry and I were
invited by the baker’s wife as a way to welcome me, the meal lasted from midday until six in
the evening! The reputation of the French cuisine was established beyond all doubt that first
Sunday at Madame le Boulanger’s table.
Gradually I started to understand and follow the dialect and I even tried to express myself in
French, mingled with some dialect words.
I discovered too that Aurélie had several children, one of whom had become a priest. The
others lived and worked in Paris. They sometimes drove the 500 kilometres from Paris to
visit their mother on a weekend. During those weekends there used to be an enormous
activity.
At times I played soccer with the youth, strained my ankle and was visited by the young
people of the village, who were curious to meet that foreigner in their midst. Occasionally I
got the feeling that a certain teenage girl showed a special interest in me; for me that was
an extraordinary experience that I did not know how to handle. Sexual feelings and desires
remained limited to wishful thoughts or reflections and were overgrown by other attractive
experiences that "la vie en France" always has in store. But in this setting I should have
realised after a short time that the clerical status was not a status that – so to say –suited
me like a glove.
Through my contacts with Aurélie I also came a little closer to the real life of the French and
finally I was more at home in the Gazeau clan than at the presbytery of St Martin. I did not
get the impression that Baudry was very sorry about it.
When in June 1965 Piet Korse joined the clan from Auch in the south of France, where he
had spent his evacuation time in a parish with a Dutch parish priest, my contact with Baudry
had decreased to its lowest level. I still slept at the rectory, but I cannot remember that
Baudry needed me for one task or other or wanted to make use of my services at all. I just
went my own way.
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That month Piet and myself followed a course on missiology in Chartres. I do not recall
many memories of that month except the legendary encounter with Joop Deen, a
missionary from Basnkusu. He like us had fled from Basnkusu and toured France with a
group of German tourists. He just had descended from the car at the square in front of the
famous Cathedral as he addressed me in French and asked me to take him to the minor
seminary. A friend of his was following a course on Missiology, so he told me. On the way to
the seminary we continued our conversation in French until we noticed that we both were
missionaries from the Congo, more specifically from Basnkusu. Then all of the sudden he
exclaimed in Dutch: "Damn it, then you are Miel van der Hart!”
A spectacular holiday in Notre Dame on the beaches of the west coast of France in the
company of the whole Gazeau clan and most members of my family from Herpen sealed this
first year of friendship that would last for the next forty years. Congo rarely cropped up in
my mind; how life would go on from there was not a matter of concern or discussion. I lived
from one day to the next.
I happened to be at my brother’s in Eersel when suddenly a letter arrived from Mill Hill
stating that the situation in Congo had returned to normal, that the danger caused by the
rebellion no longer existed in the region of Basnkusu and that therefore we could return to
our post. Piet had read the good news with enthusiasm. As for myself... I recall that I did not
really like the idea of returning at all.
What I did like I do not know anymore. I think I even attempted to convince the bishop that I
wanted to study something practical like medicine for instance in order to be able to offer
the people in Congo some concrete help in their basic needs. But Bishop van Kester replied
that I was desperately needed in the pastoral work, especially now that, due to the rebellion,
a great deal of delays had occurred, that activities had to be caught up sort of….. I was not at
all prepared for this situation and I hesitated which decision to take. Piet, on the contrary,
thought very differently. He wanted to go back as soon as possible.
At this time I could have done with some good advice. My first doubts about how to live the
rest of my life arose with great force. Once again I failed to take my own decisions. I was not
bold enough and let myself be influenced by outside factors. Instead of making serious
attempts to find someone able to listen to my doubts and difficulties and help me to come
to a sound and perhaps different decision, I apparently allowed myself to be intimidated by
the bishop’s response and by Piet’s enthusiasm. And so once again I put my missionary train
into motion: my second attempt to convert the Congo!
The very day we were to depart - by plane this time - from Zaventem airport, in Brussels, we
heard on the radio that Mobútu had taken over the government by a "coup d'état". Even
this event our superiors did not consider enough reason to postpone our departure for some
time.
On our arrival in Léopoldville the following morning we did not notice any sign of the said
coup d’état. And at the mission procure there was a feeling that the country might benefit by
this coup.
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Period November 1965 to 1975:
Back at Basnkusu I was appointed to the mission station of Abunákombo where Toon
Jacobse was the boss.
Toon was a self-assured character who rarely if ever would consult a colleague on any
subject whatsoever. I became very soon aware that he came from a grocery’s family: we
never experienced any shortage of food; we had even good butter on the table and always
something ‘under the cork’, i.e. always plenty of certain liquid refreshments. He was the
prototype of a pastor, who never doubts or at least pretends never to doubt.
He did not hesitate to emit signals telling me that I didn’t really matter and that I had still
much to learn. I will never forget the interrogation of the catechism we were doing with a
group of children in order to assess whether they were prepared for the first communion.
