Continuing to learn

Since arriving in Beni, I’ve been living at Bethel House, a guesthouse that CI-UCBC rents for visitors, international staff, and the visiting Congolese teachers. Conversations around the dinner table open doors to sharing and friendships. They are also impromptu French (for we Americans) and English (for the Congolese) lessons.

To be honest, at first I wasn’t eager to be housemates with visiting professors. While UCBC cultivates a cadre of quality teachers who embrace the vision, mission, and practices of UCBC, the university has to lean on visiting Congolese teachers to fill out courses—common practice in DRC where Congolese professors earn the greater part of their salary by traveling from institution to institution, teaching “their” courses. The system has emerged out of necessity and fuels corrupt and self-serving practices. There are fewer than 1000 Ph.D.-prepared professors across the nation, and many of DRC’s professors, eager to protect their secure way of making a living, keep the PhD pool limited by impeding younger teachers from obtaining advanced degrees. They further line their pockets by such practices as requiring students to pay for the class syllabus or have their exams graded. Then there are sexual abuses. Just another set of reasons why UCBC is nurturing its own cadre of teachers.

It’s in this context that I’ve “developed an attitude” toward all visiting teachers at UCBC. I've assumed that they are all “bad guys," and have had to ask God’s forgiveness for holding prejudices based on generalities. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the prayer one offers before a meal is called grace.

We were three Americans and three Congolese at dinner three weeks ago when our Congolese friends dove into the topic of DRC politics and the government’s failure to meet the country’s needs. Losa, a linguistics teacher from Kisangani; Pastor Tsongo, a chaplain from Bunia; and Leoni, an economics teacher from Butembo asked the question, “So what are we teaching in our universities? Our politicians are products of our universities, and look at how poorly they lead.” They continued to lament the condition of their country and the paucity of leadership.

With Losa

They also opened the door for me to offer, “Well, that’s exactly why UCBC exists. It’s what Congo Initiative and UCBC are about—raising up ethical, Chrisitan leaders who are transformed, who are different, who take responsibility to bring positive change to their country. But what do you see? Are our students at UCBC any different from students at other universities?”

Without hesitation, the three guests nodded, “Yes.” Losa  described UCBC students’ willingness to work, both in class and outside of class. He spoke at length about how UCBC students participate in the work program and help to maintain the campus facilities and grounds. Pastor Tsongo and Leoni concurred. “At other universities, students destroy property. Then the university fixes the room or the facility, and the students tear it down again. That doesn’t happen here.” They went on to comment about service learning and the work program. Losa recounted to Pastor Tsongo and Leoni that during his first time at UCBC in 2010, students, faculty, and staff spent a day doing community service and picking up trash around the city. “I have never seen students do that. And the teachers and administrators were working too.”

A view across campus

“And you have Internet,” continued Leoni. Nevermind that our Internet is limited and slow. Leoni was impressed that faculty and students have easy access to computers. Yes, computers are only a tool, but in this context, in the eyes of area residents, that UCBC provides Internet service and computer access is a mark of success.

Leoni applauded UCBC's bilingual education. The others concurred that to interact on the global stage, Congo’s leaders, teachers, and business folks must be able to converse in English. In fact, every visiting Congolese teacher I’ve met over the last two months expresses a desire to learn or improve her or his own English.

Finally, my dinner companions noted that students and faculty live out their Christian faith. Leoni pointed to chapel attendance, with its music and worship. Then she came back to what she saw in students’ behavior—showing respect, working hard in their studies, demonstrating kindness, and participating in manual labor to help maintain the campus. 

The admiration these three expressed for UCBC encouraged and humbled me. Would Leoni, Losa, and Pastor Tsongo be able to point to my witness and example?

The faculty van

In the days since this conversation I am attending to my attitudes and behaviors, with the Congolese culture of hospitality as my example. As a start, I now look forward to the round of morning greetings that ring in the work day. Each passenger who climbs into the faculty van offers, "Bonjour!" and greets each rider by name. Arrival on campus opens up another round of greetings, complete with handshake and a couple of exchanges of "Comment allez-vous?" or "How was your evening?"

I used to brush these exchanges aside as a delay to the day's start. I've now come to appreciate the opportunity to stop, look someone in the eye and intentionally acknowledge her or his presence. There is something human, kind, and affirming (dare I say, Christian?) in such exchanges. 

Sure, one could breeze through each greeting without intention, just as one can recite the Lord's Prayer, the national anthem, or any other familiar set of words. But one can also embrace each exchange as a blessing, a brief moment of grace, and an example of God's daily work of redemption and transformation.

