Violence and Memory: The Mulele “Rebellion” in Post-colonial D. R.

Congo

Emery Masua Kalema

Student Number: 723307

A dissertation submitted to the Faculty of Humanities,

University of the Witwatersrand,
in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
(History)

Supervising committee:
Professor Achille Mbembe
Professor Eric Worby
Dr Catherine Burns
Dr Maria Suriano

Johannesburg, February 2017

© Emery Masua Kalema
 Abstract

Between 1963 and 1968, Pierre Mulele, previously Minister of National Education in
the first post-colonial government of the Democratic Republic of Congo, led a rebellion
in Kwilu province against the Congolese government. Strongly opposed to the new form
of colonialism expressed in the “Belgo-Congolese dream,” Mulele took up arms to
change the order of things. This thesis is about the suffering caused by this rebellion, the
reproduction of this suffering across time, and its inscription in the imaginary of the
survivors and, indirectly, the Congolese state and various political regimes in power in
Kinshasa from the 1960s to the present. It is the overall question of the “imaginaries of
suffering” that drives the analysis: suffering as what people experienced in the concrete
conditions of existence during the rebellion; suffering experienced by the body during
the rebellion; suffering as what the “body” remembers because it carries visible marks,
recognizable by the self and others; and suffering as what leaves marks in the minds of
the suffering subjects. The thesis is also about power, its meaning, and the complex
interplay of forces between power, memory, and suffering. It draws on evidence from
archival materials, oral testimonies, and debates from philosophy, history, anthropology,
literary studies, and medical humanities published over the last thirty years by scholars
from Europe, Asia, the Americas and Africa.

Keywords: Mulele, rebellion, suffering, imagination, reproduction, body, power,

memory, Congo, Zaire.
 Declaration

I declare that this thesis is my own unaided work. It is submitted for the degree of Doctor
of Philosophy at the University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. It has not been
submitted before for any other degree or examination at any other university.

_______________________
Emery Masua Kalema
On the 24th day of February, 2017
 Dedication

To my parents, for reminding me that knowledge is freedom.

 Acknowledgements

This dissertation is the result of four years of work and endeavours. Its completion
would not have become reality without the support, supervision, and encouragements of
a great number of people and institutions, both at the time of research and writing.
My thanks go in the first place to my supervisors Achille Mbembe, Catherine Burns,
Eric Worby, and Maria Suriano for their time, patience, support, generosity, and rigorous
intellectual guidance. I have been fortunate to benefit from their scholarship and
intellectual example.
I would also like to thank my professors at the Wits Institute for Social and
Economic Research (WiSER) who supported me intellectually during these years: Sarah
Nuttall, Keith Breckenridge, Pamila Gupta, Hlonipha Mokoena, Belinda Bozzoli, Liz
Gunner, Shireen Hassim, and Jonathan Klaaren.
I am grateful to my peers Ruth Sacks, Christi Kruger, Natasha Vally, Mwenya
Kabwe, Ellison Tjirera, Faeeza Ballim, Candice Jansen, Sinethemba Makanya, Robyn
Bloch, and Renée van der Wiel for their comments during our PhD reading group
meetings.
Ernest Kiangu, Jean-Marie Mutamba, Jérôme Mumbanza, Isidore Ndaywell, Charles
Sikitele, Rombault Mimbu, and Nancy Rose Hunt have been supportive since the
beginning of this project. I am grateful to them.
Joshua Walker, Marie-Claude Haince, Tim Wright, Pedro Monaville, Isabelle de
Rezende, Guillaume Lachenal, and Thomas Lessaffre read some pieces of this
dissertation as I was writing. I thank them for their time and comments.
I am grateful to the Ford Foundation, Wits Faculty of Humanities, and WiSER for
their financial support. I would not have made it without them.
Zoé Groves, Sarah Duff, Adila Deshmukh, Najibha Deshmukh, David Murdock,
Caroline Jeannerat, Sharad Chari, Nathalie Jara, Stacey Sommerdek, Daria Trentini, and
Nazeema Mohamed have been there for me during all these years. I am thankful to them.
Zenon Mibamba, Lucie Muyenzi, Atum Pascal, Pablo Pakasa, Etienne Sopete, Frade
Zunga Zunga, Patrice Kasanda, Felix Mupatu, Baudouin Matalatala, Matondo Mundele,
Ruphin Kibari, Hégé Bwenia, Anne Mulema, Jean-René Mulema, Ngobila, Gabriel
Kunonga, Godé Kulemfuka, Rachidy Bwalankay, Cédrick Bukasa, Joshua Kiluba,
Ebenezer Kiluba, Ornélie Mangungu, Mamy Dema, Christine Akwety, Paulette Akwety,
 vii

Benjamine Akwety, Cathy Akwety, Maclé Akwety, and Marie-Jeanne Akwety helped
me tremendously during my stay in Kinshasa, Kikwit, Idiofa, and Gungu for fieldwork. I
am truly grateful to all of them.
My aunt Anne-Marie Akwety looked after me all these years. My parents have been
there for me. My sister Esther Masua, her husband Jean-Paul Kabaka, and all my other
siblings have been checking up on me. I am thankful to them.
Finally I would like to thank all my interviewees for their time and their memories.
This dissertation would not have been possible without their voices.
 Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS .......................................................................................................................VI
LIST OF FIGURES .................................................................................................................................... X
ABBREVIATIONS ....................................................................................................................................XI
INTRODUCTION ........................................................................................................................................ 1
OVERTURE ................................................................................................................................................. 1
EVIDENCE, METHODS, THEORIES, AND APPROACHES .................................................................................. 5
A SHORT INTELLECTUAL TRAJECTORY ....................................................................................................... 9
CHAPTER ONE – SPACE, MOBILITY, AND DISPLACEMENT ..................................................... 11
ON TERRITORIAL OCCUPATION AND THE REGULATION OF MOVEMENTS ................................................... 11
FLEEING THE CONFLICT: “SCHIZOPHRENIA,” DREAMS, IMAGINATION, AND “BESTIALITY” ....................... 31
PERIPHERY AS A FRICTION ZONE............................................................................................................... 45
“REFUGEE CAMP” AS A SITE OF EXCLUSION .............................................................................................. 60
CONCLUSION ............................................................................................................................................ 72
CHAPTER TWO – BODILY PAIN AND THE POLITICS OF DEATH ............................................ 73
PUTTING TO DEATH .................................................................................................................................. 73
CROWD AND TORTURE.............................................................................................................................. 84
THE DEATH OF THE CORPSE AND THE RETURN OF THE DEAD ..................................................................... 92
CONCLUSION .......................................................................................................................................... 101
CHAPTER THREE – SCARS, MARKED BODIES, AND SUFFERING.......................................... 103
LIVING WITH SCARS: SELF, IMAGE, OTHERS, AND SUFFERING ................................................................. 104
BODILY DISRUPTIONS, TEMPORALITY, AND SUFFERING .......................................................................... 116
CONCLUSION .......................................................................................................................................... 130
CHAPTER FOUR – THE POLITICS OF FORGETTING ................................................................. 131
END OF THE REBELLION: IMBROGLIO AND TIGHT CONTROL OF PEOPLE................................................... 132
THE “RE-INCARNATION” OF MULELE: MOURNING, GHOST, AND FORGETTING........................................ 151
THE RE-INVENTION OF MULELE: FACTS, FRICTION AND SUFFERING ....................................................... 160
CONCLUSION .......................................................................................................................................... 169
CONCLUSION ........................................................................................................................................ 171
SUMMARY OF ARGUMENTS ..................................................................................................................... 171
CHALLENGES, CONTRIBUTIONS, AND PERSPECTIVES FOR THE FUTURE ................................................... 173
BIBLIOGRAPHY .................................................................................................................................... 176
ARCHIVES............................................................................................................................................... 176
Hoover Institution Archives. Stanford University. California, United States.................................... 176
Private collections ............................................................................................................................. 176
INTERVIEWS ........................................................................................................................................... 176
Kinshasa ............................................................................................................................................ 176
Kikwit ................................................................................................................................................ 177
Idiofa ................................................................................................................................................. 177
Gungu ................................................................................................................................................ 178
Kwanga Carrefour ............................................................................................................................ 178
Kwanga Nganzi ................................................................................................................................. 178
Lukamba ............................................................................................................................................ 179
 ix

Luano................................................................................................................................................. 179
PHONE CALLS ......................................................................................................................................... 179
NEWSPAPERS .......................................................................................................................................... 179
THESES AND DISSERTATIONS .................................................................................................................. 179
PAPERS, ARTICLES, AND BOOKS .............................................................................................................. 180
WEBSITES ............................................................................................................................................... 194
 List of Figures

Figure 1: Location of Kwilu province in the Congo ..................................................................... 13

Figure 2. Rebel influence in Kwilu. (Blue: Zone under rebel control. Green: Zone controlled by
the government) ............................................................................................................................ 14

Figure 3: Rebel laissez-passer ...................................................................................................... 20

Figure 4: Routes taken by Louis Kafungu, Commander of the rebel forces, in 1967 ................... 26

Figure 5: Eugénie Mpungu............................................................................................................ 40

Figure 6: The war zone and the periphery. (White: war zone; Green: Periphery) ........................ 47

Figure 7: Prefecture of Bulungu: Strategic locations to be monitored with tact (green) .............. 48

Figure 8: Prefecture of Bulungu: security barrier along the Kwilu river (blue) and zone monitored
by the rebels (green) ...................................................................................................................... 54

Figure 9: Centralising where the river can be crossed: a passage across Kwilu river monitored by
the police ....................................................................................................................................... 56

Figure 10: Eugene Kitoto’s scars on his leg................................................................................ 127

Figure 11: Eugène Kitoto’scars on the cheek.............................................................................. 128

Figure 12: Alidor Muliongo’s newly injured foot ....................................................................... 129

Figure 13: Alidor Muliongo’s foot .............................................................................................. 129

Figure 14: Cyril Mukelenge showing his scars ........................................................................... 169

 Abbreviations

ACL-PT Assemblée Constituante et Legislative–Parlement de Transition (Constitutive

Assembly and Legislative – Transitional Parliament)

AFDL Alliance des Forces pour la Libération du Congo (Alliance of the Forces for the
Liberation of Congo)

AIPRO Affaires Intérieures Provinciales (Provincial Internal Affairs)

ANC Armée Congolaise Nationale (Congolese National Army)

ATAP Administrateur Territorial Assistant Principal (Principal Territorial Assistant

Administrator)

CI Circonscription Indigène (Indigenous or local area)

CNL Conseil National de Libération (National Council of Liberation)

CVR Corps des Volontaires de la République (Voluntary Force of the Republic)

GD Gendarmerie

HCB Huileries du Congo Belge (Oil Mills of Belgian Congo)

INEAC Institut National pour l’Etude Agronomique du Congo Belge (National Institute for
Agronomy in Congo Belge)

INERA Institut National pour l’Etude et la Recherche Agronomiques (National Institute for
the Study and Research of Agronomy)

JMPR Jeunesses du Mouvement Populaire de la Révolution (Youth of the Popular

Movement of the Revolution)

MPR Mouvement Populaire de la Révolution (Popular Movement of the Revolution)

PALU Parti Lumumbiste Unifié (Unified Lumumbist Party)

PLC Plantations Lever au Congo (Lever Plantations in Congo)

PSA Parti Solidaire Africain, Belgian Congo (African Solidarity Party)

RENAMO National Resistance Movement of Mozambique

TO Travailleur Ordinaire (Unskilled worker)

TPM Travaux Publics et Mécaniques (Public and Mechanical Works)

UN United Nations

UPC Union of the Populations of Cameroon

US United States of America

 xii

WISER Wits Institute for Social and Economic Research

 Introduction

Overture

This thesis is about a moment that is relatively forgotten in the history of decolonization
in Africa. It is the period that followed almost immediately upon formal decolonization
and the transfer of power from colonial authority to that of the newly independent states.
This period, which occurred in a number of African countries, was marked by numerous
conflicts, most of which call into question the legitimacy of the new state. It took place,
for example, in Cameroon with the rebellion led by the Union of the Populations of
Cameroon (UPC) in the 1960s. 1 It also applied to the second phase of decolonization: for
example, Mozambique saw an armed resistance led by the National Resistance
Movement of Mozambique (Renamo) in the 1970s 2 and Zimbabwe experienced the
Matabeleland rebellion in the 1980s. 3
On the one hand, these conflicts or uprisings in the immediate post-independence
period often resulted in the deployment of various forms of state violence, the nature and
scale of which have sometimes reached exceptional or traumatic levels for the people

1
The rebellion in Cameroon started in 1948 and ended officially in 1958 after the assassination of the UPC
leader by the French authorities. The dispute resumed after Cameroonian independence in January 1960.
See Achille Mbembe, La naissance du maquis dans le Sud-Cameroun (1920-1960): Histoire des usages de
la raison en colonie, Paris: Karthala, 1996; and Richard Joseph, Le mouvement nationaliste au Cameroun:
les origines sociales de l’UPC, Paris: Karthala, 1986.
2
The war in Mozambique extended into the 1990s. See Alex Vines, Renamo: From Terrorism to
Democracy in Mozambique? New York: New York University Press, 1996; Sibil W. Cline, Renamo: Anti-
Communist Insurgents in Mozambique; The Fight Goes on, Washington, D.C.: United States Global
Council, 1989; Bruce W. Dayton and Louis Kriesberg (eds), Moving from Violence to Sustainable Peace,
London: Routledge, 2009; Anna Leão, Different Opportunities, Different Outcomes: Civil War and Rebel
Groups in Angola and Mozambique, Bonn: Deutsches Institut für Entwicklungspolitik, 2007; Carolyn
Nordstrom, A Different Kind of War Story, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997; Mark
Simpson, Political Decompression and Historical Revisionism in Mozambique, Johannesburg: South
African Institute of International Affairs, 1992; Michel Cahen, Mozambique: analyse politique de
conjoncture, Paris: Indigo Publications, 1990; and Victor Ingreja, “Frelimo’s Political Ruling through
Violence and Memory in Postcolonial Mozambique,” Journal of Southern African Studies 36, 3
(December 2010), pp. 781-799.
3
On this rebellion, see Jocelyn Alexander et al., Violence and Memory: One Hundred Years in the “Dark
Forests” of Matabeleland, Oxford: James Currey, 2000; Heike I. Schmidt, Colonialism and Violence in
Zimbabwe: A History of Suffering, Oxford: James Currey, 2013; Martin Meredith, Our Votes, our Guns:
Robert Mugabe and the Tragedy of Zimbabwe, New York: Public Affairs, 2003; Catholic Commission for
Justice, Gukurahundi in Zimbabwe: A Report on the Disturbances in Matabeleland (1980-1988),
Johannesburg: Jacana, 2007; and Enocent Msindo, Ethnicity in Zimbabwe: Transformations in Kalanga
and Ndebele Societies, 1860-1990s, New York: University of Rochester Press, 2012.
 2

involved. On the other hand, the independent state has generally attempted to force the
inhabitants of regions thus affected by violence to forget these events. By reconstructing
and analysing the events in one region of the former Belgian Congo in the aftermath of
independence, this study contributes to the elucidation of how such key moments—
which have often been characterized by a proliferation of civil wars—have had strong
and decisive influences on the trajectory of independent states.
This thesis focuses on the Mulele rebellion, a guerrilla war led by Pierre Mulele, one
of the founders of the Parti Solidaire Africain (PSA) in 1959 and former Minister of
National Education of the Lumumba government in July 1960, and his companions. The
rebellion took place mainly in the Kwilu region, then inhabited by approximately one
and a half million people and located about 500 km to the east of the capital city of
Kinshasa. 4 The rebellion lasted from 1963 to 1968, with the aim of re-conquering the
Congolese state from what the rebels called Belgian neo-colonial domination. 5 This form
of “neo-colonialism,” which in the view of the rebels was more insidious than traditional
colonial rule, operated through Congolese intermediaries. The post-independence
conflict that ravaged the Congo in the 1960s was characterized by both local and
international dimensions. 6 After the assassination of Patrice Emery Lumumba in 1961,

4
Herbert F. Weiss, Congo 1964: Political Documents of a Developing Nation, Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1966, p. 4. On the Kwilu region and its cultural and linguistic groups, see Henri Nicolaï,
Le Kwilu, Bruxelles: Cemubac, 1963.
5
Sindani Kiangu, Le Kwilu à l’épreuve du pluralisme identitaire (1948-1968), Paris: L’Harmattan, 2009,
p. 228. On the context in which the rebellion arose, the key reasons behind mobilization, how the guerilla
war was led, how many people supported Mulele, their age category as well as their beliefs, see Renée C.
Fox, Willy de Craemer and Jean-Marie Ribeaucourt, “La deuxième indépendance. Etude d’un cas: la
rébellion au Kwilu,” Etudes Congolaises 8, 1 (1965), pp. 1-35; and Ludo Martens, Pierre Mulele ou la
seconde vie de Lumumba, Bruxelles: Epo, 1985.
6
By “international dimension” here I mean the intervention of foreign powers, such as Belgium, France,
the United States of America (US), the Soviet Union, as well as the United Nations (UN). On this aspect,
see Crawford W. Young, “Post-Independence Politics in the Congo,” Transition, 23 (1966), pp. 34-41;
Stephen R. Weissman, American Foreign Policy in the Congo, 1960-1964, London: Cornell University
Press, 1974; Victor Marchetti and John D. Marks, The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence, London: J. Cape,
1974; Anthony Mocker, The New Mercenaries: The History of the Hired Soldier from the Congo to the
Seychelles, Minnesota: Paragon House, 1987; Piero Gleijeses, Conflicting Missions: Havana, Washington,
and Africa, 1959-1976, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002; Michael. R. Belscloss, The
Crisis Years: Kennedy and Khrushchev, 1960-1963, New York: Harper Collins, 1991; Georges H.
Dumont, Histoire de la Belgique, Paris: Edition du Club France loisirs, 1977; Albert Kalonji Ditunga
Mulopwe, Congo 1960. La sécession du Sud-Kasaï: La vérité du Mulopwe, Paris: L’Harmattan, 2005;
Cléophas Kamitatu-Massamba, Kilombo ou le prix à payer pour rebâtir la R-D Congo, Paris:
L’Harmattan, 2007; and Frank R. Villafaña, Cold War in the Congo: The Confrontation of Cuban Military
Forces, 1960-1967, New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2007.
 3

Pierre Mulele became the centre of the tensions between these national and international
dimensions as he questioned the nature, quality, and content of decolonization and
postcolonial trajectories.
The Mulele rebellion has been the subject of numerous studies. In the 1960s and
1970s, scholars who ventured into this field were concerned with issues of ideology,
political radicalization, mass mobilization, socio-political analysis of the rebels, their
identities, the causes of the rebellion, as well as the ambiguous features of the
movement. 7 In general, scholars were interested in the political ideology of post-
independence popular movements. The Mulele rebellion was considered an apt
illustration of the processes which led to the founding and development of social
movements in the Third World after 1945. At a global level, the debate remained
confined to the then still under-studied category of political violence known as the
“aborted revolution.” 8 It was strongly believed that an appreciation of the aborted rural
revolution in Kwilu would help scholars understand the reasons for the prevention of
political change in sub-Saharan Africa. 9 The studies led to the insight that the increasing
coercive capacity of African armies was legitimated by their strong endorsement by their
local governments, which was the key element that ultimately enabled the newly
independent African states to suppress popular rebellions. 10
In the 1980s, the debate shifted to three themes. In some ways, these were re-
iterations of some of the debates of the 1960s and 1970s, but with new insights. They
were the role of international powers in the Congo crisis; 11 secondly, “the forms and

7
See, for example, Fox, de Craemer and , “La deuxième indépendance,” pp. 1-35; Benoît Verhaegen,
Rebellions au Congo, vol. 1, Bruxelles, CRISP, 1966; and Mark Traugott, “The Economic Origins of the
Kwilu Rebellion,” Comparatives Studies in Society and History 21, 3 (July 1979), pp. 459-479. In terms of
argument and approach, Benoît Verhaegen’s last book, published in collaboration with J. Omasombo, E.
Simons and F. Verhaegen in 2006 does not completely move away from his first volume on the Mulele
rebellion published in 1966. See Benoît Verhaegen and al., Mulele et la révolution populaire au Kwilu
(République Démocratique du Congo), Bruxelles: MRAC, 2006; and Reuben Loffman, “Book Review:
Mulele et la révolution populaire au Kwilu (République Démocratique du Congo),” African Affairs 108,
431 (2009), pp. 332-333.
8
See Claude E. Welch (Jr.), “Ideological Foundations of Revolution in Kwilu,” African Studies Review 18,
2 (1975), p. 116.
9
Welch, “Ideological Foundations of Revolution in Kwilu,” p. 116.
10
Ibid., p. 127.
11
See Philipe Borel, “La politique belge à l’égard du Congo pendant la période des insurrections (1963-
1964),” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovich and al. (eds), Rébellions-révolutions au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol. 2,
Paris: L’Harmattan, 1987, pp. 7-35; Marcia Wright, “Pour que l’évolution se poursuive: projets et
 4

modalities of mass mobilization,” “the role and weight of the ethnic factor as a catalyst
for this mobilization,” the “dialectical partner of political ideology;” 12 and lastly, “the
specific impact of the complex and engaging personality of Pierre Mulele.” 13 These
debates examined in particular whether Pierre Mulele’s actions in Kwilu should be
considered a rebellion or a revolution. 14 In the same decade emerged the idea, first put
forward by Ludo Martens, that “Patrice Emery Lumumba and Pierre Mulele remain the
only true Congolese nationalists among the fighters of Congolese Independence.” 15 In
the late 1990s and early 2000s, the themes of political ideology 16 and identities re-
surfaced. The rebellion was analysed as a “social theory.” Pierre Mulele himself was
presented as an ambiguous figure in the history of Kwilu: “hero, martyr, or traitor?”17
The goal of this thesis is not to re-iterate these substantial works and debates on the
Mulele rebellion. It is rather to name, transcribe, document, and analyse the suffering
caused by the Mulele rebellion that began in 1963 and lasted until 1968. How was this
suffering inscribed in the imaginary (or the minds) of the survivors and, indirectly, the
Congolese state and various political regimes in power in Kinshasa from the 1960s to the

politiques des Etats-Unis au Congo, 1963,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-
révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.2, Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 36-61; and Daniel Van Der Steen,
“L’attitude de la presse occidentale en 1964,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-
révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.2, Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 61-70.
12
See Constant N’Dom, “La mobilisation des masses,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds),
Rébellions-révolutions au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol. 1, Paris: L’Harmattan, 1987 pp. 211-216; Constant
N’Dom Nda Ombel, Pierre Mulele assassiné, la révolution étranglée, Bruxelles: CEP, 1984; Benoît
Verhaegen, “Le rôle de l’ethnie et de l’individu dans la rébellion du Kwilu et dans son échec,” in Catherine
Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.1, Paris: L’Harmattan,
pp. 147-167; and Catherine Newbury, “Réflexions sur les racines rurales et la révolution: Rwanda et
Congo oriental,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-révolution au Zaïre (1963-
1965), vol.2, Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 95-105.
13
See Verhaegen, “Le rôle de l’ethnie…,” pp. 147-148.
14
See Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch, “Avant-propos,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds),
Rébellion-révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.1, Paris: L’Harmattan, p. 7; Verhaegen, “Le rôle de
l’ethnie…,” pp. 147-148; Nzongola-Ntalaja, “Fondements du mouvement insurrectionnel et problème de
cadres,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.1,
Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 229-234; and Ludo Martens, “L’idéologie du mouvement révolutionnaire au
Congo-Kinshasa (1963-1968). Forces et faiblesses,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds),
Rébellion-révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.1, Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 217-228. Scholars’ views
remained divergent on this question. In this thesis, I will use the word “rebellion” instead of “revolution.”
15
See Martens, Pierre Mulele...
16
See Kizobo O’Bweng-Okwess, Introduction à la pensée de Pierre Mulele, Lubumbashi: Presses
Universitaires de Lubumbashi, 1999.
17
See Kiangu, Le Kwilu…; and Sindani Kiangu, “Pierre Mulele, martyr ou traitre? Les langages de la
mémoire,” in Michèle Baussant, La mémoire, l’histoire et l’oubli, Québec: Les Presses de l’Université
Laval, 2006, pp. 131-142.
 5

present? It is the overall question of the “imaginaries of suffering” that is at the core of
my analysis: suffering as something people experienced in the concrete conditions of
existence during the rebellion (Chapter One); suffering understood as what a person
experienced in the body during the rebellion (Chapter Two); suffering as what the
“body” remembers 18 because it carries visible marks, recognizable by the self and others
(Chapter Three); and suffering as what leaves marks in the minds of the people involved
(Chapter Four). The thesis privileges the voices of the victims and the testimonies of
those who witnessed the rebellion in order to explore political power and its meaning at
the broader level of the history of Congolese society. It also wishes to explore time and
the reproduction of suffering caused by the rebellion across (the arc of) time. Lastly, it
seeks to explore the complex interplay between power, suffering, and memory.

