How We Survived the Bloodbath in Kolwezi

Two missionaries of Jehovah’s Witnesses survive the ordeal, but suffer a tragic loss

THINGS seemed normal as we retired to the bedroom of our missionary home on that Friday night, May 12. We lived in Kolwezi, a mining town in southern Shaba province, Zaïre. It was a nice town, inhabited by some 120,000 people, including 4,000 foreigners who worked mainly at the huge copper mines in the vicinity. Copper provides the main livelihood of Zaïre. Little did we know that in the ensuing hours and days events to take place would make headlines around the world. One happening in particular would affect us for the rest of our lives.

At dawn the next morning, Saturday, May 13, we were awakened by a sharp “rat-tat-tat” that shattered the morning stillness. At first we wondered what it was. Then our hearts pounded as we realized it was machine-gun and rifle fire. What was happening? An army mutiny? A rebel attack? Soon the din of fighting reached us and bullets whined over our house. Some thudded into the tall trees in the yard.

Quickly we filled the bathtub with water and baked some bread in case the water and electricity would go off. We heard loud voices in the street and peeped out a crack in the garage door to the gate. A group of soldiers with heavy backpacks were passing. They spoke Swahili. Were they Katangan rebels, the same who had attacked Shaba province (ex-Katanga) last year? They generally speak Swahili, whereas government troops speak Lingala. The Katangans seek to take over what they consider to be their province. Or, if not this, they at least want to force a change of the central government.

Throughout Saturday and Sunday the noise of fighting continued, some of it farther away, some in the houses behind ours, where loud noises of machine-gun and rifle fire erupted periodically. As we had feared, the water did go off, but the electricity continued sporadically. We stayed close to the radio trying to find out what was happening. As a precaution against stray bullets, we put a mattress and pillows over our large bedroom windows.

Our Bedroom Demolished

In the beginning of the afternoon on Monday the two sides began trading gunfire again. We confined ourselves to our semibarricaded bedroom. About two o’clock a thunderous explosion shook the house. Suddenly, a second deafening explosion rocked the bedroom. It was followed by a third thunderous blast. For several seconds we were motionless, dumbfounded, too shocked to realize what was happening. I yelled to my wife to take refuge in the center hallway. Dust and smoke in the bedroom obscured the devastation. We were bleeding, and headed for the bathroom to check our wounds. My wife was bleeding from the shoulder, myself on the arm, and we both had other small punctures here and there.

Mortar bombs or rockets had burst through the roof, one right over where I had been seated working. Flying pieces of shrapnel had sprayed the room. A few small pieces had hit each of us. We cleaned the wounds with alcohol and tried to pick out the lead with a clean razor and needle. Then we bandaged the injuries.

Returning to our bedroom, we found it almost completely demolished. There was a gaping hole through the ceiling and the roof over my desk. The room was filled with rubble and pieces of metal from the mortar bomb and the tin roof. There were small holes in the walls, in the rug at our feet, through the blankets and personal things on the bed, in the furniture and even in our leather briefcases. But, amazingly, we each had only three superficial shrapnel wounds.

Fortunately, the bombing stopped soon thereafter and we were able to start to build a shelter in the third bedroom that contained cartons of literature. We piled the cartons up to cover some of the windows and covered the rest with a spare mattress. We pulled our bed from the demolished bedroom, put it in the most sheltered corner and built a covering over it with sheets of plywood supported by cartons at the corners.

Series of Explosions

The following two days we spent each afternoon crouched under our makeshift bomb shelter as mortars and rockets, one after the other, burst with deafening explosions in our yard and nearby. There was never a warning​—just the sudden blast and the sound of falling debris. Machine-gun and small-arms fire continued all the while. We heard the window break behind the barricade of cartons and mattress as a mortar shell exploded just outside the room. Fortunately, the walls of the house were built of sturdy brick.