Excused Absences

Attendance policy for “Creation Care and the Common Good,” my English class, follows the UCBC policy: Unexcused absences for more than 25% of class sessions result in no course credit. That translates to three absences for class. Unfortunately, I neglected to think through the possibilities for excused absences

• A pounding rainstorm immobilizes all foot and moto travel and pins Beni’s residents, including students and teachers, under shelter. A thunderstorm breaking loose at 7:30 am delays an 8 am class for by thirty minutes or more.
• One’s family schedules your dowry ceremony on a class day. Congolese weddings and all their preparations involve the entire family—as in the larger, extended, family (e.g., aunts; uncles; elder cousins; aunts and uncles of aunts and uncles; parents’ cousins; etc.). Weddings are the responsibility of the groom’s family, so when the family decides the date of important meetings and ceremonies related to the wedding and marriage preparation, the groom must comply.
• A sudden dispute erupts between one’s family and the landlord. The parents call their son, a student, to help settle the problem.  Need for the son’s assistance is urgent, and during the school day.
• Students enrolled in an Economics class learn on Friday that they will leave the next day for a three-week research project several hours drive from Beni. And, yes, they’ll be staying out at the site for those three weeks.

Safety on a Moto

View on the road

Two or three times a week I pay 600 Congolese francs (FC), about $0.54 USD, for a 6km “taxi” ride between the UCBC campus and home. It’s cheaper than New York City rates and far more exciting. I no longer bargain with the driver on the price. Bargaining may serve some social benefit, but in the mind of this American, it wastes time and energy. Besides, I know the going rate is 600 FC. Sometimes the driver shakes his head and demands 1000 FC. Does he assume that this American I has money or is ignorant of the going rate? Perhaps his beginning price is 1000 FC for every customer. I walk away only to be chased by the same driver with, “Okay-Okay. 600 francs.”

Taxi park in town

Every speedometer and tachometer of every moto I’ve taken register 0 kph and 0 rpm. Perhaps all potential taxi drivers are required to disconnect these devices before receiving their license? I have no idea how fast we go. Thirty mph? Forty? Is that 15 kph or 60 kph?

We weave in and out, first left, then right, between other motos and passing trucks overloaded with products and people. We dart around drivers carrying 4-foot bales of charcoal as big around as the trunk of 200-year old oak tree. My favorite is the occasional pig strapped across the back of the moto or the goat, at ease with the passing scenery, front legs draped over the lap of a human passenger and back legs dangling on the other side.

Protocol demands that, unless one is a child, the passenger keeps her or his hands to self. No wrapping around the waist of the driver, regardless of the speed or the weave. I usually begin a ride with one arm twisted behind me to clutch the back of the seat in a vain attempt at safety. However, should there be an accident, and the moto swerves, falls, or throws me off, a death grip on the seat would yank my arm out of its socket, destroy my rotator cuff, and snap a few ribs in the process.

Ah! My need to control persists, even in Congo!

Radio Tele Bilingue, Voice of Transformation

Kaza, Director of RTB

“We are trying to change the manner of broadcasting,” explains Kaza, Director of Radio TeleBilingue (RTB), CI-UCBC’s radio station. Kaza speaks with confidence and conviction. “You know, if someone is speaking about political matters, he must have the right voice. And if he is talking about social matters, it takes a different voice.” But the change Kaza references goes beyond a broadcaster’s voice to the way that RTB does business. Corruption victimizes the media in DRC, as it does many other services and institutions. 

“There are two ways that corruption is possible in the media: coupage and facture,” explains Musafiri, Chief of Programming. “But you won’t find coupage in a French-English dictionary. It is a Congolese word from coupe (the French to cut).” Coupage occurs when, after an interview, the reporter tells the subject, “We will print this story if you can pay us,” in essence holding the story hostage.

Reporters  rely on facture (from the French for receipt) to pay their wages or the costs of the news agency. The reporter might request money to cover transportation costs. The subject of the news story or interview might offer to buy fuel for the generator as guarantee that the story will be positive. “There are cases where someone may be known to have taken money. And the reporter knows that. But the person will pay facture so that it is not reported. So it is as if someone has their hand on the news and controls what they say.”

Musafiri checks the program

“We do not do that. It is hard thing to teach our students. But they learn and know that.” The result? RTB has a reputation as a different kind of radio station. “People are afraid of UCBC. They have a conflict of conscience.”

RTB’s tagline says it all: “Voice of Transformation.”  RTB boasts a multi-layered mission that includes educating and developing people. Programming includes such things as Découverte Scientifique, a sort of “science in the news” program; English instruction; and De Venir Leader, a program on leadership development. The radio’s mission is also to train communications students, giving them hands-on experience in all aspects of radio broadcasting to “match theory and practice,” as Musafiri explains. RTB fulfills its mission to proclaim the Gospel and serve as a voice for hope in Christ through such programs as Prions Ensemble, a twice-daily, call-in prayer time; and Kuma Tumayini (There is Hope), a Swahili-language, Bible session.