Evidence, methods, theories, and approaches

The thesis is largely based upon early postcolonial archives of the Mulele rebellion,
materials created at the time and enriched over the last five decades. 19 I also draw on
more than one hundred oral interviews I conducted with witnesses and survivors who are
today settled in Kinshasa, Kikwit and its surrounding villages (500 km east of Kinshasa),
Idiofa (656 km east of Kinshasa) and Gungu (686 km south-east of Kinshasa). The
interviews were conducted in Kikongo, Lingala and French. 20 They took place in several
stages and over several months: March 2013, September 2013-February 2014, March
2015, July-August 2015, and December 2015. 21
The thesis also brings into play published resources and official reports into the
rebellion and its aftermath, including commentaries right up to the present. It employs
maps generated at the time of the rebellion and ever since, photographs taken at the time

18
See Didier Fassin, When Bodies Remember: Experiences and Politics of AIDS in South Africa, trans.
Amy Jacobs and Gabrielle Varo, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007.
19
The “Conseil National de Libération (Congo) Commandement des Forces Armées Populaires. Etat
Major Général Records” collection (forthwith Archives Conseil National) is located at the Hoover
Institution, Stanford University. The documents are mainly written in Kikongo, a Congolese language, and
in French. I also use private collections.
20
All translations in the thesis are my own.
21
The thesis makes use of long quotes from these interviews and the quotes are assigned to the names of
the interviewees. Unless otherwise specified, all names used in this thesis are real.
 6

of the rebellion as well as my own taken during the field work, newspaper accounts and
other forms of evidences, including scars and marks on the bodies of survivors. The
thesis is also informed by analysis of dreams and nightmares recounted during
interviews.
Three remarks in relation to methodological questions and problems of interpretation
should be made here. First of all is the difficulty of working with “gruesome”
materials. 22 When writing about violence, suffering, and memory, we are not merely
objective onlookers, we are in fact contributing to the archive itself. 23 This has
implication for us as researchers, whose subjectivities influence how we chose to present
the evidence at our disposal. The photographs and images reproduced in this thesis are
“shocking”; some of the descriptions of torture are disturbing; the voices of the witnesses
are “loud.” 24 Their reproduction in this thesis is a response to the burning question that
animates this thesis: “How does one write about suffering in a way that does not
compromise the suffering of the person on whom it is inflicted and of those who are
reading about this suffering?”
Secondly, the evidence which the thesis gathers together does not necessarily share
the same status; nor is it of the same genre. Official reports are not the same as individual
testimonies gathered through private correspondences; written testimonies are not the
same as oral testimonies; a testimony given at the time of the events is not the same as a
testimony given fifty years later. 25 The different valency of the evidence carries

22
See Susan Sontag, On Photography, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1979; Susan Sontag, Regarding
the Pain of Others, London: Penguin, 2004; Elana Newman and al., “Trauma Exposure and Post-
Traumatic Stress Disorder Among Photojournalists,” Visual Communication Quarterly 10, 1 (2003), pp. 4-
13; Keren Cohen and Paula Collens, “The Impact of Trauma Work on Trauma Workers: A Metasynthesis
on Vicarious Trauma and Vicarious Posttraumatic Growth,” Psychological Trauma: Theory, Research,
Practice, and Policy 5, 6 (2013), pp. 570-580; and Anthony Feinstein and al., “Witnessing Images of
Extreme Violence: A Psychological Study of Journalists in the Newsroom,” Journal of the Royal Society
of Medicine Opens 5, 8 (2014), pp. 1-7.
23
See Schmidt, Colonialism and Violence in Zimbabwe..., pp. 8-11.
24
The thesis uses the masculine form of “he” in the discussion of the torture imposed on the survivors.
This is particularly the case when eyewitnesses speak of the torture done to them and the torture they
witnessed perpetrated against their immediate colleagues. This raises the question of the gender of my
interviewees: there were more men than women. But it also raises the question whether the torture was
perpetrated in particular against men, so that it is mainly men who function as witness to it. The evidence
on my disposal suggests that men were the main target of torture.
25
See David William Cohen and E.S. Atieno Odhiambo, The Risks of Knowlegde: Investigations into the
Death of the Hon. Minister John Robert Ouko in Kenya, 1990, Athens and Nairobi: Ohio University Press-
East African Educational Publishers LTD, 2004; Christian Chevandier, “Objet de recherche, méthodes et
 7

significant implications for its interpretation. One possible question that might be
asked—and this applies to all disciplines working with issues of truth and objectivity—is
whether the stories told by my informants are true or false; how can we determine if they
are true or false? If what the informants said is true, did the events they described unfold
precisely as portrayed? What means do I have as a scholar to verify and ascertain the
truthfulness of the accounts? If what the informants said is false, what role does falsity
play? In the end—and this is my first theoretical approach—questions on truth and
falsity might not be the right ones. 26 Some of what my informants said is probably true,
and some probably false. The figures of speech they employed and the descriptions they
produced in order to account for the tragedy probably aimed at producing dramatic
effects: conviction and sympathy, with political meanings.
More useful, I suggest, is the question of plausibility, likelihood and probability: that
which my informants accounted for in their testimonies is likely to have happened,
regardless of whether it actually happened or not. 27 And what also matters is the fact that
informants can now speak (to me) as if these things actually happened, knowing full well
that even as a historian I hardly have the means to verify their stories. What they account
for are things that we can imagine could have actually happened, especially in a context
in which they found themselves during the rebellion; a context in which any distinction
between the normal and the ordinary (or extraordinary) either no longer existed or was
deeply re-configured because of violence and the imperative for many of them to
survive. In a situation where the distinction between the normal and the abnormal no

sources en histoire,” Recherche en soins infirmiers 2, 109 (2012), pp. 33-36; Dominique Aron-Schnapper
and Danièle Hanet, “D’Hérodote au magnétophone: sources orales et archives orales,” Annales. Economie,
Sociétés, Civilisations 35, 1 (1980), pp. 183-199; Jan Vansina, De la tradition orale : essai de méthode
historique, Tervuren : Musée Royale de l’Afrique Centrale, 1961 ; Marc Bloch, “Critique historique et
critique du témoignage,” Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales 5, 1 (janvier-mars 1950), pp. 1-8 ; François
Bedarida, “Une invitation à penser l’histoire : Paul Ricœur, la mémoire, l’histoire et l’oubli,” Revue
Historique 3, 619 (2003), pp. 731-739 ; and Dominick LaCapra, History & Criticism, Ithaca and London:
Cornell University Press, 1985.
26
On the question of truth and falsity, see Paul Ricœur, “Narrative Time,” Critical Inquiry 7, 1 (Autumn
1980), pp. 169-190; Paul Ricœur, “Narrative Identity,” Philosophy Today 35, 1 (Spring 1991), pp. 73-81;
Michel Foucault, Le courage de la vérité: le gouvernement de soi et des autres II. Cours au Collège de
France, 1983-1984, ed. Frédéric Gros, Paris: Gallimard-Seuil, 2008; Luise White et al., African Words,
African Voices: Critical Practices in Oral History, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001; and
Alessandro Portelli, The Death of Luigi Trastulli and other Stories, Albany: State University of New York
Press, 1991.
27
See Portelli, The Death..., pp. 2, 26, 50-58.
 8

longer holds, everything becomes possible. And when everything becomes possible,
narration is liberated from its ordinary strictures. 28 Under such circumstances, truth is
mostly an effect of affect. As a result, most of my effort in this thesis is to approach the
stories re-counted by my informants as acts of affect. 29
Thirdly, the materials that form the core of this thesis are fragments of texts,
speeches, words, and artifacts. They are fragments of evidence. The idea here—and this
is my second theoretical approach—is not to make them say what they do not say, but to
use them as an entry point to events that happened in the past, events which can only be
partially reconstituted by these fragments. One of the questions this kind of evidence
raises is: “What kind of interpretation does one get from them?” The interpretation we
can get from fragments can only be fragmentary. Fragments do not allow for total
interpretation. Ultimately, the knowledge that one can build from them will, out of
necessity, be an incomplete kind of knowledge, a position which needs to be embraced
as such. This should not be considered a lack, but the most logical approach.
My interpretation of these fragments comes from a close reading of them. This
attempt at close reading builds from theoretical insights gained from the work of Georges
Bataille (particularly his conception of space as sacrificial), Deleuze and Guattari
(Nomadology), Michel Foucault (bio-politics, Surveiller et Punir), Reinhardt Koselleck
(Future Past), Achille Mbembe (Necropolitics, On the Postcolony), Jean-Paul Sartre
(Being and Nothingness), Martin Heidegger (his concept of “being-towards-death” and
his phenomenology of fear), Jacques Derrida (The Gift of Death, his theory of specters,
as well as his conception of time), Elaine Scarry (The Body in Pain), Jean-Luc Nancy
(The Intruder, and The Ground of the Image), Frantz Fanon (his dialectic of self and
others), Nancy Rose Hunt (her conception of laughter), Walter Benjamin (his conception

28
On the configuration of narration, see Paul Ricœur, Temps et récit, Paris: Seuil, 1983; Paul Ricœur,
Temps et récit: la configuration du temps dans le récit de fiction, Paris: Seuil, 1984; and Paul Ricœur,
Temps et récit: le temps raconté, Paris: Seuil, 1985.
29
See Kathleen Stewart, Ordinary Affects, Durham: Duke University Press, 2007; Paul Hoggett and
Simon Thompson (eds), Politics and the Emotions: The Affective Turn in Contemporary Political Studies,
London: Continuum, 2012; Brian Massumi, “The Autonomy of Affect,” Cultural Critique, 31 (Autumn
1995), pp. 83-109; Constantina Papoulias and Felicity Callard, “Biology’s Gift: Interrogating the Turn to
Affect,” Body and Society 16, 1 (2010), pp. 29-56; Ruth Leys, “The Turn to Affect: A Critique,” Critical
Inquiry 37, 3 (Spring 2011), pp. 437-472; and Couze Venn, “Post-Lacanian Affective Economy, Being-in-
the-World, and the Critique of the Present: Lessons from Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger,” Theory, Culture &
Society 21, 1 (2004), pp. 149-158.
 9

of time), Cornelius Castoriadis (his theory of imaginary), Paul Ricœur (History, Memory
and Forgetting), Jean-Pierre Vernant (Dans l’oeil du miroir) and Sabine Melchior-
Bonnet (The Mirror: A History). 30
I will not go into detail about this constellation of theoretical perspectives here. I will
show how this can be done in the course of the account. The conclusion will demonstrate
explicitly how they are deployed in the chapters, each of which explores its own set of
problems. The latter will also set out the theoretical contribution made by this thesis.

A short intellectual trajectory

My interest in the subject of human suffering goes back to August 1998. I was 14 years
old. At the time, Kinshasa, the capital city of the Democratic Republic of Congo where I
was born and grew up, was besieged by Rwandan-Ugandan rebel forces who were
fighting against the Congolese central governement. 31 There was no food. For eighteen
days there was no electricity. We had to hide under the beds. My father was caught up by
civilians who wrongly accused him of complicity with the rebels. He was beaten up—
and almost burned. We were forced, as many others, to leave our home. We crossed the
N’djili river on foot to seek refuge in the neighbouring municipality [commune] of
Kisenso. I witnessed my mother nearly drowning. I realised that the man who carried me
across the river on his shoulders was in physical pain.
It is after this experience that I began to think seriously about suffering. I even
considered studying medicine after high school. But I was finally drawn to the discipline
of history which is infused with questions from philosophy and medicine and engages
with inquiry into human suffering. During my undergraduate years, I was exposed to
leading professors at the University of Kinshasa, including Congolese scholars, such as
Ernest Kiangu, Jean-Marie Mutamba, Isidore Ndaywel, Elikia M’Bokolo, Martin
Kalulambi, Jacob Sabakinu, Pamphile Mabiala, Jérôme Mumbanza, Georges

30
Here, I am only referring to the key sources of inspiration. Many more are outlined in the thesis itself.
31
On this rebellion, see Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem, Nouvelle histoire du Congo: des origines à la
République Démocratique, Paris: Le Cri, 2010, pp. 611-616; Gérard Prunier, From Genocide to
Continental War: The Congolese Conflict and the Crisis of Contemporary Africa, London: Hurst, 2009,
pp. 181-208; and Filip Reyntjens, The Great African War: Congo and Regional Geopolitics, 1996-2006,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009, pp. 144-221.
 10

Tshund’Olela, Noel Obotela, Charles Sikitele, Paul Serufuri, Valère Belepe, Pierre
Mukuna and Paul Bakwalufu. In 2011, Nancy Rose Hunt, an American scholar who had
taught me in my first year of studies, encouraged me to apply and study at an English-
speaking university abroad. I came to the Wits Institute for Social and Economic
Research (WiSER), at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, South
Africa, with its inter-disciplinary approach to social science enquiries.
Some of the themes that shaped my intellectual life at WiSER are the postcolony, the
question of what it is to be human in the world, and the question of memory and
imagination. I am completing this thesis at the moment of enormous tenuousness in the
world that does not seem to have any clear sense of humanity. Some of the arguments
developed here could land me in jail if I were to set foot in Congo again; politically,
Kinshasa is still a very complicated and “ambiguous” terrain.
 Chapter One – Space, Mobility, and Displacement

This chapter has two goals. One is to show the relationship between the meaning of
space, controls over mobility, and resulting displacement in the context of the dramatic
Mulele rebellion. The second, which overlaps with the first, is to show how suffering
becomes embedded within space—a violent space, the space of the rebellion—through
the forms and structuring of continual movement of people within that space.
The main argument of this chapter is that violent conflicts, in their nature, always
shatter the mental, temporal, and spatial frameworks by which people make sense of
their lives. When conflicts break out that are accompanied by violence, terror, and actual
physical movements, they rupture the previous logics of daily life that people used to
make sense of their lives. Not only does this affect the physical bodies of people, but it
also affects the relationship of the self with the environment. The chapter points strongly
to the centrality of space and displacement in the production of suffering.
It is divided into four parts. The first is about the occupation and re-configuration of
the contested zone in Kwilu, as well as the regulation of how people circulate within
space, both by the rebels and the government forces. The second part deals with the
phenomenon of continuously fleeing from the conflict within the contested zone, as well
as the role of imagination and dreams in how people began to make sense of suffering
during the conflict. The third part focuses on the periphery, the areas immediately
surrounding the contested zone, and its contribution to the production of suffering.
Finally, the last part looks at the “refugee camp” as a site of exclusion.

On territorial occupation and the regulation of movements

In June 1963 Pierre Mulele secretively returned from China where he had gone to learn
about guerrilla warfare. 1 By July he had reached the Kwilu district where he set up his
maquis (the headquarters of his resistance movement). 2 Until September, he trained his

1
Georges Nzongola-Ntalaja, The Congo. From Leopold to Kabila: A People’s History, London: Zed
Books, 2002, p. 128.
2
Jules Gerard-Libois and Jean Van Lierde (eds), Congo 1964, Bruxelles: CRISP, 1965, pp. 9, 11. Maquis
is a territory where armed resistance gathered.
 12

partisans. 3 During the last quarter of 1963, his followers engaged in sporadic incursions
against the positions held by the Armée Nationale Congolaise (Congolese National
Army, ANC). 4 In January 1964, the rebels launched a major campaign and a crisis
spread across the region. 5 The movement grew to such an extent and was so successful
that it soon conquered and occupied a “huge” territory of about 300 km length north-
south and 120 km wide east-west (see Figure 1 and Figure 2). 6 By December 1963, rebel
positions were reported to be in the Kapia, Bulwem and Sedzo sectors in the Kalo
préfecture. 7 They had six sectors of the Idiofa Territory under their control. 8 They also
spread their domination over eleven districts of Gungu Territory as well as three districts
of Bulungu Territory. 9
The rebel leaders reorganized the area they had conquered but the gradual
fragmentation of this new system led to the creation of regional “fiefdoms.” 10 To
consolidate and extend their power within the region, the rebels divided the occupied
territory into three zones. 11 The northern part, located between Bulwem and Kalanganda,
was initially placed under the leadership of Felix Mukulubundu 12 and Valère

3
I use the terms partisan and rebel interchangeably. On the enrolment and training of Mulele’s partisans,
see Martens, Pierre Mulele..., pp. 144-148.
4
Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem, Histoire générale du Congo. De l’héritage ancien à la République
Démocratique du Congo, Bruxelles: Duculot, 1998, p. 617.
5
Ibid.
6
Martens, Pierre Mulele..., p. 149.
7
Ibid.
8
Ibid. Here are the six secteurs of Idiofa: Kanga, Kalanganda, Yassa-Lokwa, Banga, Belo, Madimbi and
Kipuku.
9
Sindani, Le Kwilu..., p. 234. Here are the eleven districts of Gungu: Kiboba, Matadi, Mungindu,
Kilamba, Lukamba, Gudi, Kondo, Kandale, Kilembe, Mudikalunga, Kobo and Lozo. In Bulungu, they
occupied Kipuka, Niadi, and Imbongo.
10
Anonymous, “Rapport: Motifs du dirigeant en chef de Kangu,” reel 2, box 2, doc. 1194. Archives
Conseil National; Milwamba and Mungulu, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 226. Archives Conseil National;
and Gaston Mafuta and Emmanuel Mbayolo, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00295. Archives Conseil
National.
11
It should be said that there was a more complex reconfiguration of space through the dynamic between
rebels and government spaces and also with the ambiguous spaces, like some mission posts and villages
that remained between these two types of spaces or that sometimes belonged to the two spaces at the same
time.
12
Felix Mukulubundu was very quickly sent to Brazzaville by Mulele, to serve as a liaison with the
Conseil National de Libération (CNL). On this movement, see Gerard-Libois and Van Lierde, Congo
1964, pp. 31-78.
 13

Munzamba. 13 The centre, situated near Idiofa and not far from Iseme and Impasi, was led
by Theodore Bengila and Pierre Mulele himself. The third zone was initially located
around Yassa-Lokwa but removed soon after and relocated to Kilembe. It was under the
charge of Louis Kafungu and Eugene Mumvudi. 14

15
Figure 1: Location of Kwilu province in the Congo

13
Martens, Pierre Mulele..., p. 149.
14
Ibid.
15
Wikipedia, “Kwilu province,” CC BY-SA 3.0 license. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kwilu_Province.
Accessed on 15 September 2016.
 14

Figure 2. Rebel influence in Kwilu. (Blue: Zone under rebel control. Green: Zone controlled by the
government)

In April 1964, confronted by serious administrative problems, the rebels decided to

re-organize the territory into five new zones. 16 According to the rebel leaders, this new
territorial segmentation was key to how the rebellion was inscribing its power onto the
landscape. 17 Administrative structures based on the communist model were set up by the
rebel leaders to help them monitor the population under their jurisdiction. 18 At the lowest
level of the hierarchy, the rebels created the Equipe (group) of partisans. 19 At the

16
Martens, Pierre Mulele..., pp. 185-186. East, West, North, South, and Centre. These new fiefs were run
by Evariste Menaba, Kanamba, Situkumbansa, Pierre Damien Kandaka and Eugene Mumvudi.
17
Zénon Mibamba (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 28 March 2013. Zénon Mibamba was one of
the leaders of the Conseil National de Liberation in Brazzaville from 1964 until 1968. The interpretation is
mine.
18
CRISP (ed.), Congo 1965, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967, p. 91.
19
Ibid., p. 92.
 15

intermediary level, between the Equipe and the zone, they created sous-directions (sub-
category). 20 All these structures were under the supreme authority of Mulele. 21
The occupation of the territory by the rebels, followed by its gradual fragmentation
into regional “fiefdoms,” raised numerous problems for the rebels. From the onset they
were aware of the importance of securing the land they took from the government. 22 In
order to do so, the rebels introduced a number of initiatives. Firstly, they mounted fierce
resistance against government forces by guerilla warfare: ambushes, hit-and-run attacks,
sabotage as well as the destruction of bridges and ferries. 23 They dug large pits on
strategic roads, covered with nets, branches and sand, so that vehicles of the militaire
would fall into them when passing through. The rebels would then come out of their
hiding spots and kill “all” the occupants the vehicles. 24 These tactics proved very
effective in preventing the militaires of the ANC progressing towards the territories
under rebel control, enabling these to isolate this zone. 25 Local administrative officers,
who carried out patrol missions with the ANC troops in the areas surrounding the
“liberated” zone 26 reported on these ambushes:

On 5 March 1964, […] we left Bulungu for Nkara through Kikandji,

Mitshakila and Kikongo. On our way, we realized that Nsama-Nsama bis, a
village located in the Niadi sector, had been burnt by the rebels. […] 8 km
from the Catholic post of Bisenge, where we stayed before our departure, we
were attacked the first time. There were big holes and trees branches along the
road until Bisenge […] In Musayi village, which is located in the
Circonscription Indigène [local area] of Niadi, precisely at the boundary
between […] Niadi and Imbongo, we found a rebels sanctuary. […] From here
on, the obstacles increased. We were obliged to stay in Tango-Gomina, in
Imbongo sector. […] On the morning of 7 March 1964, we continued our walk
downstream of Tango-Gomina. It was a real disaster for us; a hole of about 20
m wide and 6 m deep: the roadway was completely cut off […]. Having been

20
CRISP (ed.), Congo 1965, p. 92.
21
Ibid. On the recruitment and training of the rebels, see Martens, Pierre Mulele..., pp. 144-148.
22
On the ways in which the central government reacted to this rebellion, see Ludo Martens, Abo: Une
femme du Congo, Paris: L’Harmattan, 1995, pp. 79-212; and Martens, Pierre Mulele..., pp. 145, 151-153,
276-297.
23
Gerard-Libois and Van Lierde, Congo 1964, p. 15.
24
Ibid.
25
Ibid.
26
The territory under rebel control.
 16

confronted with insurmountable obstructions, we were finally obliged to use

the Kikwit road to return to Bulungu. 27

To secure the “liberated” zone more efficiently, the rebels decided to station security
guards at strategic points. 28 Mostly appointed forcibly, 29 these wardens were assigned
absolute power over those who passed through. 30 They controlled the exit and entry
points of the liberated area. 31 Some of them were positioned in trees as “hidden cameras”
to “screen” all individuals and “assets” entering and leaving the villages. The rebels
conducted daily patrols throughout the “liberated” zone to impose their authority and
monitor people’s mobility. 32 These strategies of surveillance, based on the dissemination
of security guards at strategic locations, continue to haunt the memories of those who
lived in war zone. As this man from Musenge Mputu says:

This is something I will never forget. […] There were a lot of checkpoints all
over the roads, leading from one village to another. […] All of them were
constantly and closely monitored with unprecedented severity. […] There
would be security guards on this road. There would be others on that road and
many others on all the other ones. […] They would send five to six people to
set up barriers. In the morning, around 7 am, they would replace these people
with others. […] All the exits would be controlled. None of them would be left
unguarded. 33

As key tool in the protection of the “liberated” zone, the security guard service was
subjected to careful and regular inspection. 34 This ensured that the guards carried out
their duties of controlling and monitoring these spaces where people were moving
diligently. Most rebel reports of the time place a strong emphasis on the word
“vigilance.” 35 The security guards were obliged to watch over the enemy without

27
Marcel Mafuta, “Rapport administratif,” reel 12, box 8, folder 8, file I, doc. B0176. Archives Conseil
National. See also Benjamin Ngolo and Damien Mulay, “Rapport équipe n° 1283,” reel 1, box 1, doc.
00334-T. Archives Conseil National.
28
Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013. Former rebel leader. He was
24 years when the rebellion broke out.
29
In case of refusal, these people, who were also rebels, were imprisoned.
30
Justin Kaziama (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 1 December 2013. Former security guard in
Gungu in 1964. He was 11 years old when the rebellion broke out.
31
Emmanuel Mukela (67 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013. Former partisan of
Musenge Mputu between 1964 and 1966. He was 18 years old when the rebellion broke out.
32
Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013.
33
Emmanuel Mukela (67 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
34
Timothée Kandolo, “Rapport n°9,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00939. Archives Conseil National.
35
Ibid.
 17

respite. 36 They were required to monitor and scrutinise every single road ruthlessly. 37
Those who failed to carry out their mission were punished brutally 38 and replaced by
others, to prevent the passage by the enemy. 39 In a letter addressed to Louis Mayele, the
deputy chief of the rebel’s Department of Military Affairs, Timothée Kandolo, the
political adviser of Intshwem village, explained how he implemented the instructions
regarding the security guard service in the villages under his supervision.

With regard to the security guards, […] we are doing all we can to implement
your recommendations. Here are the names of the heads of the security guards:
(1) Ndayolo: […] Mbila Mungiangi village; (2) Léon Isosa: Mbila Isanango
village; (3) Romer Yingimba will be in charge of Mbila Imbweti; and (4)
Albert Ipolo will be in charge of the guards of Mbila Mikingu village. The
heads of the security guards must ensure that their people are doing their job
very well. They must watch over the enemy. […] We have chosen one person
who will monitor every single road. He will replace those who are absent. His
name is Mbulu Constant. 40

One of the men who were commanded as guards described his duties in this way:

As long as someone is designated to perform guard duty, they must not sleep.
[…] They must remain awake […] and provide safety for those they are
supposed to protect. […] No matter how old someone is, they must be on
armed guard duty. […] During the night, the head of the Equipe will send
someone to check up on them. If he catches them sleeping, he must arrest them
and lock them in an unusual prison under the ground. […] This can go up to
three days. 41

This is to show that the security of the “liberated” zone was of greatest interest for
the rebels. Those who ran away from the rebel positions at the time remembered the
ways in which the strategies put in place by the rebels affected the landscape. They
described the space under rebel control as one transformed into barricades and

36
Timothée Kandolo, “Rapport n°9,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00939. Archives Conseil National.
37
Ibid.
38
Justin Kaziama (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 1 December 2013.
39
Timothée Kandolo, “Rapport n°9,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00939. Archives Conseil National.
40
Ibid.
41
Justin Kaziama (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 1 December 2013. See also Jean-Baudouin and
Jean-Anathase, “Affaire chef d’équipe A. Kimbenze,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2412-T. Archives Conseil
National.
 18

enclosures with fixed entry and exit points. 42 There was no contact with the outside
world. 43 Control over mobility within this space was carried out with severity. 44 This
way of managing the space led to the creation of a monitoring network, criss-crossed by
a set of relays, each of which was endowed with “absolute” power over the people-in-
motion. 45
Yet, the dissemination of individual security guards at strategic points seemed not to
be enough for the rebels. Driven by the strong desire of scrutinizing the movement of
people under their control, the rebels made use of other “technologies” of surveillance
and documentation. One of these was to put new laws into place. The most important of
these was introducing the compulsory carrying of a “laissez-passer” (travel document)
(see Figure 3) throughout the “liberated” zone.
As during the colonial era, the laissez-passer was a legal document every person was
required to carry on themselves when outside of the house. It played a key role in
differentiating those who supported the rebellion from those who opposed it. At each
checkpoint, the rebels appointed people responsible for checking these documents. 46
Inspections at these checkpoints were carried out with excessive brutality. 47 The
inspectors were divided into several groups, all located at the same checkpoint but

42
S[imon] Ndala, “Rapport de la mission de pacification psychologique pour le secteur Bulwem,
préfecture de Kamtsha-Loange (12 décembre 1964),” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B 0230. Archives
Conseil National.
43
André Isungi, “Deuxième partie du rapport administratif de mission de pacification en secteur
d’Imbongo (12 novembre 1964),” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B 0221. Archives Conseil National.
44
S[imon] Ndala, “Rapport de la mission de pacification psychologique pour le secteur Bulwem,
préfecture de Kamtsha-Loange (12 décembre 1964),” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B 0230. Archives
Conseil National.
45
Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013.
46
Timothée Kandolo, “Rapport n°9,” juin 1964, reel 2, box 1, doc. 00939. Archives Conseil National. The
manner in which the laissez-passer was employed is well illustrated by the case of Kisangala, a partisan
stationed at Bumbana camp. When he was sent to the rebel headquarters as paracommando, he had to
obtain a laissez-passer to bypass the security systems. He left Bumbana camp on 20 June 1964 and was
received by Equipe 845 on 21 June. His document was stamped by the political commissioner of Equipe
845 on that day. Later the same day, he was received by Equipe 591. Two days later, his papers were
successively checked by Equipes 416, 845 and 1304. On 24 June, the document was stamped by Equipes
1213 and 1442. On 26 June, the stamp in his document shows that he was received by Eugene Mumvudi,
commander of Southwestern military region and on 27 June by the military commander of the Kimbunda
camp. The following day, his paper was finally stamped by Equipe 179, the last checkpoint before he
reached Mulemba, the rebel headquarters. See Emmanuel Munzudi and Théophane S., “Laissez-passer,”
reel 1, box 1, doc. 00348. Archives Conseil National.
47
Bertin Mukela (70 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013. See also Casonets Mufuki,
“Lettre, le 2 février 1964,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00882. Archives Conseil National.
 19

hidden in the bushes, and each successively checking the documents of the same
travellers. Bertin Mukela, a former leader of the rebellion, recalled these modalities of
control:

I arrived at the village at night from Idiofa. […] In the morning, the rebels
came to arrest me. […] They told me: ‘We must go to Mulele.’ I packed my
bag and we started to go. There were already Equipes in all the villages. […]
Everyone had to carry a laissez-passer to pass through. […] When we arrived
at the checkpoint, we stopped. We showed our Laissez-passer. They checked
and let us pass through. […] When we had walked not even a few steps, others
appeared from behind the bushes and asked for our papers. After checking our
documents, they disappeared into the bush. Again others reappeared, only to
check our documents once more. […] It was like that all along the road.48

48
Bertin Mukela (70 years old), oral interview, Idiofa le 23 December 2013.
 20

49
Figure 3: Rebel laissez-passer

Control of documents at checkpoints was carried out scrupulously. The rebels were
required to show a great attention to detail when processing the documents. To confirm
the authenticity of any document carried by the travellers passing through the security
systems, the rebels had to check simultaneously the seal, the signature, as well as the
identity of the person who signed the documents. In the rebel areas it was the Equipe
leaders who were exclusively responsible for issuing travel permits. But because the
trafficking of fake documents and the imitation of signatures became an increasingly

49
Emmanuel Munzudi and S. Théophane, “Laissez-passer,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00348. Archives Conseil
National.
 21

common phenomenon, the inspectors revised their policies 50 and began to question the
authenticity of documents signed by Equipe leaders. 51 In a new system, travellers were
now required to present a document that was signed and sealed by the rebel
headquarters. 52 In June 1964, Fernand Kiboba, a rebel militaire leader on a mission to
Feshi, desperately reported on this new rule to his supervisors:

Here, to pass through all the checkpoints, a lot of comrades only require
documents with your signature. […] For them to believe that we were
genuinely sent by you, all they want to see are the documents from
headquarters. […] Please send us a document entitled: ‘Laissez-passer for
Feshi,’ otherwise we will not be able to pass through. 53

If the movement of people in the area under rebel control was subjected to the
compulsory carrying of a laissez-passer, the possession of this document by no means
guaranteed the freedom of movement within the area. Aware of the fraud and traffic of
fake documents, the rebels required travellers to validate their laissez-passer with a
password in oral questioning. These passwords were esoteric formulas that had to be
learnt off by heart. 54 They were known only to a limited group of rebels within a given
radius. With these passwords, the inspectors at the checkpoints could easily differentiate
the supporters of the rebellion from those known as “contra-revolutionaries.”
These esoteric formulas included a question and answer set. This could change
several times during the day, especially if the rebel position was under attack by the
militaires or if someone from the area under rebel control had escaped towards the
military positions. 55 This is why, for example, in June 1964 the rebels of N’djili camp,
located in the vicinity of Mbangi in Gungu, changed their passwords on the eve of the

50
Ndiang Kabul (67 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 March 2013. He joined the maquis in 1964
when he was 18 years old. After the rebellion, he pursued his studies at Lovanium in Kinshasa where he
was awareded a degree in economics. He was the governor of the Banque Centrale du Congo from 1994 to
1997. He died in Kinshasa in December 2013.
51
Ndiang Kabul (67 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 March 2013.
52
Fernand Koboba and Joachim Manaka, “Lettre: voyage pour Feshi, juin 1964,” reel 1, box 1, doc.
00341. Archives Conseil National.
53
Timothée Kandolo, “Rapport n°9,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00939. Archives Conseil National.
54
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013. Former rebel leader. He was 28
years old when the rebellion broke out.
55
Ibid.
 22

military attack. 56 People travelling in the rebel area now had to be able to answer the
question “What is two plus two?” with the ironic answer “Saturday.” 57
The secret codes upon which the rebels relied were based on the circulation of
knowledge. In a situation of heightened vulnerability caused by rebel terror, it was often
difficult for people living in the rebel area to find out newly coined passwords. The
rebels punished this lack of knowledge by inscribing the “bodies” of uninitiated
travellers with their power. The rebels seized them, blindfolded them and stripped them
naked before meticulously “scrutinizing” 58 their orifices. 59 The rebels would then flog
the uninitiated with a whip or a stick, and scratch signs and marks onto their naked
skin. 60 The uninitiated would then be entrusted to the care of guardians who would
accompany and watch them throughout their journey. 61 On their arrival at their
destination, they would be assigned to the intelligence services who would continue to
observe them secretly. 62 With these new ways of monitoring, the rebels were able to
institute a strong field of visibility and surveillance, grouded in secrecy, around the
“bodies” of uninitiated travellers.
While a laissez-passer required additional procedures of verification in the security
systems, the non-possession of this document could lead to a person’s death. The rebels
automatically assumed such a person to be from the enemy. Undocumented people were
unable to present themselves and testify to their innocence or even loyalty without
arousing the suspicion that they might be without a document because they were
complicit with the Congo army. They were killed with overwhelming and brute force.