When I happened to pass by his room I noticed that he was examining a girl whom I had just
assessed as being fit and well prepared. What on earth were our concerns in a rebellion-torn
country?
There was no structure at all in the things that we were doing. Early in the morning Toon, as
a true landlord, divided the work amongst the employees at the mission; he then made a
walk around the mission compound, read his newspaper and took care there was a pot of
beer on the table when I came back from my visit to the mission outposts. Much time was
reserved to material preoccupations such as repairing houses of workers and teachers,
building new churches in faraway villages, getting fresh supplies of food and materials by
means of trips to Basnkusu. Those trips would take up several days.
Regular catechism instructions were not part of the programme; my pastoral task was
mainly saying Mass and baptizing children. I occupied myself with lending some medical
assistance by cleaning tropical wounds of schoolchildren and by providing people with some
basic medicines insofar as we could. I also initiated the establishment of an infirmary, where
the sisters from Basnkusu came occasionally to look after infants and children. Jacobse did
not consider this a priority but I do not remember any real opposition on his part. The
people of the mission station and the villages in the neighbourhood welcomed the idea
enthusiastically; the consultation visits by the nuns were extremely successful. The teacher
Mákuku Jean told me that he saw a white bird flying over his house the day the start of the
consultation was announced.
I organised football games between the boys of the neighbourhood and employees of the
palm plantation atWénga and Bôsóndjafó or with the students of the school at Bokákata.
People enjoyed these derbies immensely. I myself often took part as goalkeeper and earned
the name ‘excellent’, once initiated by a spectator shouting this honourable nickname when
I made an extremely lucky safe.
Then of course there were journeys to a hospital with extremely sick people or with
pregnant women when they were about to give birth or when complications presented
themselves.
I still vividly remember one trip. In the middle of the night I heard vehement knocking on my
door. A woman had been in labour already for quite a while but the child would not come. I
got dressed, drove the car from the garage whilst the woman was picked up from her
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house. We put her on the back of the pick-up with some blankets underneath her fragile and
painful body. A few people sat beside her to support her and off we went for a 80 kilometre
drive to Bolómba on a bumpy and badly maintained road. Halfway people requested me to
stop by shouting behind me. The reason was not clear to me. I held myself at a respectable
distance - I think out of shyness or more likely out of prudishness. After all I had never seen a
naked woman on the verge of giving birth.
Once we arrived at Bolómba we drove straight to the hospital. There it soon became clear
that no assistance would be provided, because the doctor was away on a trip. No substitute
was available, not even a qualified nurse to solve the problem.
The only solution was to return to Abunákombo and then to try to reach Basnkusu at 110
kilometres from Abunákombo. After an awfully tiresome journey we finally arrived at
Basnkusu around six o’clock in the morning where we confided the woman to the sisters at
the hospital. I drove straight to Mpoma to have some rest but very soon I received the
message that the woman and her child had not survived.
The presbytery at Bolómba Mission
Moments later, I drove all the way back to Abunákombo with the dead mother and her dead
baby. Long before we arrived we heard loud cries of intense mourning in the villages we
passed.
This journey had a very profound impact on me. What the hell are we doing here, I thought,
if in a case like this, painful surely, but at the same time relatively simple in its complexity,
we can offer only the back of a pick-up? The very reason of my presence in Congo began to
become unclear.
In middle of the year 1968 news reached me of the sudden terminal illness of my sister-inlaw. My leave was due in November of that year but Bishop van Kester did not object to me
going home a few months earlier. It was obviously not a pleasant holiday. When I returned
for the third time to Congo, I settled down again in Abunákombo, for a while with Niek van
Leeuwen as parish priest until I took his place and got assistance in the person of Fr Jan van
Luijk who, as a young missionary, had just arrived from Europe.
With Bobbes, the stay at Abunákombo was not very pleasant. It was also during that period
that I started to pay more attention to female beauty around me. It was a period during
which my inner doubts increased. The vow of poverty proved to be a farce, the one of
obedience wasn’t too hard to observe, but the vow of celibacy started squeezing me.
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In addition, I started increasingly wondering what we were doing there ‘in God's name’. The faith of
the people kept me going: judging by their massive attendance at the religious services they
apparently believed in a Reality that increasingly floated away from me. It was not that I doubted
about a Supreme Being or the natural human need to give an expression of man’s belief in It. No, I
highly doubted the urge on our part to impose our religious expression on people who were used to
give the Creator an expression of their own. What makes ours better than what they themselves
possess? If at all we want to alleviate the needs of this population, then certainly not in this field
and in any case not in this field alone. There were many other meaningful tasks to
consider. Discussion on this item never took place.
Much to my regret, I suddenly had to leave Abunákombo to go and teach a bunch of nasty
youngsters at the Teacher Training College of Bokákata. That was a year during which Jan Smit
helped me a lot.
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