Another shell burst just outside the kitchen, breaking the windows. Two more exploded in the backyard, breaking the windows in the main literature-depot room and gouging many small holes in the cement wall of a small building out back. In the bathroom our bathtub water supply was filled with bits of broken glass and plaster. Another rocket exploded in front of the house, covering the outside wall with shrapnel holes and blowing the bits of glass remaining in the frames inward across the entire front of the house. In the yard, from time to time, small branches rained down as stray bullets cut through the trees.

During the lull in the fighting, our neighbor from across the road came over to ask what we knew about medicine. A mortar or rocket had exploded near his kitchen window and had badly injured the back of his wife’s head. She was obviously in a state of shock, but it was impossible to evacuate her to a hospital because of the gunfire heard in that direction. We were able to help only with some penicillin against infection of the wound.

Sometime during Wednesday afternoon we no longer heard any return fire from the Zaïre army positions near our house, although mortars or rockets continued to explode in the neighborhood.

By Thursday it was much calmer near our home, except for an occasional outburst from a machine gun, isolated rifle shots and mortar explosions in the distance. I heard the noise of a vehicle in the street and I carefully peeked around the corner hoping that someone friendly might be passing. To my dismay, four Katangan soldiers stood at the gate. They ordered me over, pointing a gun at my head, and instructed me to open the gate.

I was uncertain whether they wanted to set up a gun position behind our high brick wall or whether their intentions were to steal and molest. To give me time to think, I pointed to the two chains and padlocks on the gate and told them I would have to get the keys if the gates were to be opened. I went into the house, and we quickly barricaded the doors. Would they try to break through the gate or climb over the wall? Oh, how we prayed to Jehovah during those minutes! They fired into the air. After a time they continued down the street.

We remained in the house and maintained the barricades out of fear of individual undisciplined soldiers. We had already heard on the radio of assassinations of white expatriates. Sometimes the rebels broke into houses to kill; other times, however, only to steal without causing personal harm. It was important not to oppose them openly.

Friday, I wanted to check on the injured woman across the road. No sooner had I stepped outside the house than a sniper’s bullet whistled past my head. We remained inside, praying and reading the Bible.

On Saturday help came unexpectedly as Belgian and French troops moved into the town to evacuate all expatriates. Previously, Zaïrian paratroopers had recaptured the airport. We had just a few minutes to grab a few things​—only what we could carry—​and rush to the airport. Everything else was abandoned. On the way out, we briefly checked on a few of our Christian brothers. They were safe, but low on food.

The atmosphere was tense along the route, as rebel forces had not withdrawn very far. Evident everywhere were signs of war​—bodies of dead soldiers, damaged vehicles, gun casings, pockmarked buildings. At the airport we could see burned helicopters and planes, exploded and unexploded mortar bombs on the ground, and the evacuation force surrounding the road and the airport.

Hundreds of Europeans were flocking to the airport, abandoning their cars there. After a wait by the runway, we were flown in Belgian army transport planes to Kamina air base. From there Sabena, the Belgian airline, flew the refugees to the capital for eventual flight to their respective nations.

Along the way we heard many reports of murdered civilians, both European and Zaïrian. We saw pictures of a house full of men, women and children who had been massacred. Official estimates are that over 200 Europeans were killed, and some were taken away as hostages by the invading force when it retreated into the bush. The invaders seem to have decided to return to their refuge across the border to prepare for another attempt later.

We Lose Our Son

We arrived in Kinshasa, but our ordeal was not over. On Tuesday, my wife, almost six months pregnant, having endured the terrors, the dangers and the pressures of the war, gave signs of going into labor. She was taken to the hospital. On Thursday, she gave birth prematurely to our tiny 750-gram (26.5-ounce) son. He only survived for four tense days, too small to breathe or to digest food in his tiny stomach.

How wonderful it will be when Jehovah makes wars cease to the extremity of the earth. (Ps. 46:9) We and other Christians were close to death several times. Only Jehovah’s aid and guidance could help. Such experiences affirm our faith in him and the effectiveness of prayers.​—Contributed.