56
Célestin Madidi and Willem Madidi, “Laissez-passer. Affaire Commando,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00349.
Archives Conseil National.
57
Ibid.
58
Here the word scrutinize is used figuratively.
59
Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013. Former partisan of Equipe
Mungay. He was 17 years old when the rebellion broke out. Interpretation is mine based on what he told
me.
60
Ibid. and Jean Mayo (75 years old), oral interview, Lukamba, 2 November 2013. Jean Mayo was a nurse
when the rebellion broke out. In early January 1964, he was asked to leave Kikwit Sacré Coeur where he
was working. He was accused of supporting the rebels. Not having any other alternative, he risked walking
from Kikwit Sacré Coeur to his village in Lukamba.
61
Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
62
Ndiang Kabul (67 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 March 2013.
 23

Bonaventure Bongongo, 63 former rebel from Mungay, witnessed this kind of abuse
perpetrated at checkpoints between 1964 and 1966. In an interview, he said:

This was not a joke at the time. […] Whoever got to Mungay and did not have
a laissez-passer was killed, […] regardless of any kind of appeals to their
innocence or loyalty […]. This was the rule that used to govern the entire
rebellion […] and everyone was bound to this law. […]. You leave your
village for another, you must have a laissez-passer. […] If you do not have
any, you will be considered an enemy. […] The rebels will bury you alive
[…]. Many times, I witnessed the killing of people at checkpoints. […] Those
who left their villages without a laissez-passer and went without control, the
rebels arrested and killed them on the spot. I did witness gruesome scenes. […]
Any person who knew that their relative went out without a permit was aware
that it was finished! He (the relative) would never come back. The rebels
would bury him alive in the bush. […] That was the rule. 64

The re-positioning of the ANC and its deployment in the region led to a new and
complex re-configuration of space. The rebels began to lose parts of their position and
the “huge” territory under their control was gradually reduced to a multiplicity of
“liberated” pockets patched with government-controlled pockets. 65 The confrontation
between the rebels and the ANC militaires led to the creation of other, “ambiguous”
forms of spaces. They were mainly mission posts and villages that were located between
the rebel and government-held areas, or that sometimes even belonged to both areas at
the same time. 66
The complexity of the dynamic between the rebels and the militaires within these
areas led to the intensification of strategies of control within the contested region. Roads
leading to major centres—and besieged by the rebels—were officially closed by the
militaires. 67 They subjected mobility on these roads to strict controls. 68 Mines were

63
This is a pseudonym.
64
Bonaventure Bongongo (70 years old), oral interview. Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
65
The re-positioning and the deployment of the ANC in the region occurred throughout 1964, but it was in
the third term of 1964 in particular that the rebels began to lose their position.
66
See David Lenda, “Lettre, le 18 mai 1964,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2324. Archives Conseil National; Fr.
Maswalo and P. Kileba, “Lettre, le 19 mai 1964,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2319. Archives Conseil National;
Anonymous, “Lettre, le 5 mai 1964,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 1484. Archives Conseil National; Elie Moutiya,
“Lettre, le 17 mai 1964,” reel 3, box 2, doc. 3830. Archives Conseil National; Verman Ndeke and Damien
Ilunga, “Lettre, le 17 mai 1964,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2334. Archives Conseil National; Osée Tshingila,
“Lettre, le 14 mars 1964,” reel 2, box 2, doc. 1223. Archives Conseil National; and Anonymous, “Lettre, le
1 mai 1964,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 1449-T. Archives Conseil National.
67
Bug. Pwapelle, “Rapport administrative sur la situation dans la préfecture d’Idiofa, période du 19 août
1964 au 18 septembre 1964,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0215. Archives Conseil National.
 24

buried at strategic locations. 69 Sometimes, civilians were armed and instructed to control
junctions. 70 The militaires identified routes used regularly by rebel leaders and subjected
them to special controls [Figure 4]. The entire region was governed by a regime of
curfews—as it had been during the last months of Belgian colonial rule before
independence. 71 The state made extensive use of colonial technologies of surveillance to
crack down on the rebels. In a confidential letter to the administrator of Kamtsha-Loange
of 28 February 1966, the government chief executive of Bwalenge region gave firm
instructions in relation to lockdown policies and security sweeps of the areas under rebel
control:

I would ask you to be in touch with the administrator of Kamtsha-Loange so

that he conducts the same operations around the Tshene, Bethanie and
Bulwem Catholic missions. These places constitute empty spaces—where the
insurgents move as they please to go to their headquarters which is located for
the moment between Mampungu, Kimpunu and Ndanda in the
arrondissements of Gungu and Bulungu. […] I would also ask the commander
of the second company to think about the possibility of occupying the capital
of the Elom-Esala region. The mission of this position will be to perform
sweeping operations in the Ntomoti forest and to meet with the position of the
Fifth Company, which is located at Bwalenge for the moment—and which will
also be moving towards Isiengi. This operation will automatically move the
positions of Obala, Yassa-Miwuni, Kanga and Musenge-Munene, when they
will hear the rifle shots of their colleagues. This will definitely allow us to
move away from this hotbed of rebels who are constantly badgering the poor
population. 72

In March 1967, the head of the provincial Customary Services and Internal Affairs,
suggested the establishment of blockades and the launch of major operations in the same

68
Bug. Pwapelle, “Rapport administrative sur la situation dans la préfecture d’Idiofa, période du 19 août
1964 au 18 septembre 1964,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0215. Archives Conseil National.
69
Four mines were dug out by the rebels on 9 February 1966 on the road towards Bulwem. See Ev.
Menaba, “Lettre,” reel 11, box 8, folder 1, file G, doc. 6033. Archives Conseil National.
70
D. Piese, “Aperçu sur la situation de la Kamtsha-Loange. 8 septembre 1964,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9,
file I, doc. B0212. Archives Conseil National.
71
Ministre provincial des affaires intérieures, “Lettre: Rapport situation Kandale,” reel 11, box 8, folder 3,
file D, doc. G66/ 59B. Archives Conseil National. On the curfews during the last months before
independence, see Jean-Marie Mutamba Makombo Kitatshima, Du Congo Belge au Congo indépendant
(1940-1960), Kinshasa, IFEP, 1998, pp. 395-402.
72
N., “Situation région Bwalenge (Yassa Lokwa, le 28 février 1966),” reel 12, box 8, folder 10, file I, doc.
B0254. Archives Conseil National.
 25

region, to neutralize the rebels. 73 By April 1967, the prefecture of Gungu was, literally, a
grid. Entrances and exits were managed by special schedules. 74 People’s small gestures
of everyday life, such as walking, were monitored by a special regime of visibility.

73
P. Kibal, “Lettre: pacification territoire Kalo,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/12. Archives
Conseil National.
74
Flavien Luzi, “Lettre: Suspension sortie aux ressortissants de la préfecture Gungu,” reel 11, box 8,
folder 2, file D, doc. G65/ 30. Archives Conseil National.
 26

75
Figure 4: Routes taken by Louis Kafungu, Commander of the rebel forces, in 1967

75
L. Kiniari, Lettre: Retour Kafungu Louis, reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/ 27. Archives Conseil
National.
 27

To regulate the movements of people more effectively in the war zone, the militaires,
in collaboration with local authorities, introduced three new measures. The first
established a regime of inspections. Based entirely on acts of coding and calculation, this
regime collected “debris” of knowledge that could be captured in numbers. Its primary
goal was to gain mastery over people, to control their movements, and in Deleuze and
Guattari’s vocabulary “to submit them to the spatio-temporal framework of the state.”76
As a technology of control and surveillance, it made extensive use of census data. The
militaires, accompanied by the local authorities, visited the villages to requisition the
population. 77 They would proceed with counting because they held the “metric power.” 78
If people were not present, their relatives would be punished: literally, their “bodies”
would be appropriated by the militaires or local authorities. 79 They would beat them up,
and progressively transform them into “abjects of death,” before putting them in jail.80
The following excerpts from the administrative archives give evidence of this:

On 15 November 1963, I began to go around all the villages to make an

inventory of the population—according to the decision taken during the
council meeting. I insisted on seeing all people in the village: men, women,
and children. Harsh measures were taken against families where one person
was missing. On 21 November 1963, I checked the Katshaka, Kinganda,
Ponde and Makulumbi villages. I noticed that five boys were missing. Their
parents were arrested and sent to the capital of the arrondissement of Haut-
Kwilu. They could not be released until their children were found. [On 25
November 1963,] I continued my control in Mbete-Mako, Shimuna, Totabi
and Kihumba villages. I arrested ten suspects. On 17 December 1963,
accompanied by Lieutenant Epengola, Préfet Kikolo and the militaires, we
arrested eighty rebels during our tour in Bakwa-Mushinga, Yongho,
Kanzongo, Kunga-Kiamba and Yamvu groupements. We sent them to the
capital of the prefecture. 81

On Friday 8 November 1963, while I was in the hospital, I was surprised to

hear from the head of the official school of Gungu that the militaires, on the

76
Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Nomadology: The War Machine, trans. Brian Massumi, New York:
Semiotext(e), 1986, p. 65.
77
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013. Teacher
since the 1950s, he was 25 years old when the rebellion broke out. He was beaten up by the militaires
during the census of the population in 1964.
78
Deleuze and Guattari, Nomadology..., p. 64.
79
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
80
Ibid.
81
David Mukubuta, “Rapport de Mr Mukubuta David, chef de secteur Kiboba-Matadi, mois d’aout 1964.
Gungu le 9 septembre 1964,” reel 13, box 9, folder 5, file O, doc. F64/47A. Archives Conseil National.
 28

invitation of Kandale’s health officer during his census tour, went to

Kimbandji village, and that they had heavily beaten up the villagers. A man
[...] was left seriously ill and bleeding. [...] I asked the health officer to tell me
the reason of [the incident]. [...] In the presence of the warrant officer and the
master sergeant major, the health officer stated that he had received
instructions that allowed him to use military forces when they were at 500 m
from him and, accordingly, he could not be blamed for anything. 82

The second measure consisted in intensifying the process of identifying people.

Controls at checkpoints were tightened 83 with the introduction of morphological details
to check the identity of travellers. Instructions were given to the militaires to thoroughly
analyse people’s morphology. All the checkpoints were in possession of biological
details and photographs of the main rebel leaders. 84 In a confidential letter of 27 October
1967, the head of Kikwit’s intelligence service described Louis Kafungu, the rebel chief
of staff, in the following manner:

Louis Kafungu is a big man. He has an oval face. He is medium brown in

colour. His head is slightly elongated. He has a big nose with large nostrils. He
has blue eyes, a wide mouth with thick lips. He is more or less 1,80 cm tall and
his face is bent like a bull. 85

In 1968, the practice of identifying people based on morphological descriptions was

generalized. It became the best means of the militaires in tracking down insurgents. On
24 January 1968, the head of Lozo sector urged all the chiefs of groupements,
community leaders and capitas (deputy chiefs) of villages in his jurisdiction to clearly
identify the faces of those passing through, and to check their identities thoroughly. 86 In
February 1968, the administrator of Gungu endorsed this decision. 87 He insisted,
however, that the identification of travellers’ faces take precedence over the control of

82
B. Masaya, “Rapport administratif sur l’incident qui a eu lieu au village Kabandji,” reel 13, box 9,
folder 2, file P, doc. F63/81A. Archives Conseil National.
83
P.E. Pwapelle, “Lettre: opposition de résidence dans la ville de Kikwit, 18 novembre 1963,” reel 13,
box 9, folder 2, file P, doc. F63/77. Archives Conseil National; Mayilamene, “Lettre: recherche Bula-Bula.
13 mai 1964,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/38. Archives Conseil National; and Cabinet
Commissaire Extraordinaire, “Lettre confidentielle n°49: recherche Webe Mathias,” reel 13, box 9, folder
4, file 0, doc. F64/40. Archives Conseil National.
84
L. Kiniari, “Lettre: Retour Kafungu Louis,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/27. Archives
Conseil National.
85
Ibid.
86
Anonymous, “Procès verbal de la réunion du secteur Lozo,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G68/ 4
A. Archives Conseil National.
87
Ibid.
 29

their identity document, as in his estimation most rebels hid behind pseudonyms in order
to bypass the security systems. 88
The last measure consisted of the mandatory carrying of a laissez-passer. As with the
two first measures, this was an attempt by the Congolese state to insert itself into the
landscape. According to a circular from the Provincial Minister of Justice in 1964, the
responsibility of issuing laissez-passers in the countryside fell within the jurisdiction of
local authorities. 89 In opposition to the rebels, however, military supremacy came to
prevail in the matter. The militaires rejected all documents issued by local authorities. 90
They wanted to have absolute control over the population: 91 they wanted to fix them
tightly onto the landscape, distribute them, and monitor their daily movements. They
wanted to have a stronghold on all movement. On 19 April 1967, Lieutenant Nguya, the
commander of 7th Military Company, thundered against local authorities for issuing
laissez-passer documents to the population. He considered this procedure as an intrusion.

Mr. Regional of Kilembe, […] I have just received some laissez-passers

signed by you and initialed for agreement by the head of secteur Kilembe.
Other papers have been issued by the head of secteur himself. I insist that all
documents called ‘laissez-passer’ must be signed […] only by the commander
of the 7th Company, who has clear priority in the region of Kilembe. If such is
not the case, I will take severe actions against all offenders found outside of
their home regions without the signature of the commander of the 7th Company
on their papers. 92

As in the case of the rebels, the possession of a laissez-passer in the government-

controlled area was by no means a guarantee of freedom of movement. In the context of
extreme violence and mistrust, the possession or non-possession of a laissez-passer
seemed to have the same effect. Travellers were generally assumed to be part of the
enemy camp, even if they conformed completely with government regulations. This

88
Anonymous, “Procès verbal de la réunion du secteur Lozo,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G68/ 4
A. Archives Conseil National. On the colonial genealogy of this method of identification, see Anonymous,
“Le recensement et l’identification des populations congolaises. Un nouveau système a été élaboré,” reel
11, box 8, folder 1, file G, doc. 873. Archives Conseil National.
89
I. Lukoko, “Lettre: opérations militaires,” reel 13, box 9, folder 5, file O, doc. F64/22. Archives Conseil
National.
90
L. Kumuseke, “Rapport sur l’évolution du mouvement jeunesse dans le secteur Kipuka. 3 mars 1964,”
reel 12, box 8, folder 8, file I, doc. B0175. Archives Conseil National.
91
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
92
Patrice Epengola, “Lettre: Laissez-passer, Kilembe, le 19 avril 1967,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F,
doc. G67/13. Archives Conseil National.
 30

situation led to many people being put to death. 93 From 1964 to 1967, clashes were
reported at checkpoints within the contested zone. In an account of the development of
rebel activity in Kipuka, the head of this entity descsribed these clashes as follows:

At Vunda, a man from Kazamba-Kisumbu village, [who was] passing near a

bridge, was arrested by the militaires. [The latter] requested his ID. After
having shown his papers, the militaires said that the man was a rebel. Despite
all explanations, the man was beheaded and displayed on the bridge in such a
way that all those who passed by this place saw the body and [felt] terrified.
[…] They have sought refuge in the bush where they are starving. Whenever a
truck passes, [they] must first hide, thinking that it is a military vehicle.94

In 1967, a school boy was senselessly shot down by the militaires on the pretext that
he lacked a laissez-passer. In a protest letter by the préfet of Mangai to the administrator
of Idiofa, one can see the misery and anguish that the institutionalization of the laissez-
passer caused throughout the contested zone.

Mr. Director, […] Seko Elia, […] father of […] Seko Barthelemy who was
shot on 18 September 1967 in Idiofa by the militaires under the pretext that he
lacked the laissez-passer, came to my office. He wanted to confirm whether or
not his son, who has been the victim of shooting, [...] had obtained a laissez-
passer before he went to Kikwit to enrol in secondary schools. After checking
all the lists of laissez-passers issued, we have discovered that on 28 August
1967, under the number 895, a laissez-passer was issued to Seko Barthélemy.

The father of the victim has filed a complaint against the officer who shot his
son. This is what he said: ‘My son, after having obtained [his] laissez-passer
for Kikwit, had not been able to find a place [in the Kikwit schools, where he
had gone to register]. At that moment [when he was shot], he was waiting for
an opportunity to return to Idiofa and from there to Mangaï. He was with his
friends at the river. While he wanted to draw water in a pot, part of his
documents—including his laissez-passer—fell into the water. He was left with
only his school certificates. On his way back, he was caught by the militaires.
He was shot dead [because he failed to prove that] he had obtained a laissez-
passer [before he had gone to Kikwit] […].’

[I believe that] the presence of his school documents was [a clear] reason why
the military should have accepted his explanation. [Unfortunately], this did not
happen. Elia’s son got killed. The purpose of this letter is to help you have
additional information according to the request of the child’s father. Located

93
L. Kumuseke, “Rapport sur l’évolution du mouvement jeunesse dans le secteur Kipuka. 3 mars 1964,”
reel 12, box 8, folder 8, file I, doc. B0175. Archives Conseil National; and A.D.G. Malu, “La mort du
nommé Seko Barthelemy en date du 16 septembre 1967 par les militaires,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F,
docs. G67/20A-20B. Archives Conseil National.
94
L. Kumuseke, “Rapport sur l’évolution du mouvement jeunesse dans le secteur Kipuka. 3 mars 1964,”
reel 12, box 8, folder 8, file I, doc. B0175. Archives Conseil National.
 31

126 km away from Idiofa, we cannot give any further information. I am sure
the regional of Idiofa, the head of the region, the commander of Idiofa, as well
as all the ATAP (Administrateur Territorial Assistant Principal) have been
made aware of the situation; with the items stated in legal terms, they can
guide the father of the deceased as to where he can plead the cause of his late
son. 95

From this discussion, we can see how the contested region was effectively
transformed into a securitized grid, by both the government and the rebel forces, using
technologies of surveillance, documentation, identification and verification that seemed
to mirror each other, and which turned any traveller into an enemy or traitor on both
sides.

Fleeing the conflict: “Schizophrenia,” dreams, imagination, and “bestiality”

The ongoing battle between the rebels and the militaires for effective and absolute
control of the contested space led people to flee from their homes at their own risk and
peril and to seek refuge in the forests. Accustomed to living in villages, people were now
forced to adopt new forms of life. For most of them, it was the first time to embrace this
kind of living. Palmie Andiang, who spent three years in the forests between Ingundu
and Mukedi, recounted the hardships she endured:

We were sleeping in rags, having nothing to cover ourselves. The cold would
penetrate our body, you have no idea. Ants and mosquitoes crawled onto us.
We had no beds. We were sleeping on the ground with all the moisture in the
soil. […] Mosquitoes were dancing in our ears. They were biting us as they
wanted. What could we do? If only to pretend as if there was nothing. In the
morning, we would wake up and look for another place to hide ourselves. It
was very hard. Sometimes I would feel like the sky and the earth joined
together. […] It was really hard.96

In the everyday experience by the inhabitants of the area, fleeing the conflict was a
combination of several movements on the landscape. While movement was linear at the
beginning, it could become curvilinear or even circular in places, only to fall back into a

95
A.D.G. Malu, “La mort du nommé Seko Barthelemy en date du 16 septembre 1967 par les militaires,”
reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, docs. G67/20A-20B. Archives Conseil National; and L. Kumuseke,
“Rapport sur l’évolution du mouvement jeunesse dans le secteur Kipuka. 3 mars 1964,” reel 12, box 8,
folder 8, file I, doc. B0175. Archives Conseil National. Paragraphs added to the quote to enhance
readability.
96
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013. She joined the maquis as
most of the villagers. In 1964, at the age of 26, she had two children.
 32

linear format again. 97 Movement consisted of leaving one location and settling in another
place, only to be dislodged from there by terror and unexpected events. 98 This used to
happen on a regular basis, so that people were continuously moving around. At
intersections, they would even turn around, sometimes without noticing what they had
done. 99 Life itself took the form of a continuous journey during which people discovered
not only their own vulnerability, but also an entire negation of their being. Marie
Nzamba illustrates this point in her testimony:

My mother was sick at the time we were fleeing. […] She also had a baby. We
fled [as] six persons in general. […] It was around Banda. During the war, it
was completely forbidden to use the road. The bush was the only way we
could use. […] One morning we heard the crackling of bullets at a few meters
from where we were hiding. […] Abruptly we left our camp. […] We began to
run away. We went to hide away in the swamps. […] We thought that by
going to hide ourselves there, we would be safe from danger. Unfortunately, a
group of rebels, furious to have been attacked by the military, came to remove
us. We were forced to return to where we had been before. When we arrived
there, we were surprised to find that everything had been burned by the
militaires, even our little bivouac which had served as our shelter. This is the
kind of life we lived [between 1964 and 1966]. 100

While Marie Nzamba’s account refers only to the particular location she found
herself in, the experiences of fleeing the conflict were not different in other parts of the
territory. In many ways people fleeing followed the same patterns: leaving one place,
settling down in another location, to only being dislodged by unexpected events in this
new location. The following extensive account drawn from administrative
communication between officials in the north of the region shows this movement:

On Tuesday, 28 January [19]64, seeing that the situation was getting worse;
having no means of defense with [me], and finding that there was no way to
defend myself, I decided to depart from the city of Dibaya-Lubwe. [At the
beach, the fishermen help] me cross the river. [And from there] I wanted to go
either to Kikwit or Banningville […] by mail boat […]. At 6 in the morning, at
that place, I saw […] Faustin Kamime, the acting agronomist of the territory.
[…]. He suggested that we seek refuge at Antoine Baluki’s place in Miti-Miti.
[…]. On Wednesday, 29 January 1964, the day the mail boat was expected,

97
I draw my inspiration from Mudimbe’s conception of line. See V.-Y. Mudimbe, On African Fault Lines:
Meditations on Alterity Politics, Pietermaritzburg, University of KwaZulu-Nata Press, 2013, p. 29.
98
Marie Nzamba (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 26 March 2013. A woman from Banda, she was
10 years old when the rebellion broke out.
99
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
100
Marie Nzamba (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 26 March 2013.
 33

[…] [Faustin Kamime] suggested that we postpone our departure. At the end
of the same day, Antoine Baluki was attacked by the [the rebels] for hosting us
at his home. [...]. He did not have any other option but to chase us from his
place. […].

We continued our journey up to Pangu. After our arrival at Pangu, we were

informed that the [rebels] were planning to follow us. […] [Faustin Kamime
suggested that] […] we go to Fidèle Tuku’s place in Bendi-Bendi, in the
province of Mai-Ndombe. […] On Thursday 30 January 1964, on the other
side of Kasai river, […] at [a village called] Mpombé, we experienced the
worst. […]. Around 5 pm, between Mpombé and Mbombi, 45 km from the
Kasai river, seven Basakata warriors […] pursued us at an unprecedented pace.
[…] They wanted to behead us […]. They were armed with spears, machetes,
and sticks. […] [Faustin Kamime] fled into the bush. […] I was stopped by the
[Basakata] warriors. [...] After having asked several questions, they demanded
that I give them everything I had, such as money and other goods, otherwise I
would have been executed. They took 1500 francs of mine. [They took] my
wristwatch, a Parker pen, an ordinary pen and a handkerchief. […] I had to
walk back to Dibaya-Lubwe beach. 101

While this man’s movements were similarly disrupted like Marie Nzamba’s, his
escape is infused with a proliferation of detours and delays. 102 This can be explained by
the intensity with which the events unfolded, and the exact geographical location of each
person. Marie Nzamba and her family were located at the centre of the contested region.
The war was very intense in this area compared to where the man was in the north of the
region. In Nzamba’s own words, this is the reason why she and her family avoided all
kinds of delays and detours in their escape in order to get out of the battle lines as
quickly as possible. Yet both escapes or movements produced the same consequences:
the discovery of one’s life as the negation of being. This conclusion led many of those
fleeing the rebellion to experience forced displacement in a deterministic way, and the
pain it produced as inevitable. This way of thinking, which demonstrates the extent to
which people became helpless in situations of extreme violence and terror, brought many
of them to remain where they were at the moment when the conditions became
terrifying. Innocent Yamb, a son of a local administration officer, remembers these
moments:

101
Anonymous, “Rapport administratif,” reel 12, box 8, folder 7, file H, doc. B0158. Archives Conseil
National. Paragraph added to the quote to enhance readability.
102
Among others.
 34

In June 1965, we were in the forest around Lubwe. […] The forest was
surrounded by the militaires. We were completely stuck. We could not do
anything. My mother said to us: ‘There is no need to run away.’ She had
adamantly refused to flee. […] She said sadly: ‘No matter what happens here,
we will no longer run away. The the skin is already on the bones. Let them
come and kill us once and for all. […] Even if we had to run away, what will
we gain? We are already caught up in the middle of the forest.’ 103

These are the conditions in which people found themselves during the rebellion.
Frederique Yembele, a student of the Catholic Mission of Itshwem from 1959 to 1964,
compares the experience of fleeing the war to that of “schizophrenia:” 104 painful,
complex and very confused moments during which one could hear a multiplicity of
voices, while in reality there were none; moments during which the “body,” terrified by
war, would begin to lose its physical and mental balance in a very dramatic way; a time
during which people would be killed because they were drunk by “war” and its
“madness;” a moment during which going and staying overlapped each other and meant
the same thing, as the price to pay was the same either way.

I still remember the day when the militaires showed up in Kasembe. […] It
was unexpected. […] They were wearing civilian dress. They accused the
people of the village of supporting and maintaining the rebels. […] At their
arrival, everyone panicked. […] You could see how people were running
away. […] There was no difference between them and being crazy. They were
running without control. […]

While people were fleeing and screaming, a man by the name of Kabanga
came suddenly out of his house. […] Firstly, as you can understand, he was
abruptly pulled from his sleep. […] Secondly, he was completely unconscious
like a crazy man because he was light-headed. […] Then he had to find the
right direction to flee. Unfortunately, in his panic and dizziness, like a fool he
ended up falling into the hands of a militaire. He asked the militaire to kindly
tell him from which direction the militaires were coming from. The militaire
to whom he was talking believed immediately that he [Kabanga] was a rebel.
All of a sudden, the militaire began to mutilate Kabanga. His arms were cut
off. […] He died sometime later as he was bleeding. […] It was the end of
story for this man. […]

Fleeing during the rebellion was terrible. […] It is something I would never
want to experience again. You are somewhere sitting; and then you hear all of
a sudden someone screaming: ‘They are here!’ You stand up and begin to run

103
Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013.
104
Here “schizophrenia” is used metaphorically, not as a pathology.
 35

away like a mad person, sometimes without even knowing where you are
going. That is the kind of life that people lived through during the rebellion. 105

The “schizophrenic” equation that leaving or staying both meant the same thing was
also experience by Léon Samuyala, a man who was working for the Institut National
pour l’Etude Agronomique du Congo Belge (INEAC) station at Kiyaka in 1964, 106 after
deciding to leave his work place when this was being surrounded and attacked by the
rebels. A report drawn up by the human resource manager of the INEAC in February
1964 on Samuyala’s experiences gives a clear understanding of the overlap between the
phenomena of leaving and staying during the rebellion:

Regarding […] Léon Samuyala, he died […] approximately 20 km from the

station on Saturday 4th January on his bike. He was fleeing to his village. In
the bend of the road, he came upon a truck full of well-armed militaires. In his
panic, he threw his bike to the ground and fled into the bush. The militaires
[…] assumed that he was one of the criminals and immediately shot him
down. 107

This was the “fate” of staying or leaving during the rebellion. The echoes of this
man’s killing and the assassination of many others spread across the region. 108 The
population was terrified. In this context of widespread panic and “madness,” it became
unavoidable that people were separated. Men, women, and children would come from
the south as a unified and solid group, only to be separated at a particular location
because of the intensity of the war. 109 They would flee from the centre of the region to
the north, only to be separated at a particular place because of the acuteness of war. In
most testimonies, these separations are described as some of the most painful moments
of the experience of fleeing. Many people found themselves in new forms of solitary life

105
Frédérique Yembele (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 October 2013. Paragraphs added to the
quote to enhance readability.
106
The INEAC was officially closed in 1962 after Congo had achieved independence and was transformed
into the Institut National Pour l’Etude et la Recherche Agronomiques (INERA). Archival evidence
suggests that administrative officers continued to refer to the new institution as INEAC when the rebellion
broke out in 1964.
107
Joseph Bolowa, “Lettre: situation à Kiyaka,” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B0120. Archives
Conseil National.
108
L. Kumuseke, “Rapport sur l’évolution du mouvement jeunesse dans le secteur Kipuka. 3 mars 1964,”
reel 12, box 8, folder 8, file I, doc. B0175. Archives Conseil National.
109
Frédérique Yembele (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 October 2013. See also Innocent Yamb
(56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013.
 36

because of these separations. 110 Isolated from the rest of the world, many began to
confine themselves to the imaginary world. Within this refuge, fleeing itself gained new
meanings. Dreams and ecstasy became the ways and means by which the suffering body
would reinvigorate itself, while the rational mind struggled to escape the pain caused by
the rebellion. 111
Georgine Mankieta, whose separation from her siblings affected her psyche,
remembered how often her parents got tired. They often suffered from headaches. Her
mother’s blood pressure steadily increased. Each day brought more bad news: she heard
about the loss of an uncle and sometimes of the killing of a close relative. All the sad
news became embedded in her dreamlike world. Instead of continuing to be the site on
which the rebellion imposed pain and from which her suffering body needed to seek
refuge, dreams became the lieu of the production of suffering. They were dominated by
dark images of descent into the depths of life. The imagination of the trip and the
departure from home without hope of a return took shape in those dreams. In addition,
her body was captured by stress and anxiety. More and more often she experienced the
smell of death. Her dreams were increasingly “colonized” by the image of falling trees.
During the nights of 24 and 25 June 1965, this network of metaphors intensified and
expanded in her dreams. Images of rivers and bathing, dominated by drowning, became
abundant in her nightmares. From an entry point, such as a walk in the water, or getting
onto a ferry, emerged a maze of tensions: blood, drowning, guns, legal proceedings,
wailing, reprobation and the presence of the militaires. The chaos would not stop coming
closer. It was punctuated by loincloths of mourning, snake bites, shadows of the dead
and the prosecution of the insane. “My dreams,” she said sadly, “were about [the
sequences of forces] of nature. I found myself sometimes in places where winds blew;
[…] the winds that uproot trees. […] There were insurmountable earthquakes and the
presence of ghosts who came to pick me up [for the eternal dwelling].” 112

110
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; Frédérique Yembele (60
years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 October 2013; and Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview,
Kinshasa, 29 September 2013.
111
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; and Georgine Mankieta (67
years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
112
Georgine Mankieta (67 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
 37

The presence of death, blood, mourning, snake bites, winds, and drownings as a
network of metaphors, and their multiplication in dreams, was the result of what people
experienced on an everyday basis. It shows in many ways the extent to which “waves of
terror” penetrated “the corners of life.” In these metaphors one can see the transposition
of “refracted experiential forms of disturbing force.” 113 Reinhart Koselleck, writing
about “dreams of terror” and “dreams in terror,” states that when “conventional
behavior” is “confronted with the terror,” this confrontation “is transposed into an
oppressive response within the dream.” In such conditions, “terror is not simply
dreamed; the dreams are themselves components of the terror.” 114 He contends that these
kinds of dreams “testify to an initially open, then later insidious, terror, and anticipate its
violent intensification. […]. They are not simply dreams of terror; they are, above all,
dreams in terror; terror which pursues mankind even into sleep.” 115 This is particularly
true for the rebellion in Congo since the space in which people were fleeing during the
uprising was so violent. The degree to which terror escalated in this “bewitched” 116
landscape was incommensurable. 117 One example of the incommensurability of terror in
the rebellion was an event witnessed on 21 August 1964 by Doctor Cantarelli when he
made official the results of the autopsy performed on the corpse of Onésime Diolo. Diolo
had been murdered by the militaires when he attempted to prevent them from raping his
wife. To eliminate traces of the murder, the rebels threw Diolo’s body into the Kwilu
river. In Cantarelli’s letter to the administrative officer, whose purpose was to investigate
and document alleged “brutality” of the militaires sent for peacekeeping missions to the
contested zone, one reads:

On the basis of Mr. Loso’s request, we performed an autopsy, on 14 August

1964, on the corpse of [Onésime] Diolo.