Hulda, Swahili Program Coordinator
with student volunteers

Phone calls and messages from listeners confirm that RTB’s voice carries beyond the 90km radius initially estimated. Listeners from as far away as Lake Albert (255 km to the east), Mambasa (100-120 km to the northwest), and Kikyio, near Butembo (60 km to the south) call to thank the station for its broadcasts. One community 100 km to the east called specifically to request that Pastor David, the one who leads the daily prayer call-in program, Prions Ensemble, come to their village and meet and pray with them.

Collaboration, commitment, and conviction fuel the work. CI friends from the U.S., Doug Jones (radio broadcasting expert and teacher) and Randy Johnson (educator), played significant roles as trainers and financial supporters in the early days of RTB. Funding from Eastern Congo Initiative (ECI) provided for equipment and early training.  Four paid staff (each of whom serves in other capacities at UCBC) and ten communications students who  each volunteer approximately 10 hours per week, keep the radio station alive from 6am to 10pm, Sunday to Sunday. Weekly RTB meetings with the student volunteers focus on program evaluation, as RTB staff insist on cultivating not only an ethical organization, but a professional and high quality one. In order to begin broadcasting on time, volunteer student staff often sleep on campus, rather than at home, so they can open up and begin the day’s programming. Yesterday, Kaza left his home at 5am in order to “open up shop,” and had expected to remain on campus and “on duty” the entire day, until the day’s scheduled concluded at 10pm. RTB is a radio station that is both voice and example of transformation.

Students at work

In spite of the collaboration, commitment, and conviction, RTB has its needs. Staff would like to pay stipend or provide tuition assistance to student volunteers. There is need for additional full-time journalists. Reporters have to organize their own transportation to town (7 km from campus). Communication between town and the station depends on whether reporters have enough airtime or minutes on their own cell phones. Staff struggle to develop a transparent business model that can stand above any potential accusation of facture or coupage. 

Then Musafiri points out, “We don’t know how, but there is always fuel for the generator.”

Community at Work

Mixing cement

“So how do you appreciate how we work together?” The question came several times during the day. More than 300 women, children, and men gathered at the SECA 20 Francophone Church, when many UCBC students, faculty, and staff worship. It's the church where I worship in Beni. Friday may have been a holiday in DRC (Liberation Day), but it was work day for the community of Francophone. For the past year or so, the church has been building a new sanctuary community style. When enough money is collected, materials are purchased, and then it’s “all hands on deck.”

On high

Friday’s scene was an OSHA nightmare. Men climbed ladders to straddle open rebar 20 feet, 30 feet, or more above the ground. They hoisted themselves up and slid down poles when a ladder wasn’t available. Two helmets, more appropriate for riding a moped than for a construction site, were the closest thing to a hardhat. Children dashed through the work area, a patchwork of lumber scraps and nasty-looking nails. They retrieved buckets, just emptied of their 10 pounds or so of cement, that bounced to the ground from 20 and 30-feet up. On two occasions a worker purposely dropped his hammer from his perch on a crossbeam. Flip-flops and sandals outnumbered close-toed shoes by 3 to 1. Socks, generous (?) donations of castoff clothing from other parts of the world, served as work gloves.

Hauling empty buckets

The scene was also a community dream and magnificent drama of spirit and joy. When I arrived at the site at 9am, activity had already been in full swing. Pots of beans were cooking for lunch. A DJ and sound team directed the crowd to its chores, played praise and worship music, acknowledged and publically thanked individuals, and cheered on the crowd during the day with “Au, courage!” “Asante sane, Bwana!” (Thank you, Lord!), “Mungu akubariki sana (God bless you!).”

Lunchtime

When it was time to mix cement, the DJ/announcer directed some people to shovels and cement, others to carry water, fireman-line style. Ten and twenty-liter jerry cans cut in half with handles fashioned from rope or heavy-gauge wire, served as water buckets then cement buckets. When it was time to pour cement, the sound crew called out instructions, and each of us found a place in one of several lines to haul cement or return emptied buckets. As music played, we danced and sang. Lagicia and Aimee, two UCBC students, took me under their wing. In addition to translating instructions that I couldn’t follow, they were my Swahili and French teachers and culture and dance coaches for the day.

DJs for the day

It's amazing that there weren't any injuries, given the number of people, the working conditions, and equipment. Well, maybe it isn't so amazing. After all, this was a community of faith, united for one purpose that day, working under the protection of a power far greater than OSHA!

The only hardhats on site

God-carrier

I’m selfish. I admit it. I want people to do things the way I think they should be done. I want events to unfold according to my expectations. I begin too many sentences with I.