We have made the following observations: The corpse was in a good state of
conservation. Outward signs of drowning: distribution of the hypostasis, skin

113
Reinhart Koselleck, Future Past: On the Semantics of the Historical Time, trans. Keith Tribe, New
York: Columbia University Press, 2004, p. 210.
114
Ibid.
115
Ibid., p. 211.
116
This word is used figuratively.
117
Georgine Mankieta (67 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015; Palmie
Andiang, (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral
interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
 38

characteristic, but lack of fungus mucous membranes in the nostrils and in the
mouth. Maybe it was removed prior to transportation of the corpse to the
hospital. [There are] contusions in different parts of the body, especially in the
fronto-parietal right zone [of the chest]. The legs are closely bound together at
the ankles. The testicles […] are tied so tightly at their base with a lace that
they are strangled. When we opened the rib cage, we found acute emphysema
of the lungs, hyperaeria, and hematoma in the right fronto-parietal region, as
well as swelling of the brain. […]

Basically, Onésime Diolo died by drowning. Before his death, he suffered

several blows and abuse. 118

If for some people the imaginary world became the site par excellence of the
production of suffering because of the embodiment of terror in their dreams, for others it
remained the site from where they could project themselves into a free world, the
imagined world, a world without terror; where one could walk from one location to
another without being harassed. 119 Being able to place oneself mentally in a free world
was foremost a movement of the mind. It was, to use Eyal Amiran’s vocabulary, “the
geographical combination of” the “self” and “the world.” 120 In this movement, the mind
would leave “home,” the head, the closed space. It would move to the world outside
“home,” into an open space, and make itself a new territory, a new shelter, a place giving
temporary protection to the mind, while the body remained attached to the landscape, the
actual world, the violent space, the space of the rebellion. After this wandering, the mind
would return to its original location, the “home,” the head, only to leave it again and
return to the world outside “home,” the peaceful world, the imagined world, the world
free of terror. At the end, it would find itself trapped in this backwards and forewards
between deterritorialization, reterritorialization and deterritorialization.
The “geographical combination of self and” the “world” 121 and the continual
alteration between “home,” the head, and the outside world is exactly what Placide
Ngay, a former supporter of Mulele between 1964 and 1966, expresses in this testimony:

118
Dr. Cantarelli, “Autopsie Nsolo Onésime,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0207. Archives Conseil
National. Paragraphs added to the quote to enhance readability.
119
Placide Ngay (77 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013. He was 28 years old when he
joined the maquis at Nkata Kalamba. Today he is a supporter of the Parti Lumumbiste Unifié (PALU) in
Idiofa.
120
Eyal Amiran, Wandering and Home: Beckett’s Metaphysical Narrative, Pennsylvania: The
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993, p. 57.
121
Ibid.
 39

The situation was getting worse. […] I did not know where to go. […] All I
could do was to dream about the free world. […] I found myself in
Leopoldville [Kinshasa] without even knowing how. […] When the time came
to rest after having fled the whole day, I would feel distracted and lost. […] I
would find myself in Leopoldville knowing that I had not been there before.
[…] I would see myself talking and chatting to people in that [city]. After a
certain amount of time, I would realize that it was not something real. It was
my imagination. […] This was my world. It is hard to share this with those
who did not live through the rebellion. But it is exactly what we went through.
[…]. Physically people would see that you are here, but [mentally] you were
absent. 122

To this “geographical combination of self and” the “world” 123 it is important to add
the world of the unconsciousness. The unconscious state of mind was in some ways even
more insidious for it transformed the space of fleeing into a sacrificial space. 124 Children,
often without intention and in a situation of traumatization, said things that would
denounce their parents to the militaires and rebels. 125 The latter would kill the parents
with an extraordinary violence as if they were only figurative corpses. 126 They would
seize them and shoot them, only to show the inutility of the human life principle.
Eugenie Mpungu [Figure 5], mother of two children in 1964, remembers the killing of
people in Lukamba, between 1964 and 1966:

One day, in the middle of the day, the rebels suddenly arrived in the village.
[…] They began to shoot. […] That was the beginning of the war. […] The
rebels were all over the village. The militaires were running after them as
hunters. We, however, […] were scattered. Some of us were in the bush,
others in the forest. […] The militaires followed the partisans from Lukamba
to Ingudi. […] When they [the militaires] got to Ingudi, they began to shoot at
those they found in the village. […] They killed a lot of people that day. […]
A woman named M. was also killed the same day. She had a four-year-old
son. The child, after having noticed the blood that flowed around his mother,
ran […] to the militaires and said to them: ‘You have killed my mother, why
did you leave my father?’ The militaires asked him where his father was. The
child said: ‘My father is hiding in the kitchen, on top of the manioc shelter. Let
us go. I will show you where he is […].’ The militaires got into the kitchen
with brutality. They found the poor man on top of the shelter. They asked him

122
Placide Ngay (77 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013.
123
Amiran, Wandering and Home..., p. 151.
124
Placide Ngay (77 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
125
Eugenie Mpungu (75 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013. She was 26 years
old when the rebellion broke out. She passed away in 2014. See also Anonymous, “Lettre, le 7 juin 1964,”
reel 2, box 1, doc. [s.n]. Archives Conseil National.
126
Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
 40

to come down. He obeyed. They made him lie down and shot him dead. […]
They took the child with them. He became their best friend and the main
whistleblower of others. 127
128
Figure 5: Eugénie Mpungu

The space became sacrificial, saturated by bad news. On 19 January 1964, rebels
executed the head of the Mukoko sector. 129 Three days later, they assassintated three
missionaries of the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate in Kilembe. 130 On 24
January 1964, they looted Cardoso Frères’ post in Pomongo and destroyed the bridge on

127
Eugenie Mpungu (75 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
128
Photo by author, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
129
Anonymous, “Rapport,” reel 12, box 8, folder 7, file H, doc. B0151. Archives Conseil National.
130
Ibid.
 41

the Kikwit-Idiofa road. 131 Towards the end of January 1964, the rebels assassinated
Sergeant Joseph Mbetenzadi in Kisenzele village. 132 In February 1964, they killed
refugees who were fleeing from Gungu to Lukamba at Mukulu. 133 By late February
1964, the rebels monitored all the roads leading to Ngoma village in Mukoso sector.134
In April 1964, the militaires killed the inhabitants of Kisenda and burnt down their
village. 135 On 10 May 1964, women and children were burnt alive in their houses in the
same area by the militaires. 136 Fourteen days later, the rebels killed the inhabitants of
Mbumba village with sticks and machete blows. 137 On 31 May 1964, they arrested the
inhabitants of Mbata Katiti and accused them of complicit with the militaires. 138 On the
same day, women and children in the same area were arrested by the militaires while
fleeing 139 and shot down in cold blood. Between April and June 1964, both the rebels140
and the militaires burnt several villages. 141 On 15 June 1964, the militaires attacked
Ifwanzondo and murdered half of the population. 142

131
Anonymous, “Rapport,” reel 12, box 8, folder 7, file H, doc. B0151. Archives Conseil National.
132
Ibid.
133
Ntumu (71 years old), oral interview, Lukamba, 2 November 2013. He is a teacher at Lukamba
Primary school since 1950s.
134
Benjamin Ngolo and Damien Mulay, “Rapport équipe n° 1283,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00334-T. Archives
Conseil National.
135
B. Ibuizza and B. Weneze, “Rapport mois d’avril 1964,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 340-T. Archives Conseil
National.
136
Luzio and Cibisio, “Rapport,” reel 2, box 2, doc. 1253-T-C. Archives Conseil National; Kindalo and
Masende, “Rapport,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2429-T. Archives Conseil National; and Lundonsi and Kamanda,
“Rapport,” reel 6, box 4, doc. 4855 NX. Archives Conseil National.
137
B. Mbumba and Mungula, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 327. Archives Conseil National.
138
B. Ngono and P. Museki, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00330A. Archives Conseil National.
139
Kusenge, Kusakana and Ngumbu, “Rapport,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 278-T. Archives Conseil National.
140
Anonymous, “Lettre,” reel 6, box 4, doc. 4414. Archives Conseil National; Benjamin Ngolo and
Damien Mulay, “Rapport équipe n° 1283,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00334-T. Archives Conseil National; and B.
Mbumba and Mungula, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 327. Archives Conseil National.
141
Donatien Nkasa and Léonar[d] Bakala, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00350. Archives Conseil National;
Anonymous, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 148. Archives Conseil National; André Kilondi and Banda
Kasamba, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00930. Archives Conseil National; and Anonymous, “Lettre,” reel 6,
box 4, doc. 4371. Archives Conseil National.
142
Kakezo and Yumba, “Lettre,” reel 6, box 4, doc. 4801 T-C. Archives Conseil National. See also
Lapima, “Lettre,” reel 6, box 4, doc. 4367. Archives Conseil National; and Abwamasa and Mudiakapi,
“Lettre,” reel 6, box 4, doc. 4371. Archives Conseil National.
 42

This is the spatial framework within which people fled during the rebellion. Most of
my informants compared their experiences to “bestiality.” 143 The first characteristic that
this metaphor highlights is the loss of emotional life. According to Domenico Jervolino,
emotional life is “the real territory of the existential realization” by human beings. 144 It is
also the territory in which men and women “are exposed to passions as well as to the
triple lust of possession, power, and will.” 145 It is precisely in the deprivation of this
triple lust of possession, power, and will that humans become equal to animals. The very
concept of the right of doing something stood as a void. As beasts, they were not allowed
to possess but were rather possessed both by the rebels and the militaires. 146 Their
relationship with both was one of master to slave. Their bodies were constantly
objectified. As in every civil war, their humanity was denied by both sides. 147 Having
lost their will and power, they deferred themselves to the will and power of the rebels
and the militaires. 148 They found themselves between the rebels and the militaires in the
very same way in which animals get caught up from both sides by wildfire. 149
The second characteristic expressed in the metaphor of bestiality is submission. The
main locus of the manifestation of this submission was the regime of communication.
Communication between the rebels and the population in this space took place in the
form of a restricted register of command. The overarching goal of this register was to
transform people into docile animals. Like animals, or the prototype of animals, people
subjected to rebel hegemony could not speak for themselves. 150 The relationship between
them and the rebels was one of violence and domination. Critical to this relationship was

143
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013;
Georgine Mankieta (65 years old) oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013; Prospère
Mbwisi (66 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013; Paul Muyenzi (64 years
old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013, Ntumu (71 years old), oral interveiw, Lukamba, 2
November 2013; Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013; and
Prospère Yamba (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 24 October 2013.
144
Domenico Jervelino, Paul Ricœur: Une herméneutique de la condition humaine, Paris: Ellipse, 2002,
p. 20.
145
Ibid.
146
Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013. He was 15 years old when
the rebellion broke out. He spent two years (1964-1966) in the bush. After the exit of the bush he pursued
his studies in Idiofa.
147
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
148
Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013.
149
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
150
Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013.
 43

that they were denied all rights of producing any critique of the rebellion. 151 The sole
possibility that was left to them was to provide only answers to the questions that were
put to them. 152 Under such conditions of domination, they had no other choice but to
obey. 153 Because they were considered as tools subordinated to those who made them
and could use them at will, they lost all autonomy and became unintelligible. 154
Transformation of people into docile animals also entailed a process of
domestication. In this space, the domestication of people was carried out gradually.
Anyone arrested was placed under a regime of surveillance. 155 The arrested persons
underwent political lessons to inculcate them with a new ideology. 156 If the arrested
person did not die with the bad treatment received, he or she would be assigned to take
on tasks in the Equipe 157 or in the battles themselves 158 as a security guard or intelligence
officer. 159 All attempts to escape from the rebel positions were followed by a punitive
expedition. Many who tried to venture or take lightly the rebel injunctions paid
heavily. 160 In early December 1964, for example, the relatives of Crispin Buliong,
Gaspard Lonoko, and Jean Munakongo were arrested when the three men fled from the

151
B. Mbumba and Mungula, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 327. Archives Conseil National.
152
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (74 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
153
Anaclet Kimbamba (65 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 7 October 2013. He joined the maquis
while he was 16 years old. He identified himself as a “small rebel.”
154
Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013; and Anaclet Kimbamba (65
years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 7 October 2013.
155
Barthelemy Ilo (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 19 October 2013. He was taken to Mulele in
1964 at the age of 13. He was assigned the task of carrying Mulele’s bag every single time the headquarter
was attacked by the militaires.
156
Paul Muyenzi (64years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013. See also Bubulu, “Lettre,”
reel 2, box 1, doc. 00913. Archives Conseil National. On the content of these lessons, see Anonymous,
“Cons. Liberation Nationale. Malongi ya politique,” reel 4, box 3, docs, 2477, 2480-2489. Archives
Conseil National; and Anonymous, “Leçon politique, le 15 Juillet 1964,” reel 4, box 3, docs. 2490-2493
and 2495. Archives Conseil National.
157
Barthelemy Ilo (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 19 October 2013.
158
Ibid. See also Vincent Kisungu, “Rapport d’activité de la mission de pacification de la région de
Kipuka, 23 novembre 1964,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0225 (81). Archives Conseil National;
Catherine (Sr.), “Rapport pour les deux sœurs religieuses, le 4 mai 1964,” reel 6, box 4, docs. 4201-4202.
Archives Conseil National; and Anonymous, “Rapport pour la soeur Catherine de Kisandji,” reel 6, box 4,
docs. 4218-T, 4219, 4220 and 4221. Archives Conseil National.
159
Mikolo, “Lettre, le 1 mai 1964,” reel 3, box 2, doc. 3711-T. Hoover Institution. Stanford University,
California, United States; and Kanga and Mukoso, “Lettre, le 7 mai 1964,” reel 3, box 2, doc. 3708.
Hoover Institution. Stanford University, California, United States.
160
Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
 44

rebel area to the militaires’ positions. In mid-December 1964, an administrative officer

reported:

Having learned about the escape of four [people from their positions], the rebel
leaders from Bethany, especially Abraham Adelin and Valère Mukabi,
dispatched thirty rebels to Ikiemo and Lulemba to arrest and punish the family
members of the four fugitives. Crispin Buliong’s mother, Gaspard Lonoko’s
uncle, and the wife and uncle of Jean Munakongo were arrested and taken to
Bethany. Family members of the [other one] have also been deported to
Bethany. 161

This was the consequence of escaping from the rebel positions. More important is the
kind of life that people were subjected to, both in the space of domestication and more
broadly in the space contested by the rebel and government forces which my informants
described with the metaphor of bestiality. 162 They described a precarious life in so far as
it was primarily the affirmation of nullity. 163 People lacked almost everything that could
help them build their bodies and maintain their existence; that would help them protect
themselves against the weather; 164 or even that would help them hide their nudity.165
With the intense display of their nudity, their bodies became the object of a
“pornography of representation.” 166 One could look at their ribs and count their bones
because the flesh had disappeared as a result of starvation and loss of weight. 167 Under
such conditions, individuals moved from being continuous beings to becoming
regressive and dis-continuous beings. From a morphological perspective, there was little
that allowed the differentiation between adult and child, were it not for the beards of men

161
B. S[…], “Evolution de la situation à partir du 13 décembre 1964 dans le secteur Bulwem (16
décembre 1964),” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0231. Archives Conseil National.
162
Anonymous (64 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 27 October 2013; Ntumu (71 years old),
oral interview, Lukamba, 2 November 2013; and Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16
September 2013.
163
Anonymous (64 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 27 October 2013; and Ntumu (71 years
old), oral interview, Lukamba, 2 November 2013.
164
Anonymous (64 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 27 October 2013; and Ntumu (71 years
old), oral interview, Lukamba, 2 November 2013.
165
Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013.
166
My interpretation. On the “pornography of representation,” see Rosi Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects:
Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary Feminist Theory, New York: Columbia University
Press, 1994, p. 57-74.
167
Ntumu (71 years old), oral interview, Lukamba, 2 November 2013.
 45

and the breasts of women. 168 This is the kind of life that people lived in the contested
space.

Periphery as a friction zone

The precariousness of life in the conflict zone, the continuous battles between rebels and
militaires, and the tensions that the politics of domestication and bestiality raised in the
contested space led those who could, at their own risk, to seek refuge in the
periphery169—particularly in Kikwit, Masi-Manimba, Bulungu, Lac Leopold II, Feshi,
Mapangu, Tshikapa and Brabanta; the two latter located in the province of the Unité
Kasaïenne [Figure 6]. A first flow of refugees towards the periphery had already taken
place in January 1964 when the rebellion broke out. 170 As a result, the provincial
authorities were fully aware of the situation. They knew that refugees fleeing rebellions
anywhere raises complex issues for the country. 171 The biggest problem that arose for the
authorities in the periphery was not the well-being of the refugee civilians but rather the
security threat they were seen to represent after crossing into the periphery. 172 It is this
this fear of the other that motivated the authorities to mobilize to put in place a “policy of
containment.” 173 Its goal was to set barriers to screen “bodies” moving from the
contested zone to the periphery.
The implementation of the policy of containment in the periphery depended largely
on the authorities’ capacity for coercion. As in the case of the rebels and the militaires in
the contested zone, it was the key way in which law and authority could be inscribed
onto space. This is the reason why, on 9 January 1964 after the Molotov cocktail

168
Anonymous (64 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 27 October 2013.
169
Placide Ngay (77 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013. People invented a variety of techniques that enabled them
to move smoothly within the contested space. These techniques mostly relied upon the metaphor of
chameleon. As chameleons, people would refashion their political identities in front of the rebels or the
militaires. They create and recreate new forms of identification. They could use false information at their
own risk and peril to construct unstable selves.
170
Anonymous, “Procès verbal de la réunion du 9 janvier 1964,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/
17 A. Archives Conseil National.
171
Ibid.
172
Ibid.
173
Daniel Palambwa (83 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 September 2013. He was a member of
the provincial government in the 1960s.
 46

bombing of the INEAC station at Kiyaka and the murder of two police officers in the
rebel controlled parts of Mulembe, the préfet of Bulungu, which shared a common
border with Idiofa, introduced a “policy of barricades:”

The Mulele youth [meaning the rebels] have seriously undermined the
economic life of the prefecture of Idiofa. The movement of this vandalism
spreads like wildfire. It may infiltrate all prefectures. It is time to stop this
movement. With regards to the prefecture of Bulungu, it is necessary to take
preventive measures. [...] It must be noted that for the prefecture of Bulungu,
the infiltration zone is Nkara, Imbongo, and Kikongo [see Figure 7]. A
powerful set of security measures must be set up there. […] [Another] measure
is to monitor the points where the ferries and canoes cross the river. Any
unregulated crossing is prohibited. [...] The PLC [Plantations Lever au Congo]
zone requires an intervention force that would be based at Leverville. At the
smallest warning sign, it must act firmly. It is also necessary to give the order
to the villagers not to host anyone in their villages. Any subversive movement
should be reported to the police. 174

The letter shows clearly that the Bulungu prefecture experienced the fluidity of the
borders as a direct threat. To deal with this, the authorities strengthened their security
measures, an indispensable means for ensuring effective control and surveillance over
the prefecture’s strategic locations [Figure 7]. This strategy was seen to be crucial for the
prefecture’s security. It would help the authorities fulfil their mission of protecting the
people under their jurisdiction. 175 It would also help them “decompose and recompose”
the movement of people coming to the prefecture, thus enabling their effective
regulation. 176 Deleuze captures these measures well in his assertion that “each time there
is an operation against the state [such as] subordination, rioting, guerilla warfare or
revolution as act, […] the response of the state […] is to striate space.” 177 It sets barriers,
fixes paths, defines directions “which restrict speed, regulate circulation, relativize
movements and measure in detail the relative movements of subjects and objects.” 178

174
Anonymous, “Procès verbal de la réunion du 9 janvier 1964,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/
17A. Archives Conseil National.
175
Ibid.
176
Daniel Palambwa (83 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 September 2013.
177
Deleuze and Guattari, Nomadology..., p. 60.
178
Ibid., pp. 59-60.
 47

Figure 6: The war zone and the periphery. (White: war zone; Green: Periphery)
 48

Figure 7: Prefecture of Bulungu: Strategic locations to be monitored with tact (green)

 49

As one can see from this letter, other modalities of control emerged in addition to this
set of measures, including the strict prohibition for villagers to allow anyone into their
villages. 179 On 29 January 1964, new elements of control were added to the list. They
ranged from surveillance of strategic locations to the definition of those who were
required to submit to these measures. In a confidential letter from the préfet of Bulungu
to the mayor of Bulungu municipality, one can get a sense of these modalities of control:

Mr. Mayor, I have the honour to put you on guard against the infiltration of
foreign individuals who are liable to endanger public peace by trying to
establish the terror of the private militia in the city of Bulungu. In fact, on 28
January 1964, [...] a man of the ‘mubunda’ race [a cultural-linguistic group to
whom most rebel leaders belonged], a suspected member of the [Mulele]
youths, entered the town of Bulungu, I do not know how. When I received the
news, the police was immediately alerted, in order to apprehend him. [...] The
reason for the arrival of this murderer is, as is their duty, to try to create youth
gangs everywhere where peace reigns. If we have the youths here in Bulungu,
there is no reason for them to come from Idiofa or Gungu. [...] Rather, the core
of the youth [rebels] is made up of town dwellers. They contact their
Bampangi [relatives] who live in the town. These are the people who make up
the youths. […] If we do not want to have this unfortunate situation in our city,
it is necessary to pay close attention to the arrival of unknown people in the
town. Please draw the attention of the population to this to ensure that the
infiltration of unknown persons is monitored at all times. Suspects must
automatically be brought to my office. 180

In this manner surveillance led to the categorization of people. The concepts of

“foreign” and “unknown” were emptied of their primary social meaning. The foreigner
ceased to be the one who needs hospitality and became a priori an enemy, an alien and a
person who needed to be monitored. The foreigner was singled out and identified in
terms of cultural-linguistic and ethnic identifications. All those who arrived in the region
were labelled as Mbuun, 181 “the brothers of Mulele” and as a “dangerous race.” 182 The
emphasis placed on ethnicity introduced a dividing line into the domain of life under the
control of the authorities. It drew a sharp distinction between those who had the right to
free movement and those subjected to monitoring. The foreigner, identified as Mbuun,

179
Anonymous, “Procès verbal de la réunion du 9 janvier 1964,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/
17A. Archives Conseil National.
180
A. Voiture, “Lettre confidentielle,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/10A. Archives Conseil
National.
181
Mbuun is the Gallicization of the word mubunda (plural babunda).
182
In Kikongo, the word mpusu, which means skin, is used to describe the skin colour—and to express the
idea of race.
 50

was seen as the holder of violence. He/she was the subject and the object of violence
and, at the same time, a threat to the periphery. The foreigner’s body, as it belonged to
“the most dangerous race,” was considered a site from which violence emanated. The
foreigner was not only defined as a rebel, but also as someone predisposed to rebellion
and obsessed with sowing rebellion throughout the region.
The identity construction and ethnic hatred conveyed in the periphery resulted from
the depths of colonial history. Ernest Kiangu, whose doctoral dissertation was on this
issue, 183 traced the contours of this enduring theme:

It was the result of the battle that was operating at the highest level of political
leadership. […] It should be said that prior to independence, mobility was
highly regulated. Everyone was secluded in their area. Moving around entailed
the mandatory carrying of a travel pass. In addition to this law, there were all
kinds of regulations that stipulated that: ‘to be a leader of an extra-customary
centre [centre extra-coutumier] 184 one should come from the majority cultural-
linguistic and ethnic group.’ […] In order to maintain power over a long
period, those who ruled important agglomerations ensured that their cultural-
linguistic and ethnic group remained in the majority. From 1931 to 1954, all of
the leaders who led Kikwit—the seat of Kwilu bureaucracy, which also
borders Bulungu—were Mbuun. […] The Mbala [another of Kwilu’s cultural-
linguistic and ethnic groups], on the other hand, were excluded from
leadership. […] For more than two decades they not only remained in the
shadow of the Mbuun, but were also confined to their villages. The Mbala
experienced this exclusion and fragmentation as a form of colonization, to the
extent of forcing a change in their representation in municipal politics. […] As
soon as they had obtained the changes, no Mbuun returned to head the city.
These were the things that people spoke about behind closed doors, but that
the colonial context did not allow them to express openly. After the acquisition
of independence, this struggle became visible within the political parties. 185 At
the time of the rebellion, all leaders who managed the state of emergency in
Kikwit were from Bulungu. They led the people under their jurisdiction to rise
up against the Mbuun, the latter being perceived by the people as the leaders of
the rebellion and, therefore, the troublemakers. 186 […] They also enforced the

183
It was published in 2009 as Le Kwilu à l’épreuve du pluralisme identitaire (1948-1968) by
l’Harmattan. See also Martens, Abo..., pp. 248-249.
184
A centre not subjected to customary law.
185
See Mutamba Makombo Kitatshima, Du Congo Belge, pp. 409–419; and Herbert Weiss, Political
Protest in the Congo: The Parti Solidaire Africain during the Independence Struggle, Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1967.
186
See also Martens, Abo..., pp. 248-249.
 51

law by strengthening the modalities of control and surveillance over mobility

in the region. 187

But these modalities of control and surveillance were not only the prerogative of the
prefecture of Bulungu. They were, to a large extent, a feature of Congolese life. This is
the reason why, in few days, many administrative entities in the periphery were very
quick to march in step with the provincial policy of regulation of mobility. On 13
January 1964, following instructions from Kikwit, the Masi-Manimba préfet ordered his
administrative body to strengthen and tighten control over mobility across the prefecture.
In a remarkable note, he instructed that everyone be subjected to the same terms and
conditions of control and surveillance.

Due to the tense situation in which our province finds itself, I appeal for your
collaboration and draw to your attention that it is necessary to fully control all
of the entry and exit points across the entirety of your districts and sectors. No
citizen can travel from the Circonscription Indigène or the arrondissement
[neighbourhood] without a laissez-passer. I hereby request all heads of
Circonscriptions Indigènes to open a register for each village, which will be
used on a daily basis by the chief of the village. Each day every villager has
the duty to report the reason for his exit. All entries must be reported to the
designated persons. Please choose two or three trustworthy citizens in each
village who will be instructed to provide information to heads of secteurs.
Please insist on the control and monitoring of entry and exit by citizens
throughout the area of the prefecture. Make sure all the heads of villages are
held responsible if the registers are not up to date. 188

In addition to the strict monitoring of strategic locations, the Masi-Manimba préfet

re-instituted the colonial requirement of carrying passes. The aim of this procedure was
threefold. Firstly, it would underline the risks of travelling to the prefecture. Secondly, it
would increase the protection of the prefecture against all attempts of importing the
rebellion into its area. Lastly, it would allow the prefecture to fully exercise state
sovereignty in this part of the region. 189 In addition to the passes, the prefecture put in
place a number of strategies to clandestinely control and monitor the movement of

187
A. Voiture, “Lettre confidentielle,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/10A. Archives Conseil
National.
188
Bernard Kambembo, “Lettre,” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B 0121. Archives Conseil National.
189
Ibid.
 52

people. 190 Those who came to seek refuge in this area were remotely controlled by what
came to be called “invisible hands.” 191
In the prefecture of Bulungu itself the authorities decided to raise the bar even higher,
by tightening its existing security strategies and centralising where the rivers could be
crossed [Figure 8]. They wanted to add to the existing modalities of control new forms of
knowledge about the self, the body and the right to pass. People were now required to
identify themselves through the biological. It was strongly believed that taking
anthropomorphic features into account in the process of identifying people was of great
importance. Despite having only scarce means at their disposal, a result of the weakness
of the administration and the postcolonial bureaucracy, they nevertheless succeeded in
implementing their project. They distinguished themselves by putting the burden of this
arbitrary work of sovereignty on the shoulders of police officers. In a confidential letter
to ferry inspectors at Mikwi, Tango, Pindi, Bulungu, Leverville, Kwenge and Mosango
Mil in the prefecture of Bulungu [Figure 8 and Figure 9], the préfet of Bulungu gave firm
instructions:

I have the honour of informing you that, as of the present, any illegal crossing
on private canoe is strictly prohibited. You have the authority to stop any and
all canoes. Please force everyone to cross on the ferry. A strict monitoring of
passengers is strictly prescribed. Anyone who appear suspicious to you must
be arrested and escorted under close supervision to Bulungu. ID verifications
are required. All persons not in possession of their identity documents must be
arrested. The reason for crossing must be clearly explained to you. If you feel
like a crossing is unnecessary, you must return the person [to his home
village]. In such cases, you must remember the individual’s face. In cases
where a person tries to cross three times, giving you false reasons, you must
arrest the person and lead him to Bulungu. 192

From these instructions it is clear that ferry inspectors became the incarnation of
sovereign power. At the point where they met travellers seeking to cross the river, they
alone had the power of taking “arbitrary” decisions, characteristic of sovereignty. They
could check people’s identification documents, and read their faces and minds as experts

190
Bernard Kambembo, “Lettre,” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B 0121. Archives Conseil National.
191
Sévérin Kambembo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 14 January 2014. He was three times
identified as a rebel in the prefecture of Masi-Manimba.
192
A. Voiture, “Lettre confidentielle,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/ 16. Archives Conseil
National.
 53

in the “psychology of lying.” They had the power of making final judgements. Their
power acknowledged no other power if only the one carried by their direct supervisors.
In 1967, the persistence of the rebellion led to the intensification of control and
surveillance by the local authorities over strategic locations. The authorities ordered the
erection of barriers in the entire periphery. In a letter from the district Commissioner of
Kwilu to the administrator of Bulungu, the modalities of the new rules were clearly
expressed:

In order to prevent a possible crossing by Mulele—who, it seems to me, wants

to reach the left bank of the Kwilu river and create the situation that other parts
of the Kwilu region have lived through—I demand that you urgently inform
the heads of the Niadi, Kipuka, Nko, Luinungu and Kwilu sectors about the
measures to take: ‘the erection of barriers between sectors and villages; the
checking of identity by the police of Circonscriptions Indigènes which will
stay in front of each barrier; the removal after usage of all the canoes along the
Kwilu river from Tango to Kiyaka-Mosango.’ The heads of these sectors are
required to meet with the sector council in order to let them know about these
measures and to warn the population. The villagers must denounce the
presence of rebels in their villages. They must, without delay, erect barriers on
all routes that have access to the left bank of Kwilu river, such as Kintwala,
Bulungu, Kibongo, Ambura, Ngwari-Ngwari, Kibundji, Kibongo, Mitshiakila,
Mosango-Mangala, Ngweme, Mosango-Mazinga, Kimpata, Kikongo PLC, and
Kiyaka-Basongo. The leaders must use all power at their disposal to obtain the
cooperation of the population in order strongly to fight off this scourge which
has been devastating the province for three years now. 193

193
F. Malanga, “Lettre: traversée Pierre Mulele,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/5. Archives
Conseil National. See also P. Maimasa, “Lettre: mesures sécuritaires, Bulungu, 5 novembre 1966,” reel 11,
box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/53. Archives Conseil National.
 54

Figure 8: Prefecture of Bulungu: security barrier along the Kwilu river (blue) and zone monitored by the
rebels (green)

Theoretically, all the authorities insisted on the peaceful regulation and monitoring of
people at checkpoints in the periphery. 194 But the reality proved to be the opposite. In
most cases, inspections in these areas were conducted brutally. Torture, punishment, and
death as well as harm, injury, and pain inscribed themselves into the monitoring process.
Pascal Atum, who fled from Mangaï to Kikwit via Leverville in 1965, remembers the
ways in which these inspections were carried out between Mangaï and Leverville:

Our trip from Mangaï to Kikwit was marked by death threats. All along the
journey, we were told that the rebels would not spend an hour without
attacking a boat. As a result of these frequent attacks, the police decided to
impose tight control over passengers moving from one location to another.
Before we got to Leverville, we were told that the police officers had inspected
a boat that was a few miles ahead of us. They had arrested some people whom
they strongly believed to be rebels. These people were violently beaten up.
After that, they were thrown into the river by the police officers. […] To avoid

194
A. Voiture, “Lettre: Affaire Mulele,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/11. Archives Conseil
National; and A. Voiture, “Lettre: traversée clandestine,” reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/16.
Archives Conseil National.
 55

falling into the same trap, we were advised to get travel permits at Bilili. When
we arrived at Leverville, we were checked one last time before our arrival in
Kikwit. It was a firm and tight control. 195

During the rebellion Leverville was known as the site for the production of death. 196
At all checkpoints the militaires were driven by an obsession with seeing blood. 197
Nobody in this location could wake up in the morning without being notified of a murder
that had occurred during the night. 198 No one could go to bed at night without having
heard about such an assassination. 199 And nobody could spend the day without being
notified of slaughters of innocent people by the militaires. 200 When the atmosphere
turned from bad to worse, the population decided to report its grievances to the
provincial authorities. On 17 August 1964 they wrote:

Mr. Special Commissioner, a platoon of G.D. [Gendarmerie] from Kikwit,

which is now located in Leverville since 5 April 1964 and led by warrant
Mboliko, massacred many innocents. Among these are PLC workers. First,
they killed four traders who were passing in two trucks and took their money.
The two trucks are still here in Leverville. Second, they killed three PLC palm
oil cutters who were bringing food to their wives at Leverville hospital. They
said that these cutters were accompanied by a Mulelist [rebel] who, all of a
sudden, fled [and disappeared into the bush]. Third, they killed two young men
who came from Kikwit because, according to them, these people were
Babunda. Fourth, on 13 August 1964, a T.O. [Travailleur Ordinaire, unskilled
worker] PLC was killed at night and his body thrown into the Kwilu river
because he was preventing several of them from raping his wife. In
conclusion, […] the military are here in Leverville [only] to kill and not to
protect [the population]. Moreover, […] they often say that they came [to
Leverville] to protect the PLC facilities and not the population. […] The same
militaires have imposed a curfew in Leverville from 7 pm to 5 am, from 22
April [1964] until today, 14 August [1964]. During the curfew hours, every
man they find is […] killed and thrown into the Kwilu river. Who should be
feared, the Mulelists or the militaires? We do not have any protection in

195
Pascal Atum (67 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 2 October 2013. See also Baudouin-Gauthier
Kyhila, “Rapport sur la jeunesse muleliste – arrondissement d’Elomo 8 février 1964,” reel 12, box 8,
folder 8, file I, doc. B0168 (no 220 affaire Mulele), p. 4. Archives Conseil National; and Verhaegen,
Rébellions..., p. 76.
196
Pascal Atum (67 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 2 October 2013.
197
Ernest Kiangu (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 20 September 2013.
198
Ngangula and B. Nsampwele, “Lettre: Massacre des innocents à Leverville par les G.D. de Kikwit.
Leverville le 17 août 1964,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0208. Archives Conseil National.
199
Ibid.
200
Ibid.
 56

Leverville. We ask the authorities to take the necessary measures to prevent

such massacres and change the curfew to 10 o'clock in the evening. 201

Figure 9: Centralising where the river can be crossed: a passage across Kwilu river monitored by the
202
police

Two months before, grisly scenes had already occurred in Leverville. 203 Traders
holding identity documents and passes in good and due form were brutally
slaughtered. 204 They had been accused of being in contact with the rebels, “financing”
rebel activities and sabotaging the efforts undertaken by the government to re-establish
peace throughout the region. They were accused of being Mbuun, those who incarnate
violence, because they were foreigners to Leverville, as this account shows:

201
Ngangula and B. Nsampwele, “Lettre: Massacre des innocents à Leverville par les G.D. de Kikwit.
Leverville le 17 août 1964,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0208. Archives Conseil National.
202
Photo by Reverend Father Albert Dussard, ca.1964. Ernest Kiangu’s private collection, Kinshasa.
203
Innocent Loso and Jean-Roger, “Procès verbal sur l’assassinat Bapi Marcel et consort,” reel 13, box 9,
folder 5, file O, doc. F64/41A. Archives Conseil National.
203
Ibid.
204
Ibid.
 57

After arriving at Bukiombo, Mr. Mungwele, without saying any word, got into
his vehicle and headed to the ferry where he came from. A jeep full of
militaires was ahead of him. His [vehicle], however, was following right
behind the militares’ jeep. On board was an unknown lieutenant, Warrant
Sumbili, and Augustin Mungwele. Mr. Mungwele presented to the militaires
merchandises he had confiscated from the traders. He told the militaires that
the merchandise was designed to feed the youths [rebels]. He added that these
traders [who held all the passes required, issued by the Special Commissioner
and countersigned by the National Army], were themselves youths. All of a
sudden, instructions were given to the militaires. First, they had to beat the
four merchants. Then they had to take them with them. [After beating] Marcel
Bapi, Nestor Banga, the driver and Nestor Banga’s conveyor, they [the
militaires] forced them to get into the jeep. They took them with them. […].
[They] followed the road up to the ferry. From there they took the Kikwit road.
When they arrived at the Mission Bea cemetery, they left their driver behind.
One of the militaires drove the jeep into the unknown. After few minutes, they
came back, picked up their driver […] and returned to Leverville. The four
men were gone [they had been killed]. 205

This is how the lives of “others,” those who were foreigners to a location, were easily
eliminated, thus transforming the entire area into a site of friction: a site wherein forces
of low magnitude were continuously swallowed up by forces of powerful magnitude.
Borrowing from the repertoires of ideas and stereotypes which arose and spread widely
across the region because of Mulele, the forces of powerful magnitude could construct
and re-construct at will the forces of low magnitude, the foreigners. These ideas were
based, most extensively, in the equation: foreigner=Mbuun=rebel=Mulele supporter.
This mode of reasoning echoed, to a certain degree, what Eric Fassin and his colleagues
have called “the politics of scapegoating” in the context of the Romani in Europe. 206 The
above account from the Kwilu administrative archives shows that the traders were killed
in the periphery not because they lacked identification papers, but because they were, at
first glance, identified as foreigners, 207 a radical otherness. They were foreigners in so far
as they were Mbuun, the brothers of Mulele. This is the reason why the militaires, as
well as the authorities, treated them “inhumanly” without losing their own sense of

205
Innocent Loso and Jean-Roger, “Procès verbal sur l’assassinat Bapi Marcel et consort,” reel 13, box 9,
folder 5, file O, doc. F64/41A. Archives Conseil National.
206
See Eric Fassin and al., Roms & riverains: Une politique municipale de la race, Paris: La Fabrique,
2014; and Jean-François Arnichand, “Eric Fassin: Les Roms servent de boucs émissaires,”
http://www.lamarseillaise.fr/bouches-du-rhone/societe/32182-titre-par-defaut. Accessed on 27 April 2016.
207
Innocent Loso and Jean-Roger, “Procès verbal sur l’assassinat Bapi Marcel et consort,” reel 13, box 9,
folder 5, file O, doc. F64/41A. Archives Conseil National.
 58

humanity. 208 When the “Mbuun thesis” was no longer acceptable, the militaires and the
authorities brought to life new ways of constructing the other: they are the traders, those
who came to the periphery.
The suffering inflicted on others in the periphery was conducted not only by the
authorities and those it called on to implement the arbitrary rights of sovereign power.
Local populations also contributed to the suffering through the policy of the “collective
hunt.” 209 Imposed by local administrations, this policy to a large extent resembled
colonial counter-insurgency practices pursued by the British in Malaysia 210 and
Kenya, 211 and the French and the Americans in Vietnam in the 1950s and 1960s. It
consisted in organizing armed patrols in the immediate surroundings of rebel-controlled
areas. 212 All the “villagers” of Bulungu, Kikwit and Masi-Manimba were forced to

208
Eric Fassin, “La question rom,” in Eric Fassin and al., Roms & riverains: Une politique municipale de
la race, Paris: La Fabrique, 2014, p. 40.
209
L. Fumuseke, “Lettre: lutte contre les milices privées,” reel12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B0099.
Archives Conseil National. See also Mumb, “Lettre, 21 mai 1964,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 332. Archives
Conseil National; Raphael Kuteba, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00870. Archives Conseil National; David
Lenda, “Lettre, 18 mai 1964,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2324. Archives Conseil National; and Venant Subadi and
Bernard Kubekela, “Lettre,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2315. Archives Conseil National.
210
See Tim N. Harper, The End of Empire and the Making of Malaya, Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1999; Walter C. Ladwig, “Managing Counterinsurgency: Lessons from Malaya,” Military Review
87, 3 (2007), pp. 56-66; Thomas R. Mockaitis, British Counterinsurgency: 1919-60, London: Macmillan
Press, 1990; Richard Stubbs, Hearts and Minds in Guerrilla Warfare: The Malayan Emergency 1948-
1960, Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1989; and R. Thompson, Defeating Communist Insurgency:
The Lessons of Malaya and Vietnam, New York: F. A. Praeger, 1966.
211
See John A. McConnell, “The British in Kenya (1952-1960): Analysis of a Successful
Counterinsurgency Campaign,” Master thesis, Defense Analysis, Naval Postgraduate School, June 2005,
http://www.dtic.mil/dtic/tr/fulltext/u2/a435532.pdf; Patricia Owens, Economy of Force:
Counterinsurgency and the Rise of the Social, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015; and Huw
Bennet, Fighting the Mau-Mau: The British Army and Counter-Insurgency in the Kenya Emergency,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.
212
L. Fumuseke, “Lettre: lutte contre les milices privées,” reel12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B0099.
Archives Conseil National. The idiom of “collective hunt” was later used in the Rwandan genocide in 1994
to mobilize people. See Charles Mironko’s works on this topic: “Ibitero: Means and Motive in the
Rwandan Genocide,” African Safety Promotion 4, 2 (2006), pp. 59-77; “Social and Political Mechanisms
of Mass Murder: An Analysis of Perpetrators in the Rwandan Genocide,” Ph.D. thesis, Yale University,
2004.
 59

participate in these “collective hunts.” 213 The heads of sectors and chiefs of villages who
refused to get involved were deported, as during the colonial period. 214
“Collective hunts” led to the construction of barriers at strategic points controlled by
the local population. In these locations, the interception of the enemy relied on the
principle of belonging or non-belonging to the contested zone. 215 Energies were
constantly mobilized to contain the other, the “foreign body.” Those who passed through
these checkpoints were metaphorically called “contagious people.” 216 Jules Bipele,
whose parents suffered terrible abuse in the vicinity of Kikwit in 1964, remembers these
logics of interception:

One day we saw people coming in a hurry from Mosango-Mangala to

Mitshiakila. Everyone wanted to go home, so were we also obliged to flee. At
the time, we were four children. My mother was pregnant and was about to
give birth. We folded up our luggage and fled. […] We got to Kikongo only to
find that the villagers had erected a firm barrier to filter out all those who
passed through. My mother said to me: ‘There is no other alternative here. Let
us go face them.’ We went through the barrier as all other people. To our great
surprise, my mother was arrested while other people passed through smoothly.
Those who were checking people at the barrier said to my mother: ‘Look at
you, the teacher’s wife. You are a rebel like your own husband. […] Today,
we will not let you pass through.’ […] They did not want to let my mother
pass through because of my father. My father was a teacher at Mitshiakila.
And for the Mitshiakila people and those of the vicinity, my father was a rebel.

213
L. Fumuseke, “Lettre: lutte contre les milices privées,” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B0099.
Archives Conseil National; Directeur provincial chargé de l’intérieur, “Lettre du 8 septembre 1964.
Milices privées,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0204. Archives Conseil National; and Donatien
Nagadala, (71 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 1 October 2013. Donatien Nagadala was in charge of
“collective hunts” in Kisunzu in the prefecture of Masi-Manimba.
214
L. Fumuseke, “Lettre: lutte contre les milices privées,” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B0099.
Archives Conseil National. On deportation during the colonial era, see Nancy Rose Hunt, A Nervous State:
Violence, Remedies, and Reverie in Colonial Congo, Durham: Duke University Press, 2016, pp. 70-72;
Ndaywel e Nziem, Histoire générale du Congo…, pp. 416-428; Anne Mélice, “La désobéissance civiles
des Kimbanguistes et la violence coloniale au Congo Belge (1921-1959),” Les temps modernes 2, 658-659
(2010), pp. 218-250; Anne Mélice, “Kimbangu,” in Prem Poddar et al. (eds.), A Historical Companion to
Postcolonial Literatures in Continental Europe and its Empires, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press,
2008, pp. 33-35; Jean-Luc Vellut (ed.), Simon Kimbangu, 1921: de la prédication à la déportation. Les
sources, vol. 1, Bruxelles: Académie royale des sciences d’Outre-Mer, 2005; M.-M. Munyani, “La
déportation et le séjour des kimbanguistes dans le Kasai-Lukenie (1921-1960),” Zaïre-Afrique, 119
(November 1977), pp. 555-573; P.-L. Plasman, “Le gouvernement bicéphale de l’Etat indépendant du
Congo et le red rubber,” in P. Van Schuylenberg et al. (eds.), L’Afrique belge aux XIXe et XXe siècles.
Nouvelles recherches et perspectives en histoire coloniale, Bruxelles: Peter Lang, 2014, pp. 131-144; and
Simon Verreycken, “Exilé dans son propre pays. Autour de la colonie agricole d’Ekafera, 1945–1960,”
Parenthèses (17 August 2015), http://parenthese.hypotheses.org/929, Accessed on 1 May 2016.
215
Jules Bipele (55 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 15 October 2013. He was six years old when the
rebellion broke out.
216
Ibid.
 60

[He was a rebel] because he was from [the contested] zone. […] They wanted
him killed, as well as my mother. […] It took a long time to convince the
people at checkpoint. […] This is what we experienced. […] After having
released my mother, we walked up to Nsama Nsama. […] While we were
getting ready to sleep at Nsama Nsama and go the next day to Nkara, where
we belonged, a group of late-comers told my mother that the Kikongo
inhabitants were about to follow us. […] They said they should not have let
my mother go, because she was the teacher’s wife, the rebel. Instead of
sleeping at Nsama Nsama and continue the next day to Nkara, we walked up to
Kwilumpia, the last village that bordered the area under the rebel control. A
few days later, we were obliged to cross the forest and get to the rebel zone.217

This is how the others, the foreigners, were constantly objectified in the periphery,
because they belonged to the contested zone.

“Refugee camp” as a site of exclusion

Collective memory in the Kwilu region does not recognize the existence of any
organized “refugee camps.” It does, however, recognize the presence of reception
facilities that were called “welcome centres.” 218 Located mainly in the Catholic and
Protestant missions, these centres were strewn across the periphery from early January
1964 onwards when the rebellion broke out. As the government was regaining control of
the region, these centres became part of the contested zone, thanks to their mission of
pacification and the National Army’s assistance. In the prefecture of Gungu, refugees
were gathered at Kingabunene, Kikombo, Kasamba, Kasandji, Mangole, Mukwatshi,
Kabala, Kilembe and Kikunga. 219 In the prefecture of Idiofa, however, two centres have
inscribed their names in provincial history because of their bad reputation: Kimpata Eku
and Mbantsamba.

217
Jules Bipele (55 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 15 October 2013.
218
Refugee camps existed, but under the name of Centre d’Accueil (welcome centres). See Laurent
Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” in B. Verhaegen and al. (eds), Congo 1966, Bruxelles: CRISP,
1967, p. 301. In this chapter, I use refugee camp and welcome centre interchangeably.
219
The list is not exhaustive. See R. M[b]onge, “Lettre: situation confuse,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D,
doc. G65/9. Archives Conseil National; Ph. Makulu, “Lettre: distribution alimentaire aux sortants du bois
de Kazamba (15 mai 1965),” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, doc. G65/11. Archives Conseil National;
Philippe Makulu, “Rapport succinct relatif à la mission de pacification dans la région de Mulikalunga,”
reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, docs. G65/ 12A-12B. Archives Conseil National; and B. Labakuwana,
“Rapport du 1er quinzaine relative aux sortants de bois du 1 au 15/ 4/ 1965, Kazamba, le 15/ 4/ 1965,” reel
11, box 8, folder 2, file D, doc. G64/15. Archives Conseil National.
 61

The living conditions of the refugees in these welcome centres were appalling. In a
report of July 1964 on the situation of the Mulelists in the Mulikalunga sector, the
delegate of the mission of pacification for this region noted with indignation that the
physical relocation of people during the rebellion posed serious problems. He strongly
deplored the lack of consideration for the suffering experienced by these refugees.
Speaking of 700 refugees from Mulikalunga who were relocated to Kisunzu, a camp of
about eleven large houses, 220 the delegate reported in March 1964 that they were
claiming their right to being treated humanely, in light of being subjected to drudgery
and public works without payment. 221 The same delegate wrote another letter to the
special commissioner about the same refugees in September 1964, pointing out the
continuing degradation of their living conditions. The refugees put forward a proposal
for how they could best be divided and distributed across the government area so that
they would be living close to related clans, and thus not be regarded as strangers and
treated with indifference or hostility:

I have the honour to present to you this brief but accurate report, for which I
would like your support to save lives. During the peacekeeping mission in the
prefecture of Gungu, I took the opportunity to go up to Kisunzu, accompanied
by Mr. Préfet of Gungu. When we arrived at Kisunzu, the capital of Mayamba
sector, I found that there were 653 refugees from the Mulikalunga villages
[living there]. These refugees were concentrated in the capital of the sector.
When I approached them, they said this to me: ‘Here we are four clans, which
are Mbanza, Kaseme, Kingulu and Mbwishi. It would be great if you distribute
us as follows: the Mbanza clan goes to the villages Sese-Kidinda and Wenze,
in the Muliwamba sector, […] where there is peace. The Kaseme clan goes to
the Kaseme clan in Mungamba village in the Muliniati sector. The Kingulu
clan goes to the Kingulu clan in Kingulu village in Kibongo sector; or a part of
this clan goes to Sese Kidinda, another to Mungamba and Mbata-Kapokoto or
Kanga-Ndjari. Finally, the Mbwishi clan goes to the Wenze village in the
Muliwamba sector where there is peace. 222

Some of them said to the same delegate:

220
Each of them had one to twelve beds. See Eugène Kanga, “Rapport administratif,” reel 12, box 8,
folder 8, file I, doc. B0199. Archives Conseil National.
221
Ibid. At Lutshima, for example, the refugees were requisitioned for road maintenance. See Urbain
Gimafu, “Rapport administratif sur les événements des milices privées au mois de mars 1964 dans
l’arrondissement de Lutshima/ Gungu,” reel 12, box 8, folder 8, file I, doc. B0178. Archives Conseil
National.
222
Anonymous, “Rapport administrative,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0205. Archives Conseil
National.
 62

If we are split in this way, we will be saved from death which is at our
doorstep. At Kisunzu, we are told that they do not want us. Therefore they
cannot take care of us when it comes to medication and food. In Kikwit, there
are also refugees. Are they treated the same way we are being treated here?
Please save us. We were not the rebels. […] We are refugees from
Mulikalunga sector. […] We were 730 when we were brought here. Now our
number has decreased because we are dying. The living conditions that are
being imposed on us […] do not allow us to hope for life. By this we mean
that we are suffering significantly from our brothers who are in authority here.
It is very hard to find something to eat. We are refugees, we lack everything,
but the people of the region sell manioc to us very expensively. We do not
even have money to buy it. [The local authorities] arrest us every day for
unjustified reasons. They handcuff us. They tie us up […], legs and arms
linked together. We build houses for the sector without getting paid. Only the
few of us who know how to pick fruits are allowed to go and pick them at
Sampendro. We are suffering from all kinds of abuse. Many of us are sick, but
they do not receive medical care. […] The children are very weak. They are no
longer showing any sign of life. Seeing all this suffering, we are asking the
higher authorities to help us once and for all. We ask that they split us in the
brother villages listed above. There we will be able to live in small numbers.
We will freely find our way and enough to eat, instead of leaving us crammed
in here without taking care of our eating and our health. 223

From these long accounts, one conclusion in particular can be drawn. The violence of
the rebellion burst the mental, spatial, and temporal frameworks by which refugees used
to make sense of their lives and introduced ruptures, a process accompanied by physical
displacement. The exclusion that they were subjected to in Kisunzu shows, in many
ways, how deep these ruptures were. To be a refugee in this location was synonymous
with having no value as a human being. 224 It was synonymous with being viewed as
quintessentially untrustworthy. As we can see from the accounts above, displaced people
were discredited, both by local authorities and by the wider population. They were
treated as rubbish, as things intended to be thrown away. They were relegated to the
bottom of the “economy of waste,” as if their lives belonged to the scrap heap. The
following words from the refugees themselves are clear enough to show the extent of this
relegation: “we are told that they do not want us.” 225 As a result, “they cannot take care
of us when it comes to medication and food.” 226

223
Anonymous, “Rapport administrative,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0205. Archives Conseil
National.
224
Ibid.
225
Ibid.
226
Ibid.
 63

The situation of the refugees in Kisunzu was significantly different from that of the
Nazi extermination camps in Europe. 227 What was at stake here was a “bio-politics of
exclusion,” a concept that emerges from the “the logic of disguised disposal,” of which
the driving principle was “never letting them live, without letting them die” (ne pas
laisser vivre, sans pour autant faire mourir). 228 A close reading of the refugees’ accounts
shows that there was no need for the authorities and local populations to chase them
physically from their town. They acted in such a way that they made life unbearable for
the hundreds of refugees living in their town so that the latter, after becoming aware of
the harshness of life, would willingly return to where they had come from. The
townspeople did not want to give the refugees any food. 229 When refugees wanted to buy
goods, prices went up. 230 When they got sick, they could not get any treatment, because
their status as refugees automatically excluded them from the medical system. Faced
with these forms of exclusion, the refugees could do no better than exclude themselves
from Kisunzu. First they gave up their initial project of reconstructing the logics which, a
priori, would help them domesticate the situations in which they found themselves and
live accordingly. Secondly, they decided to articulate a proposal for how they could best
be distributed over the landscape so that they would no longer be subjected to hostility.
This is to show how, in this region, the refugees were foremost, in Foucault’s words,

227
On the Nazi camps, see Kim Wünschmann, Before Auschwitz: Jewish Prisoners in the Prewar
Concentration Camps, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2015; Jürgen Graf and Carlo Mattogno,
Concentration Camp Stutthof and its Function in National Socialist Jewish Policy, Chicago: Theses and
Dissertation Press, 2003; Jane Caplan and Nikolaus Wachsmann (eds), Concentration Camps in Nazi
Germany: The New Histories, London: Routledge, 2010; Giorgio Agamben, “The Camp as the Nomos of
the Modern,” in Hent de Vries and Samuel Weber (eds), Violence, Identity, and Self-Determination,
Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997, pp. 106–118; Giorgio Agamben, Remnants of Auschwitz: The
Witness and the Archive, trans. Daniel Heller Roazen, New York: Zone Boos, 1999; Karyn Ball,
Disciplining the Holocaust, New York: State University of New York Press, 2009; Ian Kershaw, Hitler,
the Germans, and the Final Solution, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008; and Maria
Muhle, “Biopolitique et pouvoir souverain,” Lignes 3, 9 (2002), pp. 178–193.
228
See Fassin, “La question rom,” p. 70.
229
Anonymous, “Rapport administrative,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0205. Archives Conseil
National.
230
Ibid. A decision was taken by the High Commissioner according to which manioc should have been
harvested in all the villages for the refugees. The villagers, however, were reluctant. They saw in this
decision a new form of “colonization.” On 13 January 1965, Roger Kikungulu, one of the villagers, asked:
“Do we have any other wealth than these maniocs that you are taking for free? How are we going to pay
taxes if you take them for free?” See P. Soluka and Boniface Fils Musumary, “Procès verbal de la réunion
d’entente des ressortissants du secteur de Kipuka en sa séance du 3 janvier 1965,” reel 12, box 8, folder 10,
file I, doc. B0236, p. 5. Archives Conseil National.
 64