But when I give in to God and allow that people and events do as they are supposed to do, God either teaches, surprises, or blesses me. God has been sprinkling blessings amidst the teaching lately (“a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?”).

For this stint in Beni, I’m living at Bethel House—a house that CI-UCBC is renting to accommodate international staff and visiting professors. For the first time we Americans (currently it’s Americans who make up “international staff”) share living space and meals with Congolese professors. It’s a grand opportunity for cultures to brush up against each other.

This past week I’ve been harboring ill feelings towards one of my “housemates.” He hasn’t done anything to me. He’s just been who he is, wrapped in his personality, preferences, and values, a product of his culture and experiences, with views about gender and class shaped by all of that and more. And, of course, I’ve been wrapped in my personality, preferences, and values. I, too, am a product of my culture and experiences, with views about gender and class.

I confess that earlier this week I did not want to spend time with this teacher. I was not interested in getting to know him or engaging in conversation. I had developed opinions and maintained prejudices based on a handful of observations. My selfishness and tendency towards judgment stood firm.

Then Desmond Tutu challenged me in that loving, impish voice and that gentle, magnanimous spirit. Krista Tippett conducted an interview with him in 2010 for On Being. Early in the interview Bishop Tutu responds to a question about the “dynamite” power of the Bible. He says, “We are created in the image of God….Each one of us is a God-carrier,” then proceeds to tell the story of a township parish he pastored early in his ministry. The members were poor, many of them domestic workers in the white enclaves in another world. Most of the women were called “Annie,” and most of the men were called “Boy,” because the whites insisted the African names were too difficult to pronounce. Tutu would tell his congregants, “When they ask ‘Who are you?’ tell them, ‘I’m a God-carrier. I’m God’s partner.’"

God-carrier. We’re each of us a God-carrier? Yes. Created in God’s image. Yes, we are. We are. Not just me. Not just the people I love, or the people who are my friends, or the people I enjoy being with, or the people with whom I gladly and expectantly share my life. But even the moto-driver who insists on charging me double the going rate for a ride between Bethel House and the UCBC campus is a God-carrier. The Congolese youth who stares and shouts, “Muzungu!” when I pass is a God-carrier. My temporary housemate is a God-carrier. Ouch!

Have I become great friends with this other teacher? No. But as I’ve allowed my heart to soften, mealtimes are more pleasant, at least for me. I’m less inclined to focus on what I find distasteful. I’m kinder and gentler and more inclined to act as a God-carrier myself.

"We are perishing!"

One day he got into a boat with his disciples, and he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side of the lake.” So they put out, and while they were sailing he fell asleep. A windstorm swept down on the lake, and the boat was filling with water, and they were in danger. They went to him and woke him up, shouting, “Master, master, we are perishing!” And he woke up and rebuked the wind and the raging waves; they ceased, and there was a calm. He said to them, “Where is your faith?” They were afraid and amazed, and said to one another, “Who is this, that he commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him?”  Luke 8:22-25

The disciples have gotten a bad rap. They are criticized for their lack of faith, “The disciples had the master with them. They had no need to fear. Nor do we have reason to fear, if we truly have faith.”

Really? “The boat was filling with water, and they were in danger.”

I try to imagine what it was like. Water swirls at our feet. Howling wind shrouds the moon and baffles the stars. The only horizon is the next wave galloping wildly toward the boat. According to Matthew and Mark, “The boat was being swamped by the waves.” Who wouldn’t be scared? Every system in the body jerks to attention. The brain is wired for survival. In response to the threat, adrenaline and a flood of other hormones let loose. The heart beats wildly. Muscles tighten. Executive functioning gets shoved to the back wall. In the moment, all we know are fear and panic and the need to survive.

It's what I felt when the out-dated, Russian prop plane with torn seats and loose ceiling panels suddenly and momentarily dropped in altitude. It’s how I felt years ago when I thought my life was falling apart, every experience and hope for my young family crumbling to dust. It’s the fear I knew at the prospect of losing a child to the ravages of disease and the aftermath of trauma.

“We are perishing!”

This story isn't about lack of faith. In my humble opinion, sermons that use this story to challenge us to buck up, believe, and put our trust in God miss the point. This isn’t a rubric against which we evaluate our faith:

• Remains calm in the face of danger. 
• Acts confidently and with conviction when faced with challenges. 
• Verbalizes absolute trust in God.

This is a story about Jesus’ great love and our surprise that, in spite of the physical evidence otherwise, there is hope. There is salvation. There is protection. There is provision. I don’t hear a critical Jesus. I hear a gentle Jesus—the voice of the parent comforting a child wakened by a nightmare. “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK. I am here. I am here. There is no need to be afraid."