“animal(s)” whose politics continuously placed their “existence as […] living being(s) in
question.” 231
According to Eugenie Mpungu, who went through a similar experience in Lukamba,
the project of life she dreamed of became increasingly unrealizable in such conditions of
exclusion and rejection. The new forms of injustices that were systematically placed on
her and her fellows in the welcome centres made all vital strategies difficult. As a result,
she constantly projected herself into her imagination, thinking and re-thinking the pain
she was facing in the centre to which she had been forced to relocate. She questioned the
meaning of her existence and would show feelings of desolation and psychological
breakdown. But above all, she would think, exactly as the Kisunzu refugees, about the
possibilities and hopes of a better life elsewhere:

It was so hard to live there. […] Suffering was stuck on my skin. From time to
time I wondered if those who had sought refuge in Kilembe, Kisandji,
Kikombo, […] Mbatsamba, Kimpata Eku, Gungu or Kikwit also lived in the
same conditions as we were living. 232

One question that should be asked here is to what extent these welcome centres, to
which Eugenie Mpungu alluded, constituted exceptions or were the rule. There is
evidence that the living condition of refugees in these centres was not better than
elsewhere. At the time an economic crisis that was hitting the country as a whole grew
dramatically in the Kwilu region. 233 Provincial revenues were continuously decreasing.
There was also significant mismanagement of the province which had an additional
impact on the provincial finances. In 1966, for example, the provincial revenues

231
Michel Foucault, The Will to Knowledge: History of Sexuality, trans. Robert Hurley, vol.1, London:
Penguin Books, 1998, p. 143. See also Fassin, “La question rom,” p. 67.
232
Eugenie Mpungu, (75 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
233
Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” p. 300. On the effects of this crisis on a national level between
1960 and 1965, see Hugues Leclerq, “La situation financière et monétaire au Congo,” Présence
Universitaire, 11 (April 1962), pp. 30-32; Jean-Philippe Peemans, Le Congo-Zaïre au gré du XXe siècle.
Etat, économie et société, Paris, L’Harmattan, 1997, pp. 226, 230, 232-233; Anonymous, “Editorial,”
Présence Universitaire, 11 (January 1963), pp. 3-10; F. Herman, “La situation économique et financière de
la République du Congo depuis l’indépendance,” Etudes Congolaises, 1 (mars1961), pp. 13-19; F.
Herman, “La situation économique et financière de la République du Congo durant le premier trimestre de
1961,” Etudes Congolaise, 2 (May-June 1961), pp. 15-25; M.-L. Nkuba, “Aventures et mésaventures de la
bourgeoisie nationale,” Présence Universitaire, 15 (mars-avril 1964), pp. 33-48; B.Z., “Traitements,
grèves et politique d’austérité,” Etudes Congolaises, 5 (1962), pp. 1-32; and Z. Mukwakani, “Réflexions
sur le mouvement des salaires au Congo depuis 1960,” Congo-Afrique, 36 (June-July 1969), pp. 350-355.
 65

amounted to roughly 3 million Congolese francs per month. 234 Yet 86 million Congolese
francs were required per month to pay the political institutions and all the public
servants, whose actual numbers overflowed, while the monthly available amount of
ressouces of the province was only about 53 million Congolese francs. 235 It followed
from this situation that the province was not even able to pay all of its staff on a monthly
basis. 236 To take care of the refugees, the authorities had to rely on the central
government and on international institutions such as the Red Cross or Caritas-Congo.237
Aid from the central government consisted mainly of salted fish, clothing, and
medicines. 238 Yet, back in 1965, the head of the Kilembe circonscription (district) wrote
a letter to the physician-director of Gungu to report that there had been a disruption in
the distribution of clothes and food to the refugees of his jurisdiction. He strongly
denounced the forms of exclusion that the refugees were subjected to:

Mr. Director of the hospital, who among you has the animal attitude that leads
them to ignore the meaning of the word “refugee”? I am truly appalled to see
the ways in which you are treating the population of my C.I. [Circonscription
Indigène]. […] Long before, the refugees were receiving all kinds of goods
which they could use: clothes, including something to live for. But now they
have virtually received nothing. We must again charge them 10 francs before
their daily treatment. This practice shows how lightly you treat the refugees.
While the same population is wearing raffia in place of clothes, [...] it makes
soap with potash, [...] eats poorly, you, however, have no pity for them! In
such shabby conditions, Mr. Director of the hospital, [...] I would ask you to
suspend sending medication in my district because I understand how much
these refugees are subjected to exclusion.239

In Kasamba and Kasandji, two large welcome centres held a total of 2,285 refugees
in 1965; 445 of them (19.5 %) were weak. Most of them suffered from swelling of the
feet and bloated stomachs. It was also reported that they were malnourished. 240 In

234
Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” p. 300.
235
Ibid.
236
Ibid.
237
Philippe Lepage, “Quelques données sur la situation familiale et sanitaire des réfugiés et sortants de la
forêt de mission Kikombo, le 26 avril 1965,” reel 13, box 9, folder 7, file M, doc. [s.n]. Archives Conseil
National; Anonymous, “Rapport administratif,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, docs. G65/12A-12B.
Archives Conseil National; and Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” p. 301.
238
Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” p. 301.
239
Anonymous, “Lettre,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, doc. G65/24. Archives Conseil National.
240
Anonymous, “Rapport administratif,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, docs. G65/12A-12 B. Archives
Conseil National.
 66

Kazamba, a welcome centre located in Gungu, there were at least five deaths per day. 241
In Mbantsamba, where the population of Lukamba was concentrated, many families
suspected to have contacts with the Mulele clan were exterminated. 242 In Kimpata Eku,
where most refugees were from Matende, Banda, Kimbanda and Yassa-Lokwa,
starvation and military abuse killed many of them. 243 In Kikombo, a welcome centre
located in the south-west of Lukamba, the conditions were dismal. The findings of a
survey conducted between March and April 1965 by Reverend Philippe Lepage of the
Kikombo Catholic mission were not encouraging. He recorded that the physical and
psychological conditions of the refugees were bad and severe respectively. 244 In
February, March and April 1965, 239 patients were transported to the hospital in Kikwit,
many of them in desperate condition. Lepage anticipated the death of thirty of them
shortly after their arrival at the hospital.245 At the mission, the mortality rate reached
alarming proportions. Most deaths took place in the last term of 1964 and during
February and March 1965. This led to the assumption that the people of this region had
reached the limits of their physical resistance. 246 In 1966, a report by students of the
Université Lovanium who spent time in the region was heartbreaking:

Seeing this army of living skeletons, one feels like in the country of bad
dreams, or on a planet other than earth. In the seemingly uninhabited huts, a
poignant spectacle awaits you: here the whole family lies on the mat; there a
widow sits on the floor, holding a baby in her arms; and there, a couple lives

241
Anonymous, “Rapport administratif,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, docs. G65/12A-12 B. Archives
Conseil National.
242
Martens, Abo..., p. 207.
243
Ibid., p. 147.
244
Philippe Lepage, “Quelques données sur la situation familiale et sanitaire des réfugiés et sortants de la
forêt de mission Kikombo, le 26 avril 1965,” reel 13, box 9, folder 7, file M, doc. [s.n]. Archives Conseil
National. At Imbongo, the situation was not better either. On 5 January 1965, Barthelemy Banganga, the
head of peacekeeping mission for the Imbongo, wrote this to Francis Mangala, the provincial director of
AIPRO (Affaires Interieures Provinciales): “Today, 148 people are here at the capital of secteur Imbongo.
Unfortunately we are running out of medicines to treat the patients. [...]. It is pitiful to see how people are
sick here, especially children[!].” Barthelemy Banganga, “Lettre de Barthelemy-G. Banganga,” reel 12,
box 8, folder 10, file I, doc. B0235. Archives Conseil National.
245
Philippe Lepage, “Quelques données sur la situation familiale et sanitaire des réfugiés et sortants de la
forêt de mission Kikombo, le 26 avril 1965,” reel 13, box 9, folder 7, file M, doc. [s.n]. Archives Conseil
National.
246
Ibid.
 67

their last moments. When they saw us, these starving people dragged behind
us, their last hope. 247

In 1967 and 1968 it was this same “army of living skeletons” that was summoned by
the militaires for the construction of military camps. When the administrator of Gungu
refused this, the commander of the 19th Battalion of the 7th Military Company wrote a
letter of complaint on 14 December 1967 in which he threatened to replace the militaires
on the front line with local authorities:

Mr. Administrator, in response to your letter no.2012/67 of 4 December 1967,

I cannot see any reason why you should forbid the regional of Lozo from
sending the villagers to Kilembe to build houses for the militaires. Is it
because the militaires do not do anything [?] […] You should understand and
know unwaveringly the importance of the mission we are called to fulfil here.
If the camp had already been built, I would not come back to this. Tell me
whether it is fair or not to accommodate the militaires and their families
outdoor or in houses not yet covered with straw. If we are here, it is because
we want to maintain order, peace, justice and ensure that freedom is
guaranteed to everyone. […] I urge to say to the heads of sectors and the
regionals […] to erect barriers temporary or a period of two months only [and
contain the rebels]. After they have erected these barriers, I am going to
withdraw all the militaires and ask them [the militaires] to come build their
houses and put their families at the shelter. Once the construction of the camp
is over, they will regain their operational positions. 248

Following this threat, the chief of Kilembe sector wrote to his counterparts in Gudi
and Lozo on 9 January 1968. He asked them to put at the disposal of the military of
Kilembe four villages of their jurisdictions to repair the military houses. 249 On 13
January 1968, the head of Lozo sector responded affirmatively to his counterpart in
Kilembe:

Mr. Head of sector, I write with reference to your letter no. 6/L. 21/68 of 9
January 1968, addressed to his Excellency Head of Gudi sector, whose copy
was reserved. I have the honour of putting at your disposal four villages from
my area to repair the military houses at Kilembe […]. The people in the
villages designated for this work have to work for one week only […] [because

247
Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem, “La vie quotidienne à Lovanium (1963-1969),” in Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem
(ed.), Les années Lovanium: La première université francophone d’Afrique subsaharienne, vol. 2, Paris:
L’Harmattan, 2010, p. 70. On the Lovanium student mission in the region, see Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem,
“L’université et les rebellions mulélistes: lectures d’un vécu,” in Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.),
L’université dans le devenir de l’Afrique: Un demi-siècle de présence au Congo-Zaïre, Paris: L’Harmattan,
2007, pp. 89-92.
248
Patrice Epengola, “Lettre,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/40. Archives Conseil National.
249
Anonymous, “Lettre,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G68/1. Archives Conseil National.
 68

they] are also used for the activities of their sector, which is also in the midst
of reconstruction. 250

In Kikwit the situation was not any different. As in most welcome centres across the
province, the treatment of refugees relied, firstly, upon the notion of exclusion. Secondly,
it relied upon the conspiracy theory that they were deliberately conspiring to destroy the
region and the country as a whole. They were treated as sub-humans, people without any
rights, not even the right of movement. 251 The most striking case is that of the workers of
Madail Firm who were refugees in Kikwit in 1964. Based on a conspiracy theory put
forward by the very owner of the company, the urban administration denied them the
right of movement in the city. In a confidential letter by the police commissioner of
Kikwit to the chief of police commissioner, one can see how these theories were
constructed below the surface:

Mr. Commissioner of Police-in-Chief, I have the honour of bringing to your

attention that today, around 11:15 a.m., I received a delegation of workers of
Madail, refugees from Lutshima, who was represented by Mr. José Oliveira.
Mr. Oliveira asked me, on behalf of all the worker refugees, to give them
certificates that would allow them to move freely within the city of Kikwit,
given that during the disturbances at Lutshima some refugees had left their
identity documents and other documents in their houses. […]

To [this] request I replied that I could not issue a certificate to any of them
because […] many of their colleagues were among the [rebels] who [looted]
Lutshima on 8 January 1964. They had themselves clearly noticed [that some
of their colleagues belonged to the rebels] […], but they did not do anything to
stop them [their colleagues]. […] They [these workers] were stupid enough to
prefer to come to Kikwit and to ask for refuge, while those […] who remained
in Lutshima have never been attacked by the [rebels] until this day. […] This
proves, in many ways, that they knew in advance that the [rebels] would attack
Lutshima. […] Instead of arresting the [rebels] immediately—the number of
rebels was lower than that of the workers: 60 [rebels] against 200 workers—
these workers stupidly preferred to escape and seek refuge in Kikwit. […]

For the problem of hunger experienced by these workers, […] I myself went to
the management of Madail Establishments. […] Mr. Madail has categorically
refused to provide any assistance to these workers […]. [He] accused all of
[them] […] of complicity because they have refused to stop the [rebels], their
own fellow workers, whom they themselves recognized very well. […] In
addition, he reminded his workers that ‘this is the reason why some of their
colleagues on leave in Kikwit did not want to return to Lutshima at the end of

250
Pierre-Simon Mubunduku, “Lettre,” reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G68/2. Archives Conseil
National.
251
M. Lakubu (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 21 September 2013.
 69

their leave.’ This corroborates the thesis of complicity put forward by Mr.
Madail. That is the reason why I have categorically refused to issue any
certificate of movement to any of these workers.252

This shows how the lives of refugees in this space were normalized on the basis of
exclusion. What was striking in this process of exclusion was the way in which the
supporting arguments were constructed to justify these forms of exclusion. In the case of
the Madail workers, two logics were strongly played out. The first was a liberal logic
according to which capital was worth more than workers: “Mr. Madail has categorically
refused to provide any assistance to these workers that he describes as being bad because
they have left his post at Lutshima to the [rebels] and his vehicles were then burnt by
these [rebels].” 253 The second logic, which seemed even worse than the first, was an
attempt to justify the use of forced labour on the grounds of a state of emergency. The
fact that workers were unpaid and allowed to starve to death was justified in terms of
their moral culpability and intellectual inferiority.
The refusal to grant permits to these workers was, to a certain extent, a form of
strategic elimination. Not only did this refusal make the refugees vulnerable, it also
exposed them to the possibility of death. As in Kisunzu where the same forms of
exclusion were enacted, the refugees in Kikwit were subjected to arbitrary arrests. Since
they did not have identifying documents, they were submitted to multiple forms of
capture in a city that lived under the regime of a curfew from December 1963
onwards. 254 Eugide Kasay and M. Lakubu, former students of Catholic schools in Kikwit
at the time of the rebellion, remember the curfew regime as well as the forms of capture
that people were subjected to:

Kikwit was under a state of emergency. There were a lot of curfews. Nobody
could walk after 6 pm. Those caught after 6 pm were arrested. They were put
in a big truck called ‘marmot’ [...]. There was insecurity across the whole
range of the city. 255

The military swept away all those they found without papers. They would
display their dead bodies around the city of Kikwit. This was to alert people

252
Anonymous, “Rapport administrative (mécontentement firme Madail),” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H,
doc. B0115. Archives Conseil National. Paragraphs introduced to enhance reading.
253
Ibid. Paragraphs introduced to enhance reading.
254
Gerard-Libois and Van Lierde, Congo 1964, p. 12.
255
Eugide Kasay (55 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 14 October 2013.
 70

that they should be wary of the rebellion. Everyone had to be with their family
by 5 and 6 pm. My brother-in-law, José Labata, and my father, Lakubu, were
arrested in Kikwit. They were violently beaten up. They were released thanks
to Fernand Kompani who was the mayor in Kikwit during the rebellion. 256

But paradoxically, being granted a permit of movement, which in legal terms

promised official status as “refugee” and offered the possibility of inclusion, did not in
itself guarantee inclusion in the city. It only gave a refugee the right to move throughout
the city, despite being continuously exposed to all kinds of social exclusion. In other
words, being given the official designation of “refugee” in this part of Congo was
synonymous with becoming more vulnerable to abuse and social exclusion. The “bodies”
of refugees were considered as sites par excellence that could be marked by inhumanity.
Refugees could be approached and insulted easily. 257 They could be seized and treated
like objects without guilt or shame. 258 They could be treated as unruly and outlawed
without remorse. 259 They could be treated as uprooted people or vagrants. 260 They could
be laughed at without compunction, as if they belonged to a different world, a world of
nightmares. 261 They could be singled out and labelled as Mbuun without any problem. 262
Baudouin Matalatala, who spent almost his entire youth in Kikwit during the rebellion,
remembers this dehumanizing treatment that refugees were subjected to:

Those who came from the [contested zone] were easily recognizable. Mostly
they were people who spoke almost the same language: the Mbuun and the
Pende. It was easy to identify them. […] Most were people in a pitiful state.
Children with bloated stomachs, completely pale and unable to consume the
food they were given. I was wondering if some of them have died because of
eating (à force de manger). It was hard to look at them twice. They lacked
everything. They were like beasts. They had nothing, not even soap. When
they wanted to bath, they would use leaves […] Being considered a refugee
was extremely pejorative. When they treated you like a jeunesse [youth], a
refugee, […] it meant to say that you were a rebel, an unruly, an outlaw.
Everything was in there: someone without a mark; someone considered with

256
M. Lakubu (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 21 September 2013.
257
Viviane Dema (75 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013. She was a long-term Kikwit
resident when the rebellion broke out.
258
Prospère Mbwisi (66 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
259
Baudouin Matalatala (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 September 2013.
260
M. Lakubu (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 21 September 2013, and Baudouin Matalatala (57
years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 September 2013.
261
Prospère Mbwisi (66 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 22 November 2013.
262
Baudouin Matalatala (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 September 2013.
 71

pity; someone without value. I do not even want to elaborate more on that. But
it was exactly that. […] A refugee was someone who had no attachments;
someone who came from somewhere and who was brought into another place.
A refugee was […] someone extremely thin, who lacked everything and who
was ill-clothed. […] They were uprooted people. […] Psychologically, the
term refugee used to harm people. 263

The concern attached to the word refugee on the basis of banishment and exclusion
led to horrific acts being perpetrated in most refugee centres. The major premise behind
this argument was: “these people came from dark villages and, as such, they do not have
any right of existence.” In 1964, an administrative officer at Niadi, a village located in
the Bulungu prefecture, was confronted with this paradox. In his administrative report on
the actions of the police on mission in Nkara, he showed clearly how refugees were
subjected to cruel treatment because of their status as people from the contested zone:

In the morning of 13 July 1964, some inhabitants of Kwilumpia came to warn

me that rifle shots had been heard on the side of Mosenge [...]. We were all
curious and we were waiting for someone from Mbila to give us good details.
At 3 p.m. precisely Jean Paulin [Kwiluandongo] of Kwilu-Milundu, a village
occupied by the rebels, arrived. Kwiluandongo was a refugee at Mbila for
more than three months. I preferred to meet him in person to find out if he
knew anything about these noises. This man had all his papers available and in
order: He paid his identification tax for 1964. […]. I gave the order to the
brigadier of the Circonscription Indigène to bring this man to my office so that
he could tell us exactly what had happened at Mbila. […]. Arthur Mayele, the
police officer, violently pulled this man from the hands of the brigadier
[because he was a refugee]. [...] Immediately […] he began to investigate the
house of this man.

On their return from Nkara, [...] at Mbila, the police officer had arbitrarily
arrested the wife of the capita of Kwilu village, who was a refugee together
with her husband. While travelling to Longo, […] Arthur Mayele and Crispin
Bikaya, [...] arrested a girl who lives at Longo with her big sister. […] The two
sisters are from Bodwa, a village affected by the rebellion. Mayele […] raped
this unfortunate girl who had not yet reached her puberty. After having been
raped, the girl was injured [in her vagina] [...]. At 5 p.m. the same day, [...]
Mayele […] said publicly: ‘If I have raped this girl, it is because she comes
from one of the villages affected by the rebellion. Nobody can say anything to
me.’ 264

263
Baudouin Matalatala (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 September 2013. See also M. Lakubu
(57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 21 September 2013, and Viviane Dema (75 years old), oral
interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
264
A.D. Tabal, “Rapport administratif,” reel 13, box 9, folder 5, file O, doc. F64/46A. Archives Conseil
National. The italics are mine.
 72

This is what it meant to be refugee in this region during the 1960s.

Conclusion

This chapter deals with the relationship between space, control over mobility, and
displacement in the context of the dramatic Mulele rebellion that took place in the 1960s
in Congo. It showed the ways in which suffering was embedded in space, through the
forms and structuring of continuous movement of people within that space. The
phenomenological understanding of what it was like for people to live under the
conditions of forced mobility; contingent and extreme exposure to violence (and the
ways in which this was registered in dreams); social estrangement and exclusion; and the
double bind of not being able to present oneself and testify to one’s innocence (or
loyalty) without arousing suspicion that one is hiding complicity with the other side, are
all key components for understanding the embodiment of suffering in the context of the
Mulele rebellion. The bio-political strategies deployed by the government administration,
the police and armed forces, inherited in part from a long colonial heritage, including
road and river check-points, camps, and the use of permits and various kinds of
identification documents, all contributed to the production of suffering. The third
component to grasp the centrality of space and displacement in the production of
suffering is the question of how bio-political forms, offices, terminologies and
techniques were transformed in the context of the rebellion and extreme disorder, with
each side—the rebels and the government forces—drawing upon a shared repertoire
drawn from the colonial state, and the practices of the rebellion against it.
The Mulele rebellion, as a violent conflict, shattered the mental, temporal and spatial
frameworks which people used to make sense of their lives. Not only were the bodies of
people affected, their relationship with the environment was also disturbed as physical
movement introduced ruptures in the previous logics of daily life from which people
used to make sense of their lives.
 Chapter Two – Bodily Pain and the Politics of Death

This chapter moves from space—as actual or physical “material”—and its centrality in
the production of suffering to the people and the ways in which suffering penetrated their
bodies. Firstly, it is about various acts of giving death during the rebellion. It is also
about the pain and suffering that such acts caused, as well as the politics underpinning
them, as remembered by some survivors. It is an attempt at analysing and exploring the
memories of death and suffering, either by the people who were forced to give death to
others, or those who were forced to receive death that was given to them but who, too,
survived and can tell the story of these defining moments, a long time after the events.
The basic argument driving this chapter is that the rebellion, in its extreme
manifestation, had a particular way of inflicting pain and suffering on people’s bodies.
This way of administering pain and suffering relied strongly upon the triple logic of
cruelty, excess, and sadism. It consisted of seizing people, torturing them, violating their
bodily integrity, and following them beyond all suffering. The torture humiliated not
only the dead bodies, but also those who remained in the world.
The chapter is divided into three parts. The first reflects on the act of putting to death,
as well as the penetration of suffering into the body. The second focuses on the
relationship between the crowd and the act of torturing. The third and final part deals
with the death of the corpse, that is the ways in which the militaires treated the dead
bodies in the process of inflicting pain and suffering, as well as the return of the dead
among the living.

Putting to death

Papa, it is really hard to recall these stories. 1 […] I swear in the name of God
that it was horrible. […] I was arrested by the militaires. They fired a bullet at
me here [on the cheek]. […] After that, they stabbed me with their bayonet. As
I am talking to you, I no longer have several parts of my body. […] They took
out one of my testicles. They burned it […] and they forced me to eat it, while
I was still staring at them. […]. After treating me like an animal, they seized
Inspector Metela’s old brother who was among us. This man was interrogated

1
On stories that are difficult to remember, see Nancy Rose Hunt, “Espace, temporalité et rêverie: écrire
l’histoire des futurs au Congo Belge,” Politique africaine 3, 135 (October 2014), pp. 115-136.
 74

for about six hours. After these six hours of intensive questioning, he fell
down. I am sure he had a cerebral hemorrhage. [After that,] the militaire shot
and killed him immediately. […] Papa, that’s what we went through. 2

With these painful words one of the survivors of the rebellion began his testimony on
the morning of 1 November 2013 at Kikwit. Such shocking testimony emphasizes not
only different ways of administering death, but also what Achille Mbembe refers to as
“the burden of arbitrariness involved in seizing from the world and putting to death what
has previously decreed to be nothing.” 3 The purpose of this “burden” was the production
and incorporation of suffering in the bodies of “negated subjects;” 4 “people pushed even
further away, to the other side, behind the existing world,” 5 or more precisely, “out of the
world.” 6
Once surrounded by the arbitrary power of this “burden,” subjects were driven
almost everywhere, to the point that the production of violence on their bodies became
the normal state of things. In his narrative, Eugène Kitoto describes this “normal state of
things” as follows:

[Early in 1965,] I arrived in Gungu at director Dosithé Amwatsha’s house.

[…] Suddenly I heard people knocking on the door. There were up to 180
militaires. They said: ‘Open the door, otherwise we are going to break
everything.’ The house was closed, but it was surrounded everywhere by the
militaires. […] When the doors fell down, they struck at me. I was sitting in an
armchair and was reading the newspaper. They began to beat me up. […] They
beat me up very hard. They seized director Amwatsha. He was very short.
They beat him to death. […] I begged them and told them to leave this man.
They refused. […] They pushed him against the wall. They slapped him on the
head. The man fell down and bled to death. […] They got back to me. They
beat me up again. One among the militaires said to me: ‘Don’t you know that
today I am going to kill you?’ I replied to him: ‘No problem.’ He hit my back
with the butt of his gun. I fell down. He raised me up. Another militaire came
and slapped me. Sparks seized my eyes. […] Papa, I cried. […] They then put
us in their vehicle for an unknown destination. They kept on beating us in their
vehicle as if we were not human beings. Ten to fifteen militaires walked on us
and began to punch each of us. They were sharp blows! One of the prisoners
had even broken his jaw because of these blows. 7

2
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
3
Achille Mbembe, On the Postcolony, Berkley: University of California Press, 2001, p. 173.
4
Ibid.
5
Ibid.
6
Ibid.
7
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
 75

This “burden of arbitrariness” related to the production of death in this space was
experienced in different ways dependent on whether one was arrested by the rebels or the
militaires. Although both carried out death violently, the death administered by the
rebels differed fundamentally from that given by the militaires. The form of death
carried out by the rebels occurred mostly at night and was based entirely on secrecy. The
subject, reduced to nothingness, was forced through the torture to identify with—and
participate in the production of—the death that was being assigned to him, as this former
rebel explained in a long testimony:

To kill someone in our team of Mungay […] first, we had to make sure that
this person was given food. […] He had to eat until he got full. We would
ensure that he eats a special food: meat, especially pig, beef, goat or chicken.
Once full, we would give him some wine. And then, together with other
detainees, we would line them up and bring them to the place where they
would be executed. […] Once there, we would remind them why we were
killing them: ‘You betrayed the land for which we are fighting. You must
return to the same earth which you betrayed.’ After this ceremony, we would
ask them to dig a hole themselves. We would then tie them all: arms and legs
behind, chest thrown out. […] We used to call this type of torture ‘air mail’
[commande par avion]. 8

8
In 1965 and 1966, many survivors recounted their experience of this torture known as “air mail”
(commande par avion), highlighting its monstrous character. Fabien Nako, Gaston Ilunga, Etienne
Mumbutshi, and two other people wrote respectively:
30 January 1964 was the day of my conviction [by the rebels]. […] They beat
me up. […] Hands tied behind, they took me to their camp, where I was
subjected to inhumane treatment […]. After seven months of abuse, I tried to
escape from the prison, unfortunately I did not succeed. I fell back into their
hands. I was beaten half-dead. (Fabien Nako, “Lettre: Justification de mon
absence au service,” reel 12, box 8, folder 9, file I, doc. B0218. Archives
Conseil National)

They tied me with ropes, hands and legs behind, like a goat. […] They left me
in the midst of the forest. (Gaston Ilunga, “Rapport du bois de Mr Ilunga
Gaston, [membre du collège permanent], [de] janvier 1964 à [juillet] 1965,”
reel 13, box 9, folder 4, file O, doc. F64/4. Archives Conseil National)

I cried out until 3 o’ clock [in the morning]. […] I spent three hours without
eating. [I was just] vomiting blood. (Etienne Mumbutshi, “Rapport individuel,
21 janvier 1966,” reel 13, box 9, folder 3, file M, doc. Q33. Archives Conseil
National)

At Kapia, [the rebels] had handcuffed Richard Ngunakubu tightly. He became

unconscious and his arms were half-paralysed. […] The population of the
region is no longer at peace as a result of these disruptions. (Ev. Menaba and
 76

He continued:

It meant nothing to us seeing these people suffering. We would hit each of

them on the neck with a stick. Once they fell, we would push them slowly into
the mass grave. We would then cover them with earth.

Others we used to kill them with a technique called ‘commande par epiempe’
[Order by epiempe]. You take two sticks. You connect them […] with a wire.
Then you pass them over the head of the prisoner. Afterward, you press them
strongly so that the nerves [on the head] can be affected. The eyes would pop
out of their orbits. And suddenly death would follow. We would then bury all
of them in the hole that they had dug in advance.

I remember there were some people that we killed like pigs. We brought them
into the bush at night. We asked them to dig a hole. They were ten. The
circumference of these holes had to correspond to the size of their breasts and
the depth shouldn’t exceed the hips. [Then] we caught them. We tied them up,
arms attached to the body. […] We threw each of them in the hole, the head
downwards, and legs stretched upwards in a straight line with the body. We
put tree branches all around them to support their legs. We filled the ground to
the hips. […] It was funny to see how the earth was moving! We were
watching them. Before they died, these people would shit. First there would be
‘tufi ya mubisu,’ a very hard shit, and then a green diarrhea, ‘tufi ya masa
masa.’ Over. They died of suffocation. 9

On the military side, execution was also a terrifying and horrible act. It consisted of
taking the captive’s life by administering increasingly painful suffering on the body. The
militaires would seize people “by the throat and squeeze them to the point of breaking
their bones, making their blood pop out of their sockets,” and “making them weep
blood.” 10 They used to make sure that, in the act of killing, there remained “only a
terrifying statue, a recipient of pain, an exhausted strength, and a disguise that no longer
seem[ed] the sign of anything substantial—if not the apotheosis of sadism, an abject
death, deeply threatened with being a signifier [and] without a signified,” 11 as shown in
these two fragments of testimony:

My brother in-law, Sem David, said that one day the militaires arrived
suddenly at their bivouac. They arrested people. […] Do you know how they
killed them? First they forced them to take off their clothes. Then, they took

M. Kutameka, “Envoi troisième rapport,” reel 11, box 8, folder 1, file G, doc.
6032. Archives Conseil National)
9
Bonaventure Bongongo (70 years old), oral interview. Idiofa, 16 December 2013. This is a pseudonym.
10
Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 201.
11
Ibid., p. 223.
 77

their genitals; they cut them off with a knife that had no cutting edges. They
[the militaires] did not want the knife to cut the genitals but the knife to scrape
the genitals like a saw because, as they used to say, these people should really
feel that their genitals were being cut. The militaires then attacked the right
hands of these people. They cut them off. They took their eyes out of their
sockets. […] They attacked the ears. They cut the nose and the right legs. They
then made them drink gasoline in front of the rest of those […] who were
there. They asked them to open their mouths. They lit a fire. Finished.
Everyone was consumed by fire. 12

They then arrested a child near Lutshima. […] Instead of killing him far away,
they preferred to kill him in the presence of his father. They took the bayonet.
They began to stab the child. The child fled. They ran after him. They caught
him. They opened his eyes widely. Two blows of the bayonet into the right
eye: ‘kiek, kiek.’ The eye burst. Blood […] flowed. They grabbed him again.
They bayoneted him at the neck, ‘kiek, kiek.’ They began to turn the bayonet
[in the neck of the child]. They moved the bayonet. The child shouted: ‘Ah,
ah, munu!’ They pulled the bayonet out [from the neck of the child]. They
gave him another blow to the chest, ‘kiek, kiek.’ Imene [over]. The child gave
up his soul [azenga ntima]. 13

It is of this death, “perceived as embracing nothing,” a “death of a purely negative

essence without substance” that Kitoto together with his colleagues was going to die in
the bush of Lutshima. 14 This death was not very different from the death given to
animals in a butcher shop, where they cut the throats of the animals to shed the blood and
then process the flesh through a series of procedures, such as dissection or the cutting
into quarters, to transform it into meat. It was a death imposed by force. The militaires
considered the people’s lives and people’s bodies as foreign matter to their bearers and
something that needed to be destroyed. They should be annihilated because those who
carried the bodies and the lives were only scaffolds, just as the slave’s bodies and lives
had been during the slave trade. Kitoto recalled the correlation between killing a human
being and an animal during the rebellion:

They approached me. They took the bayonet. They wanted to kill me with
their bayonet. I said to their leader: ‘Pardon, pardon, […] Lieutenant Nguya. 15

12
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 March 2015.
13
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
14
Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 200.
15
Lieutenant Nguya is known in the region as one of the cruelest military leaders. [See also Philémon
Lozo, Elie Kakesa, Nestor Mukwangu, and Delphin Kupani, oral interview, Gungu, 12 January 2014]. In
September 1965, the head of the prefecture of Gungu wrote this against him:
 78

I am begging you. Please shoot me. Don’t kill me with your bayonet […]. The
militaire replied: ‘No, you spent so much time deciding. You must die by
bayonet as your comrades were. If you do not want to, you will die suffocated
the way we killed the other recalcitrants. […] You saw how we washed our
weapons in the Lutshima stream. They will serve to kill Mulele. But you, you
must die by bayonet as we killed your comrades.’ […] It was so said. I began
to cry. But none of them would listen to me. I began to ask myself so many
questions: ‘Oh my God. Why? […] Why all of this?’ 16

In the suffering he described, Kitoto projected himself into the imagination. He tried
to lean on the reservoir of memories and images that appeared to have been fixed for
many years, but which in reality were vague in his mind. He leaned on them while at the
same time forgetting them, and placing them in relation with things other than
themselves, things that were vague and complex at the same time. Under such
conditions, even if the imagination’s projection was able to relieve the suffering mind, it
becomes groundless. Jean-Paul Sartre, writing on these issues, explained in 1943 that:
“In order to imagine, consciousness must be free from all specific reality and this
freedom must be able to define itself by a ‘being-in-the-world’ which is at once the
constitution and the negation of the world.” 17 “This means that consciousness must be
able to affect the emergence of the unreal […]. The unreal is produced outside of the

the situation becomes more and more bad within the prefecture. […] There is
not even one week, Lieutenant Nguya has just killed 3 people living in the city
of Gungu. He said that they were […] leaders of the equipes in forest. He
killed: misters Nidi Alphonse, local councilor, father of 13 children;
Kutumbama Alexandre, joiner, father of 9 children, and Sabanga, teacher,
single man. […] On 13 September [19]65, three people have just been arrested
under the order of Lieutenant Ignace Nguya. From my return of Kilamba, […]
[at about] 12 am in the night, madam, my wife, told me about this problem as
well as the mistreatment that these people underwent. […] The next day, 14
September [19] 65, early in the morning, […] I went to the prison where these
[people] had to be. […] unfortunately, and in my biggest surprise, the
lieutenant had killed them all […] at 6:30 a.m. on 13 September [19]65. What
a suffering, what an emotion and what discouragement to notice that our
efforts are systematically being sabotaged by unconscious people. In spite of
my presence, […] other people were arrested […]. I would like to know once
and for all if a watchword [was] really given so that the survivors can be
[killed] as hens. (B.H. Kambembo, “Lettre: sévices,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2,
file D, doc. G65/23A and B. Archives Conseil National)
16
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
17
Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology, trans. Hazel E.
Barnes, Secaucus: Philosophical Library, 1956, p. 269 and p. xiv.
 79

world by a consciousness which stays in the world, and it is because he is

transcendentally free that man can imagine.” 18 In the shadow of this instability, a new
character is created, who is unable to control and master his own body:

Papa, I remember that it was during the dry season. It was cold that day. The
wind was blowing. […] I can still see how the nostrils of this tailor quivered,
while I, on the other hand, I could not feel anything, not even my own body.
My mouth was wide open. There was sweat all over my body. […] I was
completely wet, like somebody who had just been plunged into water. […]
Papa, I could not feel anything. My hands were paralysed. […] The tailor was
by my side. He was short. I still remember he was wearing black trousers that
day. […] This man pissed in his pants. Lieutenant Nguya came brutally and
asked him why he had pissed in his pants. He [the man] denied everything. He
said to Lieutenant Nguya: ‘[…] I didn’t piss, lieutenant. Come and touch my
pants. I myself cannot feel anything,’ while everybody knew exactly that he
had pissed. 19

We thus see how, during difficult times, the relationship of the self with its own body
may become shattered, and at the same time ambiguous. This is particularly reminiscent
of what Sartre wrote in Being and Nothingness:

My body, as it is for me, does not appear to me in the midst of the world. […]
[I]t is much more my property than my being […] I am the other in relation to
my eye. I apprehend [my body] as a sense organ constituted in the world in a
particular way, but I cannot […] apprehend it in the process of revealing an
aspect of the world to me. 20

To master the corporeal form from the accentuation of this instability, the dying body
developed strange behaviors: “It joins its image as a silhouette in a purely ambiguous
relationship of subject with the world of reflections.” 21 In his incapacity to change the
painful situation imposed on him, the person seeks to accomplish a parallel result in a
kind of magical transformation, while relying on his emotional state. Emotion, as the
philosopher reminds us, “is a transformation of the world […]. When the paths traced out
become too difficult, or when we see no path, [or when] we can no longer live, […] we
try to change the world. […]. [We] live as if the connection between things and their

18
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., p. 271.
19
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
20
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., pp. 303-304.
21
Achille Mbembe, Critique de la raison nègre, Paris: La Découverte, 2013, pp. 201-202.
 80

potentialities were not ruled by deterministic processes, but by magic.” 22 He further

purports that: “we construct new ways and relationships; but since we cannot do this by
changing the world, we change ourselves.” 23
Caught up in the heart of this emotional state, the man began to face the death to
which he was being subjected with anticipation. He felt increasingly drawn to this death,
as if, to use Derrida’s vocabulary, “one, whose proper name” is Kitoto, “is already
awaiting, at the edge of the world, at the border of seashore for what is still remaining,
what is to come.” 24 He could see “what one [could not] see coming […] in a pure and
simple way.” 25 Finally, he was plunged into a double relationship of presence-absence,
non-power and non-capacity, which can be qualified, following Maurice Blanchot, as the
“impossibility of all possibilities.” 26 He was overtaken by anxiety, anguish, and
desolation. Surrounded by madness and fear, he had not only already experienced “the
damage that [would] end his life,” 27 but, in Elaine Scarry’s words, “he has begun to
experience the body that [would] end his life, the body that [could] be killed, and
which[,] when killed[,] [would] carry away the conditions that allow him to exist.”28 The
person was strongly confronted with the impossibility of accepting responsibility for this
death; a form of death that he, first and foremost, tried to understand, but which was
completely incomprehensible. As Achille Mbembe says: “[in the postcolony], there are
so many deaths. One no longer knows which one [is about] to die.” 29

When I saw how the militaires had dissected the four girls whom the rebels
sent as messengers, [said Kitoto,] I was completely frustrated. […] I thought
myself that the time of my death had arrived. There was nothing to suggest
that I was going to get away from this. Papa, I am telling the truth. I had gone
mad. I thought it was over for me. I saw my chance of survival diminish

22
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., p. 58.
23
Ibid, p. xv.
24
Saitya Bra Das, “(Dis)Figures of Death: Taking the Side of Derrida, Taking the Side of Death,”
in Derrida Today 3 (2010) 1, p. 2.
25
Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Death, trans. David Wills, Chicago-London: University of Chicago Press,
1995, p. 40.
26
Maurice Blanchot, The Writing of Disaster, trans. Ann Smock, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press,
1995, p. 70.
27
Elaine Scarry, The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World, New York: Oxford
University Press, 1985, p. 31.
28
Ibid.
29
Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 197.
 81

because these militaires could not forgive. […] Tears spilled from my eyes.
My whole body was shaking. I started talking to myself. […] I raised both
arms overhead and brought them down. I touched my neck. I felt like
something was missing in my body. I even shat. […] They gave me rice and
forced me to eat. I refused. Papa, if they want to kill you and then they ask you
to eat, where will you get the courage to eat? […] It was really hard.
Sometimes my hands would go to my cheeks. I felt like my head was
becoming heavier. I said to myself: ‘This is the end.’ Papa, I saw my death
approaching. When I thought about what my body was going to become, I was
completely devastated by fear. I could feel the injury. I could imagine myself
being beaten like they had beaten me before. I kept on whining and yelling.
[...] I could feel how pain penetrated into my body. I was unable to keep from
scratching and rubbing my skin. [...] I was completely stunned. Papa, the most
difficult thing was when I had to imagine myself in the [ruins of] death. I
could see how my body was abandoned to the mercy of scavengers. I felt as if
they were devouring my body. [...] It was disgusting. […] I could see how the
pieces of my body they left behind would putrefy. Papa, I would see worms
coming out [of the ruins of my decay]. […] And the worst was when I thought
to myself that nobody would see my corpse. 30

But how long would this agony, this moment of self-reflection and self-questioning,
last? It all ended when, through vigorous contact, the operations of inflicting pain on the
person’s body began. The man was tossed on the ground. 31 This was followed by torture
to his face. 32 “They asked me to sleep on the ground. I arched my belly and the militaires
began to walk on my back.” 33 He was then made to be a “sunflower” 34: standing, the
soldiers told him to put his right index finger on the ground. He then had to turn several
times, with his weight on the finger. 35 After this, he was tied up and reduced to
immobility. In his paralysis, he was condemned to helplessly observe the double capture
of his manliness and virility. He was then subjected to “the excremental drive.” 36 As a
“foreign body,” he was “beaten and expelled like an abject thing with which [one] needs

30
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
31
Ibid.
32
The expression “face on torture” is from Isidore Ngyum. See Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral
interview, Idiofa, 23 November 2013.
33
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013. See also Isidore Ngyum (73
years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 November 2013.
34
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
35
Ibid. See also Kapita (55 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013. Kapita joined the maquis
at the age of 6.
36
Achille Mbembe, “Essai sur le politique en tant que forme de dépense,” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 44,
173-174 (2004), p. 159.
 82

to abruptly break with.” 37 After spending a great deal of energy on his body, the
militaires proceeded literally to trash his mouth, the organ of speech. They then attacked
the rest of the body. They focused most of the torture on his head, limbs and genitals.
Kitoto remembers that this took a long time because it was delayed by a series of
interruptions: “They left me tied up in the custody of five soldiers. They went away to
smoke hemp. They then returned and resumed beating me.” 38 His whole body received a
new form through the destruction. His jaw was swollen, his face degraded and his
genitals reduced to a state of sub-humanity, as he remembers:

Finally, they decided to kill me. They asked me to pass ahead. They tied me
up. I was shaking. They shot. The bullet penetrated my cheek. It is then that it
came out on the other side. Papa, blood. I was bleeding. They wanted to shoot
me again. I closed my eyes. Another militaire rushed towards me. He grabbed
me. He put his nails in my face. He said: ‘Idiot, open your eyes. Open your
eyes wide and see how they are shooting at you.’ I shouted. [...] They grabbed
me. They stabbed me everywhere with their bayonets. Blood was shedding,
Papa, you have no idea. [...] They sank the bayonet into my leg. They tore.
Blood. I screamed, Papa, no one had mercy on me. Another militaire grabbed
my penis. He gave me blows over my penis. He grabbed my scrotum. With his
bayonet, he broke through it. He pulled out one of my testicles like someone
who had taken out a goat’s testicles. He lit the fire. He roasted it and forced me
to eat it. Papa, it was horrible.39

At this point the pain caused by this monstrous torture finally imploded the whole
body. The man lost his consciousness. 40 He collapsed and rushed again into madness: “I
was distraught. I could not recognize anything, not even my body.” 41 Muscular
contractions threatened as well. He was not able to manage the pain that was putting his
body at risk. Distorted by destruction, his body lost its authenticity and became a
formless mass wracked by injury. Under the impact of physical suffering, his selfhood
ended up becoming absorbed. He urinated and shat continuously. Destroyed language
was replaced by whispers and shouts: “I could not speak. All I could do was cry and
scream.” 42 This recalls Elaine Scarry from 1985: “Physical pain does not simply resist

37
Mbembe, “Essai sur le politique…,” p. 159.
38
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
39
Ibid.
40
Ibid.
41
Ibid.
42
Ibid.
 83

language[,] but actively destroys it, bringing about an immediate reversion to a state
anterior to language, to the sounds and cries a human being makes before language is
learned.” 43
To this physical pain, it is important to add the humiliation caused by nudity, which
finally led him to draw sharp conclusions, as he goes on saying in this testimony:

They left me naked. I managed to flee. I decided to go find the head of the next
village to seek his help. But how could I go? Should I go naked? I took a wire
and made a belt. I then took the leaves of bantundu. I put them all around my
hips. […] Papa, to leave Lutshima and go to Kakobola, what kind of sun! It
was shining. I began to cry like a child. There was itching everywhere. I was
scratching. I decided to take off the belt and leaves I wore. [...] I arrived in a
village called Yongo, a Pende village. [...] I did not know that the Pende were
in the forest and that they saw me while I was coming. Suddenly, they jumped
on me. [...] Instead of asking why I was in this state, they chose to attack me.
One of them gave me an arrow blow on my leg. I fell down. I was wounded. [I
cried]: ‘Pity!’ and asked myself: ‘What have I done to deserve this fate?’ My
heart was overheating [...]. Everyone laughed at me as I was naked. [...] I
looked at them and said, inside of me: ‘All these people dressed in raffia are
still men like me. They will die. If not today, but a bit later than me. Why
cannot they understand? […] All this tract of land between Gungu, Masi-
Manimba, and Kikwit, to whom will I leave it? They can kill me today, but
they should not forget that they will all follow me to the grave.’ Papa, I
regretted having been born. 44

Despite these conclusions, the embodied suffering multiplied and accompanied the
man on his journey, as an inseparable burden, as he remembers:

They finally chased me from their village as if I was a madman. I left. I could
no longer walk. My body grew heavier. […] The flies were following me as if
they had seen rotten meat. […] They sucked my wounds. I did not know what
else I should do to get rid of the pain. […] Should I cover the wound that was
on the leg or the one on the cheek? I was distraught. You had to see how my
muscles contracted. I was swollen all over. […] I took the wire again. I made a
belt. I cut the leaves. I put them all around my hips, as earlier. Papa, no way to
breathe. I could not breathe. The sun was shining. Itching attacked me too. I
scratched, but no relief. Added to this was the fact that I had scabies
everywhere. I turned, but no relief. I decided to throw these leaves and go
naked. But, how could I walk? Should I walk naked? It was hard. Since the
flies were sucking my wounds, I took sand and put it in the wounds to soothe
the bleeding. Papa, it was as if I had woken the demons. There were small

43
Scarry, The Body in Pain..., p. 4.
44
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), Oral Interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
 84

insects in the sand. They started to bite me. I cried. I went quickly and plunged
my head into the water […]. Papa, it was horrible. 45

These are the conditions into which the “burden of arbitrariness” put the subject, after
seizing him and excessively incorporating suffering in his body.

Crowd and torture

A few days ago, hundreds of villagers were taken out of the bush by the
militaires and gathered in Lukamba Bantsamba. In front of everyone, the
soldiers cut off Ebangan’s thumb and forefinger [...] so that he could not shoot
a poupou [rifle]. Then the militaires called for four men of Banda Butini. [...]
A soldier ordered the four men to put their foot on a tree trunk. Then his
machete, like the butcher’s slicer, cut a leg. [There was a] howl of a
slaughtered beast [and] convulsive movements of the members. The soldier
placed the bloodied leg on the block. A second shot, and the foot fell in the
grass. When the scene was repeated four times, the militaires pointing their
guns at those crippled, asked them to run off. 46

It was really horrible. Children, women, men, all, without exception, were
supposed to applaud while the militaires were attacking [the bodies of their]
victims. 47

These are the testimonies of two men from Lukamba Buzombo and Banda Yansi,
collected respectively in the late 1980s and late 2013. On the one hand, they highlight the
performance of violence on the bodies of individuals in early 1966. On the other hand,
they insistently describe the requisition of local communities in assisting with the
deployment of this violence onto people’s bodies. These two elements used to go hand in
hand in such situations, so that, as two former soldiers have stated, 48 the absence of the
latter could jeopardize the fulfilment of the former. The soldiers had to ensure that a
maximum of people were there to witness what was happening. 49 The militaires brutally
forced the public to attend in order to impress on them the realisation that the slightest

45
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), Oral Interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
46
Martens, Abo..., p. 177.
47
Théophane Kambembo (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 18 November 2013. He was 8 years old
when the rebellion broke out.
48
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014; and Bokilo Pablo (65 years
old), oral interview, Kikwit, 24 October 2013.
49
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014.
 85

association with the rebellion would be punished harshly. 50 The spectacle of power that
fell on the tortured bodies was intended to “provoke a terrifying effect” among those
who watched. 51 As Michel Foucault put it, “they should know, they should fear,” and at
the same time “take part, as witnesses and guarantees of punishment” to the violence that
was being deployed on peoples’ bodies. 52 It is what Lauria Santiago and Torres observed
in San Salvador and Guatemala which they described as “[this was] meant to send a
message to the living that the victim could have been anyone.” 53
What were the daily conditions under which people were rounded up and forced to
witness the performance of violence on the bodies of other people? It is important to
state that those who were rounded up were primarily children, women and men who
were completely weakened by the on-going hostilities between the rebels and the
militaires in the area. They were people for whom life itself had proved to a curse or
unwanted. They were permanently immersed in an unstable situation that could be
qualified as “symptomatic.” One of those captured from Banda Yansi described this
“symptomatic” state as follows:

The people that the militaires had gathered that day were first and foremost
dying [bodies]. It was easy reading the signs of fatigue and the mark of
starvation on their bodies. 54 […] The militaires, without taking into account
the poor condition of these people, asked them to dance and move their
[bodies] in the sun, while they were torturing Ampendong, a young man
accused of complicity with the rebels […]. I was among the people that the
militaires gathered at Banda Yansi. I must have been ten years old [in 1965]. I
saw how the militaires treated them. […] We were bare-chested. The
militaires asked us to inflate our chests and raise our shoulders when they were
beating Ampendong. [...] Among us, there were people who had swollen lips
and cheeks because […] people had not been in contact with salt for a long
time. Many of us had lost hair because of malnutrition. 55 [...] Some people

50
Bokilo Pablo (65 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 24October 2013; and Mukidi Mbongo (68 years
old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014. See also Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview,
Kinshasa, 23 March 2015.
51
Michel Foucault, Surveiller et punir: naissance de la prison, Paris: Gallimard, 1975, p. 61.
52
Ibid.
53
Cecilia Menjivar and Nestor Rodriguez (eds), When States Kill: Latin America, the US, and
Technologies of Terror, Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005, pp. 16-17.
54
See also Clémentine Mabwa (63 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013; and Innocent
Yongo, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 76. Archives Conseil National. Clémentine Mabwa was 14 years old
when the rebellion broke out.
55
See also Agnès Lakung (55 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 16 October 2013. She was 6 years old
when the rebellion broke out.
 86

were affilted by an itchy scalp. 56 If they begin to scratch, you have no idea!
[The majority of people] had deteriorating skin. 57 […] Many had scabies with
unpleasant odors which attracted thousands of flies. 58 […] This is the state in
which we found ourselves during the rebellion. 59

Many reports issued in 1964 confirmed this state. At HCB Kikongo, a village located
a few kilometers from Banda Yansi, the number of patients grew increasingly from April
1964: 80 people suffered from headaches, 80 others had serious injuries, 74 were
suffering from back pain, 40 had fever and two were suffering from amoebic
dysentery. 60 In Kihunda Kihimbe and Kimbudi Kimwizi, villages in the prefecture of
Gungu, there were 138 patients in May 1964. 61 Most people eventually died in the
following months. In a camp in Banda Butini, a few hundred meters from Banda Yansi,
there were 240 patients between May and June 1964: 58 showed cephalic symptoms, 57
suffered from arthritis, 40 were afflicted by scabies and scratching, 36 were infected by
malaria, 32 had phagedenic ulcers, 24 had abscesses, 20 were anemic, 10 had a cough
and suffered from diarrhea. 62 In early June 1964, several men wrote:

[I] just amputated the arm of a man on whom the militaires had forced to shoot
himself. [...] The patient cried a lot [...]. [And] as there is no medicine[,] [...] he
died after three hours. 63

The situation of the [other] Comrade [is pitiful]. To poop or sleep, we should
raise him. I, myself, do not even get any sleep at night. 64

There are many patients [among us] [...]. Since I arrived here, I have seen two
people with gas gangrene and whose thumbs were devoured by gangrene. 65
66
Some have simple ulcers, and other phagedenic ulcers.

56
See also Agnès Lakung (55 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 16 October 2013.
57
See also Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” pp. 330-331.
58
There is a lot of evidence from medical records provided by the rebellion.
59
Théophane Kambembo (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 18 November 2013.
60
Mbomo, “Rapport,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00333. Archives Conseil National.
61
Waya-Waya and Poloto, “Rapport,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00676. Archives Conseil National.
62
Bula-Bula, Kalaki and Mupa, “Rapport,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00565. Archives Conseil National. The
summation of these numbers goes above 240. This is explained by the fact that there were people who
suffered from both rheumatism and malaria, and at the same time had injuries and scabies.
63
Timothée-Mathias Kandolo, “Lettre,” reel 4, box 3, doc. 2497. Archives Conseil National.
64
Martin Biri, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 138-T. Archives Conseil National.
65
Rigobert Mbimi, “Lettre,” reel 5, box 4, doc. 4050. Archives Conseil National.
66
Florent Kuvula, “Rapport,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 0047-T. Archives Conseil National.
 87

[There is also] a woman among us who is suffering from ascites. It is

accompanied by a large ball[,] big [...] [like] a football. The wounds are
increasing unbelievably. [...] There are no medicines, much less work tools. I
left Mukoko for Nsongo-Piopio in search of medicines. I came back empty-
handed. I then went to Mukongo Mukoko, only to find nothing either. [...] We
have lost a man [...] because of the lack of medicine. 67

He received the bullets on one of his buttocks. The bullets cut the [two]
buttocks and [the man] fell down. [...]. [He] had lost a lot of blood. He had no
more strength. There was [a lot of] sand in the wound. [....] [The wound] was 7
cm long[,] 13 cm wide, and 5 cm deep. Two days after the injury was inflicted,
I completely sutured the wound with staples. But it was impossible. [...] [The
wound was] infected with gas gangrene. [Because of the lack] of anti-serum
gas[,] the infection progressed [onto] [...] the two buttocks. The patient became
pale. He had trouble breathing. Suddenly, there was a slow pulse. The patient
[died] as he slept. 68

I, myself, have cardiovascular disease [...]. My heart has really swollen as I am

writing. 69

A close reading of the wealth of correspondence that men and women exchanged
between 1964 and 1965 shows that they were living in a contradictory world: a world
dominated by weeping and the gnashing of teeth; a world perceived as “a moving
horizon, in the heart of a reality whose centre was everywhere and nowhere,” where
“each event had the capacity to generate other events,” all at once, painful and
unpredictable. 70 The heart of this reality was so violent that any narrative produced
within the space was deliberately marked by traces of suffering. At the end of 1964, a
number of people constructed the following accounts:

We are not in good shape. Jeanne Ayaka is currently suffering. She has not yet
recovered. [...] My brother suffers as well. 71

I am writing to inform you that I am feeling a little bit better, but not very
much. I, myself, almost died. [...] [As I am writing to you], I have no flesh,
only bones. 72
73
My feet, [there is] no way to walk. They hurt badly.

67
Rigobert Mbimi, “Lettre,” reel 5, box 4, doc. 4050. Archives Conseil National.
68
Rigobert Mbimi, “Rapport,” reel 5, box 4, doc. 4049. Archives Conseil National.
69
Damase Mazua, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00360. Archives Conseil National.
70
Mbembe, Critique de la raison…, p. 205.
71
Théophile Kapungu, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 902. Archives Conseil National.
72
Pierre Mudimba, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 00292-T. Archives Conseil National.
 88

Brother-in law [...], here [...] mom [...] is still suffering. 74

Kasimir passed away on 7 May 1964. His wife’s young sister died on 29 May
1964. Your wife’s mother also passed away [at the same time]. 75

My wife is sick. I am threatened by coughing. [...] It has been several months

since I have been wounded. [In any case,] I can no longer bear this suffering. 76

I left Mbono [...] [as] I began to suffer [on] 28 May [19]64. My heart and my
body have been suffering till now. 77

Matemu’s daughter died on 30 May 1964 in the morning. [...] As I am writing

to you, Kupanuka is doing a little bit better, but he still has not yet recovered.
[...] Iteme Mbumbi’s feet are swollen. He can no longer stand up, nor can he
walk. I myself still have that pain under my feet. […] I am too nauseated; you
have no idea. 78

Such was the daily life of those forced by the militaires to be witnesses. By looking
at their testimonies, it is possible to gain a better understanding of the relationship
between torture and crowd within this space:

In June 1964, the militaires went to arrest a woman and a man [...] in a village
near Mangungu. They brought them into Mangungu and gathered people to
witness how they would give a lesson to these two people. […] Debange, a
young soldier who identified himself as someone from Lubumbashi (in
Katanga), brutally tortured the two people. […] Together with his colleagues,
they [the militaires] began by plunging the man into a bowl of water. Then
they tied him firmly [...], legs and arms behind the back. [...] After that, they
attached him to a tree branch [...] like a beast. Everyone, short or tall, could
see. The militaires took turns in [...] stabbing him with their bayonets [...].
They [...] [then] cut his penis off. They tied it to a stick. They showed it to
everyone. Debange insisted that the stick be raised up so that everyone could
see. […] Every time they raised it up, we, [the people] who were there, would
scream, dance, and give a huge round of applause. They would suddenly ask
us to shut up and open our eyes wide to see what this man was going to
become. [...]

They tortured the woman in the same way they tortured the man. They tied her
up. [...] They beat her [...] to death. [...] Later, she was going to be buried alive.
After having been beaten, they untied her legs, while her arms remained tied
up and suspended by the tree branch. Debange and another militaire went and

73
Manianga Mulabila, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00845. Archives Conseil National.
74
E. Palay and J. Ngangungu, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00858. Archives Conseil National.
75
Ibuti Mukwamaka, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00864. Archives Conseil National.
76
Jos Nzambi, “Lettre,” reel 2, box 1, doc. 00865. Archives Conseil National.
77
Luwanda, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 104. Archives Conseil National.
78
Henri Kaleba, “Lettre,” reel 1, box 1, doc. 95. Archives Conseil National.
 89

spread her legs. […] We were then forced to see the genitals of the woman.
One of the soldiers took a burning stick. He pushed it into the genitals of the
woman. […] He repeated this operation many times, before stepping aside and
letting his friend do the job. They continued, seizing one of the people who
was there. They gave him a stick of fire and asked him to push it into the
woman’s genitals. […] Every time that the fire was extinguished, we were
screaming, dancing, and applauding under the scrutiny of the soldiers who
stood around us. […] They would turn towards us every single moment, to see
if there were people amongst us who wept. Lastly, a soldier went on quickly
and pulled the stick of fire out of the woman’s genitals. He asked us to keep
quiet. We were trembling. [...] A few minutes later he took another stick of
fire. He asked us to shout loudly and then laugh while he was pushing it into
the woman’s genitals. He brutally took it out again. [...] He slapped the woman
and asked us to stop laughing. We stopped laughing and stared at the woman.
We were there, up, both hands along the body, like the militaires in front of
the flag. We all watched. Those who looked away were beaten. Sometime
later, another soldier came to beg his colleagues, asking them to untie the two
people. They finally untied them and went immediately to bury them alive
behind my grandmother’s house, the man on top of the woman. 79

To cut the phallus, to display it aloft and seek the approval of the crowd, or to take a
burning stick and forcefully push it into a woman’s vagina and to brutally take it out
again under the rhythmic cheers of a moribund crowd; or to take a suffering body, tie it
firmly and attach it to a tree branch in front of everyone; both were to some extent a
procedure as in a theatre with the directors setting the scene on the one hand—the
militaires in this instance—and the crowd, those captured and primed to consume the
product of this staging, on the other. Since death in this space was intended to
permanently mark minds, the theatrical dimension of the performance necessarily had to
appear. Kiangu explicitly used this metaphor in an interview in Kinshasa when
discussing the assassination of Louis Kafungu, Mulele’s Chief of Staff:

Do you know how, at the end of the rebellion, [Kafungu] was killed in Kikwit?
[He was killed] in a brutal and vicious way, so that those who saw it could stop
thinking about him. [...] He was attached to the military jeep. […] He was then
dragged through the streets of Kikwit. People were asked to attend this
spectacle like in a theatre. Nobody could believe it. In fact he was killed like in
a [work of] fiction, [with the aim of] really terrorizing others and preventing
them from ever returning to this issue again, the rebellion. 80

If the two executions to a substantial extent imitated theatrical spaces in the way in
which they were conducted, they also differed profoundly from actual theatre. The

79
Frédérique Yembele (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 October 2013.
80
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 March 2015.
 90

extreme violence enacted on the tortured bodies was in no way staged. It was pure
reality, a reality not unlike a photograph in which the photographer, as Roland Barthes
put it, “has left us with nothing, where he has shuddered for us, reflected for us, judged
for us.” 81 Those requisitioned saw how the subjects were tied up with cruelty and
groaned as they were overtaken by suffering. They saw how parts of the bodies of these
two people were literally destroyed. They saw how, following systematic destruction, the
limbs of these individuals swelled up. They saw blood flowing and spurting under the
dazzling violence and then coagulating. They finally saw how the coup de grâce marked
the formal end of the existence of these individuals and rushed them into the ruins of
death.
The most dramatic element in this theatralization is how the bodies of the witnesses
found themselves immersed in a political field where power relations “have an
immediate hold upon them.” 82 In the same way, the bodies of the tortured were being
invested by equivalent relations of power. The spectacle was dominated by the logic of
“manducation,” a logic that aims to “swallow and incorporate” the witnesses into the act
of killing, with the condemned treated in the same way. 83 The witnesses were rejected in
the shadow of nothingness where, through the horrible spectacle of violence on the
bodies of others, they were constantly reminded that to be a requisitioned was also to be
under the brutal power and authority of another. The militaires seized, harassed, and
appropriated their bodies and required them to act in accordance with their instructions
without resistance, as a fetish. The extreme violence exercised on the tortured bodies was
thus transmitted onto the bodies of the witnesses under the rubric of pleasure. 84 Such
practices summoned up the conditions of slaves in the Americas, where demonstrations
of power forced them “to witness the beating, torture, and execution of [other] slaves,”
condemning them “to sing and dance for the [slave] owners’ entertainment.” 85

81
Roland Barthes, The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies, trans. Richard Howard, New York: Hill and
Wang, 1979, p. 71.
82
Foucault, Surveiller et punir…, p. 30.
83
Mbembe, “Essai sur le politique…,” p. 159.
84
By the rubric of pleasure here I am particularly referring to dances, brutal and rhythmic acclamations,
mostly interspersed with moments of silence and euphoria, performed by the requisitioned.
85
Saidiya V. Hartman, Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-Making in Nineteenth-Century
America, New York: Oxford University Press, 1997, p. 8.
 91

With regard to the Mulele rebellion, sight remained one of the most popular senses
by which to transmit suffering from the body of the tortured to the body of the
requisitioned. Mambole Mudikanga 86, a member of the Congolese military in the late
1960s, said that the militaires used to operate in a manner that brought suffering to the
surface of the execution, so that the requisitioned, without any distinction of age or sex,
would consume it entirely with their eyes. 87 These practices resulted mostly in sensory
disorders, both among children and adults, as this woman shows in her testimony:

They [the militaires] arrested Celestin Kwas [one of the four rebel leaders who
had killed militaires during the rebellion]. They arranged a place to put him
and kill him. […] They hit him on the head with a rifle butt. He lost
consciousness and fell down. He was frothing at the mouth. [...] The militaires
began to rip his body. […]. I was among the people who were watching. I had
my daughter here on my shoulders. You had to see how the child would hold
on to my neck. […] She would pass her hands through my shoulders. She
would hold on to me very tightly. Papa, she would lift up her eyebrows. She
would lower her head on my shoulders when she saw how the militaires tore
Célestin Kwas. […] It was painful. 88

As the transference of suffering from the body of the tortured to the body of the
requisitioned in Mangungu village was through vision, it should be noted that in many
other places in the contested area this transference occurred by physical contact. The
process followed, to a large extent, what Elaine Scarry described in The Body in Pain:
“Pain [was] inflicted on a person in ever-intensifying ways. […] The pain continually
amplified within the person’s body, [was] […] amplified in the sense that it [was]
objectified, made visible to those outside the person’s body.” 89 The pain that was
orchestrated outside the body of the requisitioned was violently incorporated into their
bodies as they were gathered around the execution; thus the private and incommunicable
character of suffering enacted on the tortured bodies was transformed and at the same
time expanded the “boundaries of the sufferer’s body,” 90 as this woman from Ingundu
recalls:

86
This is a pseudonym.
87
Mambole Mudikanga (72 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 14 January 2014.
88
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
89
Scarry, The Body in Pain..., p. 28.
90
Ibid.
 92

The soldiers arrived suddenly at [Ingundu] looking for Osong Pierre, Albert
Olung, Isidore Ngyum, and Celestin Kwass, all of them rebel leaders who held
guns [...] during the rebellion. They said to everybody: ‘Today, if we catch
them [...], we will cook them [...] as one cooks food in the pot.’ [...] They saw
Pierre Osong. They […] arrested him. They built a fireplace and said: ‘Today,
we will dissect you.’ They gathered people [...] to attend the dissection. They
tore Pierre Osong apart. They then cut him into small pieces like manioc that
we spread on the ‘mutalaka.’ […] After tearing Pierre Osong apart, they took
all the people they had gathered to watch. They made them stand in one row,
men, women, and children. Among these soldiers, there was one who had a big
neck. He pulled down a big mattress from their vehicle. He deposited it on the
ground. Everyone was forced to sing: ‘Mulele, Mulele, um, um! Mulele,
Mulele, um, um! Ahahahahahaha, Muleleeeeee!’ [...] This soldier with a big
neck arrested a man among the people who were singing. He banged his head
against a stone. The man died. Everyone was shaking. […] Nobody could say
anything to the militaires. 91

This is how the relationship between crowd and torture was constructed in this space.

The death of the corpse and the return of the dead

In the morning of [30 June 1964], as we were on the run between Impini and
Ifwanzondo, the militaires arrested a man named Munti. They shot him. He
fell down. They went. They cut off his head. They scalped it. They hung the
skull on a stick. They then burned his body and left. Sometime later, they saw
a young man of your age [20-30 years old] who sought to enter the forest to
escape. The militaires had expected him. They shot him. The bullets caught his
feet. He fell. [...] The young man tried to crawl to hide in the grass, he could
not, unfortunately. The soldiers went in running [...]. They could see through
the grass where he had fallen. They seized him. They took him out on the road.
They said that Mulele was in him. This young man cried, but the militaires did
not want to leave him alone. They killed him. Then they dissected him into
two parts [...]. They left the two parts spread on the road. They then left. […]
They killed a pregnant woman [...].They tore her stomach with a knife. They
released the child. They quickly snatched the intestines of the women. They
opened her chest wide. […]. They notched her bones. They then ripped off her
breasts. They were deposited on the side. They took the two parts of the body
they had dissected; they tied them to a tree. They then crapped on the
intestines, bones, head, breasts and body of the child. All the while, we were
still hiding. You should have seen how we were trembling. We were very
scared. If they had seen us, they would have treated us the same way. […]

The soldiers remained for a moment where they had killed the woman. One of
them, who seemed to be their leader, ordered them to get off the pieces they
had attached to the branch. His colleagues quickly carried out the order. […]
They got them down and spread them on the soil. They dissected the head.

91
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
 93

They cut it in two. They took the body of the child. They placed it into the
dissected skull of the woman. […] Then they burned it at the same time as the
other parts of the body of the woman. We could see through the grass. […]
The militaires went back to where they came from. They reviewed the pieces
of the body of the young man they had killed before, and which they had left
spread on the road. They gathered and burned them. […] They went to Yassa
[Lokwa]. They entered a house. The house had a ceiling and a man hiding
there. They held their arms up as if they had smelt someone’s odour. They
searched. There was nothing. Upon leaving, one of them shot the ceiling. The
man who was hiding shouted [...]. The soldiers asked him to come down. He
descended. The man was shaking. […]. He came out [of the house]. They
asked him to sit on the door. They shot him. He died. They brought his body
into the house. They set fire [to the house]. The roof fell on the body of this
man. He was burnt. [...] The moment we spent in that forest before fleeing to
Kipuku, we could hear Munti coming and crying at night where the militaires
had killed him [...]. It was hard for us and for his family members to see that
he was tormented. 92

Here are the bodies, the forms of death, as well as the kinds of treatment reserved for
bodies from which life has already been taken. First of all these bodies were killed.
Afterwards they were destroyed and subjected to other deaths, multiple deaths. One key
conclusion can be drawn from reading this narrative by Palmie Andiang. The deaths she
describes were “horrific” deaths; their extreme nature became deeply embedded in
collective memory. The imposition of these “thousand deaths,” 93 which I here call “the
death of the corpse,” proceeded from the double logic of “cruelty and excess.” 94 Such
logic was primarily based on what can be called “the power to do everything.”95
Secondly, it was based on the desire of “authoritarianism,” 96 to which the sadistic
element associated with the Congolese state can be added. The militaires had to kill right
to the end so that the bodily integrity of the victims, or enemies, would be violated. They
had to make sure that nothing remained from this act, if only a formless mass, a negated
essence. As we have seen, this logic of the systematic destruction of the body had only
one goal: to inflict suffering beyond all suffering. In an interview with Kiangu, an expert
on Congolese history, it is clear that this way of exercising violence on the bodies of
people within this space was the product of hybridization. It substantively borrowed its

92
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
93
Foucault, Surveiller et punir…, p. 18.
94
Mbembe, “Essai sur le politique…, ” p. 152.
95
Ibid.
96
Ibid.
 94

materials from both pre-colonial and colonial repertories, as well as the technologies
introduced by the Cold War into post-colonial Congo:

Do not forget that Mobutu himself, to consolidate his power, used to kill
people in a rather strange way. Do you know how Matanda and Kudia-
Kubanza, authors of the [abortive] coup [of] 1977, were killed? According to
what was said to us, they were downright delivered to the leopards that were
[in] the Presidential Park. They threw them in. Everyone had to watch them
struggling [against the Leopards] until their final end. [People] should be sure
that they [Matanda and Kudia-Kubanza] really died [...]. In 1966, Mobutu
publicly humiliated [Evariste] Kimba, 97 [Jérôme] Anany, 98 [Emmanuel]
Bamba, 99 and [Alexandre] Mahamba 100 by hanging them here [in Kinshasa] at
Pont Cabu. 101 Already in the early 1960s, [Mobutu] was very active as an
element of the CIA. He was trained in the new technologies of death. 102 You
know what happened then: the gruesome death of Lumumba. 103 You should
also not forget that Mobutu had a meteoric encounter with Machiavelli's Le
Prince. It was his bedside reading. 104 […] He knew the experience and
humiliation of the Belgian colonial administration from being in the Force
Publique. 105 He knew, of course, the story of the red rubber [in Equateur
province]. 106 He also knew how ancient ‘Congolese’ warriors and kings

97
Former Foreign Minister of Katanga and former “formateur” of the last government of the first republic.
98
Former Minister of National Defence of the Adoula government.
99
Former Finance Minister of the Adoula government, leader in the Church of Jesus Christ on Earth by
His Special Envoy Simon Kimbangu.
100
Former Minister of Land Affairs in the Lumumba and Adoula governments.
101
On these hangings, see Cléophas Kamitatu, La grande mystification du Congo-Kinshasa ou les crimes
de Mobutu, Paris: Maspero, 1971, pp. 166-184; Verhaegen and al., Congo 1966, pp. 431-444; and
Ndaywel è Nziem, Histoire générale du Congo…, p. 647.
102
See Larry Devlin, Chief of Station, Congo: Fighting the Cold War in a Hot Zone, New York: Public
Affairs, 2007.
103
See Jean Omasombo Tshonda, “Lumumba, drame sans fin et deuil inachevé de la colonisation,“
Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 44, 173–174 (2004), pp. 221–261; Ludo de Witte, The Assassination of
Lumumba, London and New York: Verso, 2002; Jean-Claude Willame, Patrice Lumumba: La crise
congolaise revisitée, Paris: Karthala, 1990; and Thomas R. Kanza, Conflict in the Congo: The Rise and
Fall of Lumumba, New York: Penguin, 1972.
104
See William T. Close and Malonga Miatudila, Beyond the Storm: Treating the Powerless and the
Powerful in Mobutu’s Congo/ Zaire, Marbleton: Meadowlark Springs Press, 2007.
105
On these forms of humiliations, see Dibwe dia Mwembu, “La peine du fouet au Congo Belge,” Les
Cahiers de Tunisie 36, 135-136 (1986), pp. 127-153.
106
See Daniel Vangroenweghe, Du sang sur les lianes. Léopold II et son Congo, Bruxelles: Didier Hâtier,
1986; Adam Hochschild, King Leopold’s Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial
Africa, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1998; Nancy Rose Hunt, A Nervous State..., pp. 27-60; Nancy Rose
Hunt, “An Acoustic Register: Rape and Repetition in Congo,” in Ann Laura Stoler (ed.), Imperial Debris:
On Ruins and Ruination¸ Durham: Duke University Press, 2013, pp. 39-66; and Osumaka Likaka, Naming
Colonialism: History and Collective Memory in the Congo, 1870-1960, Wisconsin: Wisconsin University
Press, 2009.
 95

treated the bodies of their enemies. 107 So, taking someone during the rebellion
and reducing [his body] to nothing[ness] was not surprising at all. It was
within the general philosophy of the regime. Mobutu constructed [this
philosophy] over the years by incorporating elements from various horizons,
temporal as well as spatial. 108 Therefore it was necessary to kill with cruelty
with the only goal of seeing the other suffering as much as possible. It was, in
fact, to say to the suffering [body] that he was absolutely nothing. 109

The implementation of these hybrid methodologies in the specific context of the

Mulele rebellion depended strongly on two elements: the military genius and the ability
of the militaires to hide reality by projecting death onto the living subjects. Everything
revolved around the notion of otherness. The other, as Kiangu puts it, “is everyone in
front of me, whom I consider—rightly or wrongly—as participating in the combat of

107
Before colonization, many tribes in what would become Congo used to dispose of the bodies of their
enemies with brutality. In 1880s, the Azande of the Equateur region used to mutilate the bodies of their
enemies. After killing them, they would take with them ears and genitals to symbolize their victory (E.E.
Evans-Pritchard, “Zande Warfare,” Athropos 52, 1-2, 1957, p. 261). In Katanga region, where M’siri
imposed his hegemony on most of the tribes, violent treatment was also reserved to the bodies of enemies.
In 1887, Frederick Stanley Arnot, a Scottish missionary in visit to the region, wrote this about M’siri:
He is fierce and cruel as a soldier and in his ambition for power and gain […]
Hearing him talk of his wars, and seeing all round his yard human skulls,
brought in baskets as a proof of his soldiers’ valour, the sensation creeps over
one of being in a monster’s den […] He has the name of being very kind
among his people, but at the same time very strict. He does not stop at taking
their heads off. (Ernest Baker, The Life and Explorations of Frederick Stanley
Arnot: The Authorized Biography of a Zealous Missionary, Intrepid Explorer,
and Self-Denying Benefactor amongst the Natives of Africa, London: Seeley,
Service, 1921, p. 184)

In 1880s-1890s, the “Bangala” and Baloki of the Equateur region also used to treat violently the bodies of
their enemies. Melville Hilton Simpson, British traveller and ethnologist, who visited them in 1890, left
significant details in his diary:
While we were sitting at our tea[,] the last part of returning warriors filed past
our house, carrying the limbs of those who had been slain in the fight. Some
had human legs over their shoulders, others had threaded arms through slits in
the stomachs of their dismembered foes, had tied the ends of the arms together,
thus forming loops, and through these ghastly loops they had thrust their own
living arms and were carrying them thus with the gory trunks dangling to and
fro. (John H. Weeks, Among Congo Cannibals, London: Seeley, Service,
1913, p. 69)
108
On these various “horizons” or “ingredients” See Florence Bernault, “The Shadow of Rule: Colonial
Power and Modern Punishment in Africa,” in Frank Dokotter and Ian Brown, Cultures of Confinement: A
History of the Prison in Africa, Asia and Latin America, New York: Cornell University Press, 2007, pp.
55-94.
109
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 March 2015.
 96

Mulele and who has in him a portion of Mulele, which multiplies in him, because Mulele
as such cannot fight everywhere.” 110
When considering the reasons given for the killing of people in this region, one
realizes the prevalence of the construction of the other. This idea of “otherness” found its
roots in the “Mulele myth,” a belief widespread in the region that revolved around ideas
of “multiplicity” and “ubiquity.” It was said that Mulele was, essentially, a dispersive
and ambiguous character. 111 People thought that he was characterized by an excess of the
real and that he possessed extraordinary abilities that allowed him to transcend human
reality. 112 They said that he was immortal, he had many guises and that nobody could
apprehend him. 113 People strongly believed that he was an incomprehensible person, a
“body” without physicality, a “utopian” character. 114 It was generally admitted that
Mulele did not lend himself to precise measurement or exact calculation because he was
here, there, and elsewhere. People thought that he could transfigure and become someone
else; and when necessary that he could take on an animal form, 115 change his age and
sex, look like anyone, or potentially change only some of his appearance. 116
Thus the militaires, projecting the existence of Mulele onto the bodies of others,
would treat these bodies violently, thinking that these bodies housed Mulele. This is,
doubtless, the idea contained in the testimony below. The speaker, Godelieve Akwanga,
shows how prisoners would be enmeshed in the imagination of the militaires and
condemned to carry Mulele’s history, despite the fact that they had their own and unique
life stories. The result of being condemned in this way was that people “could not turn
their death into their own death” or, in Derrida’s words, “a death that ought to have been
their authentic death, their very proper death, their very own death.” 117

110
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 March 2015.
111
Ibid.
112
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
113
Ibid.
114
Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013. On “utopian body,” see
Michel Foucault, Le corps utopique suivi de les hétérotopies, présentation de Daniel Defert, Paris:
Nouvelles Editions Lignes, 2009, pp. 9-20.
115
Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013.
116
Kipoy (78 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Nganzi, 20 October 2013; and Gode Mokwabu (55 years
old), oral interview, Kikwit, 17 October 2013.
117
Bra Das, “(Dis)figures of Death...,” p. 4.
 97

Papa, I myself was arrested by the militaires. They brought me to Musenge

Munene where they threw me in jail. Sometime later they returned to the
prison where they threw me. They said to all of us who were in the prison:
‘We can smell Mulele in this prison.’ They suddenly pointed the finger to a
boy who was there with us. They said to him: ‘It is you, Mulele! You have
Mulele in you.’ The boy protested, in vain, that Mulele was not in him, and
that he did not even know him. […] The militaires insisted that he was, indeed,
Mulele. One of them said to the boy: ‘Don’t you dare denying that you are
Mulele? Can’t you see that your body smells like Mulele? […] They took the
boy outside the prison. They beat him in front of everyone. […] They killed
him. Then they mounted an altar. They placed him above and put him on fire.
The boy's body burnt. […] They asked everyone to watch how Mulele was
burning. 118

The act of putting somebody to death and destroying his/her dead body by dissecting
or mutilating it until it is completely annihilated was, to a large extent, an act of
“colonizing” death itself. Jean Baudrillard, in Symbolic Exchange and Death, writes:
“power is possible only if death is no longer free, only if the dead are put under
surveillance.” 119 The deprivation of liberty in death can be seen in the ways in which
putrefaction, the ultimate process in which bones gradually separate from one another as
other parts of the body transform themselves “into icons of an exhausted and
indeterminable time of death,” was carried out. 120 In the above examples, it was the
militaires who determined the decomposition process of the bodies. It was they who had
the final word in defining—or redefining—the process of decomposition of the bodies of
their victims. The corruption of the body, which generally takes place in a slow and
natural way, was precipitated by the militaires. The atoms of decay could no longer serve
as catalysts. Bones were cut dramatically. Cartilages and joints were brutally separated,
as in a metal workshop. The belly and chest were opened in haste, under the blows of
bayonets.
The most dramatic part of this process of the “colonization” of death is the new form
of suffering that the destruction of dead bodies and the deprivation of burial engendered.
Palmie Andiang ends her testimony of hiding in the bush while witnessing the killing

118
Godelieve Akwanga (80 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 15 December 2013. She was 31 years old
when the rebellion broke out. She was arrested in early 1966 by the militaires near Idiofa. She spent three
days in jail at Idiofa. After having been released, she went back to her village. Nowadays she lives in
Idiofa.
119
Jean Baudrillard, Symbolic Exchange and Death, trans. Iain Hamilton, London: Sage, 1993, p. 130.
120
Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 200.
 98

and destruction of the bodies of others with a remarkable fact: the permanent return of
the “spectre” of Munti, one of the killed victims, to the place of his execution. This idea
suggests, in many ways, that in the local universe the tranquility of the spirit after death
depended largely on how the body was treated after death. According to my informants,
a body systematically destroyed would prevent the spirit from freely crossing the borders
of death, and entering the hereafter, the world of the ancestors. 121 The inability of
crossing would result in the suspension of the spirit in a “non-place,” 122 condemning it to
wandering. 123 In this process of wandering, the powers of the night would take
possession of the spirit and drive it as if the powers of night were the master of the
selfhood of that spirit. The spirit, armored by the night powers, thus becomes the vessel
for evil forces, generally represented by the spirit of death. As an entity orchestrated by
the powers of the night, the spirit of death “requires pieces of meat and human bones for
its survival.” 124 Its violence is indescribable because it is both physical and anatomical. It
never lets go of its prey, “it invests and surrounds to the point of fracture and
suffocation.” 125
Andiang’s narrative show how the destruction of the body and the deprivation of
burial can produce both material and immaterial suffering. That such a conception of
suffering falls into mythology or fantasy 126 does not mean that it has not influenced the
way people in this region think about the mediation between the body, death and the
afterlife. In general, the reconciliation between the dead and the afterlife depended
largely on the treatment of the corpse in its materiality. 127 Knowing how to dispose of the
remains of people killed during the rebellion at the same time enabled the spirits of the

121
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013. See also Georgine Mankieta (67 years
old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
122
Placide Ngay (77 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013.
123
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013. See also Georgine Mankieta
(67 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
124
Mbembe, Critique de la raison…, p. 200.
125
Ibid, p. 205.
126
Slavoj Žižek writes that, “the dead who return to cry at night, I don’t believe. It’s mythology.” What he
calls: “fundamental fantasy of contemporary mass culture” (Slavoj Žižek, Looking Awry: An Introduction
to Jacques Lacan through Popular Culture, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1992, p. 22).
127
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 March 2015.
 99

deceased to negotiate their entry into the world of ancestors. 128 Kiangu reflected on this
problem of mediation at length:

In the Western world, which was also brought to us, the idea was to say: ‘We
must resurrect. But to revive, we need a minimum of our body.’ And they
watched absolutely [...] that the body is not totally corrupted. It is the same
idea that one gets from [Ancient] Egypt [where the bodies of deceased people
were embalmed] [...]. In Kwilu, [...] strictly speaking, when Christianity came,
this is not what they taught people. People have not been taught in this way,
that for somebody to resurrect he/she needs a minimum of his/her body. If we
had to speak in terms of images, it seems to me that it is exactly the same
image. When they say that someone dies and will join the ancestors in the
Kalunga, 129 it is his spirit that goes. To allow him/her to make that trip, his/her
body must be well buried. […]

I guess you understand that even if people are strongly convinced that they go
to the home of the ancestors, on the final note they only go there because they
have a body, even though it is known that this body, which is travelling to the
ancestral world, is only in decay. So the body must be well-treated for it to go
back in peace to the Kalunga, the kingdom of the dead. […] When the body is
abused, destroyed, dismembered, or burned, in the minds of people it is as if
this trip will not be accomplished. As a result, the spirit of the deceased person
will be condemned to wandering, or, if you like, to continual suffering which,
according to the people, can last up to x number of years. 130

It is this problem of mediation between the body, death and the afterlife, as well as
the kind of suffering that non-mediation could generate, that brought men and women
operating in this space to think about the techniques of conserving the remains of bodies
destroyed by the militaires. According to my informants, the idea that animated these
men and women to act in such a way was the redemption of the “wandering” spirits
[esprits égarés], through the performance of funeral rites. Since the bodies were
“brutally” destroyed by the militaires and that the chances for these spirits to find rest in
the world of the ancestors were compromised, it was necessary to preserve these remains
and proceed with the ritual ceremonies in a time of peace. These ceremonies were not

128
In January 1964 drivers TPM Théophile Mbakieme, Louis Kayembe, and Michel Ngakasa complained
that they had unearthed the bodies of two policemen killed in the Lukamba sector and buried them in
Kikwit. They considered this act as a new kind of suffering: “Why [should we] go dig up the bodies of
police officers who had already died?” they wondered. See V. Omwele, “Rapport journalier confidentiel
commissariat en chef,” reel 12, box 8, folder 6, file H, doc. B0111. Archives Conseil National. The same
month, François Nakesa was arrested as he tried to dig up the body of Adolphe Munanga, a policeman who
died on the battlefield in January 1964 (Ibid.)
129
Cemetery in Kimbala.
130
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 mars 2015.
 100

only intended to reconcile the spirits with the afterlife, they were also thought to inscribe
them in the text of symbolic tradition. The idea generally materialized in collecting the
nails and hair of the dead. 131 But, in the case of someone like Munti whose body was
completely destroyed and annihilated, people found it harder to work for the salvation of
the spirit. Georgine Mankieta, who witnessed the destruction of dead bodies by the
militaires, explained:

When they [the militaires] came, they killed my uncle. […] They cut his body
into small pieces. They then burned [it]. When the militaires left, my
grandparents and my [other] uncles came back to search. They brought the
right arm of my uncle. All the time spent in the midst of the forest, my
grandparents roasted my uncle’s arm over the fire so that it does not rot. At the
end of the rebellion, when everyone came out of the bush, they buried it. My
grandparents said that their son had to be properly buried to allow him to
recover happiness where he had gone. 132

If the permanent inability of the spirit to leave the world of the living constituted a
new form of suffering, it should be said that in terms of memory and memorialisation
any connection between the dead and the living was reduced to suffering. To think of a
corpse that had been systematically destroyed was, in the end, to appropriate the type of
death that this corpse had been given—and even to identify with it. Under these
conditions, “death appears in a sort of material screen that abolished the identity” 133 of
the person who has undergone several destructions; only “to be melted into an identity
that is not his/hers.” 134 Henceforth, the living, even though they were not murderers,
were condemned to carry this heavy burden of endorsing the pain that the dead had
endured, not only at the point of death, but also in the afterlife. From this process
emerged a new interlacing and overlapping relationship between the living and the dead,
a relationship that ultimately extended itself in the longue durée. Without doubt it is this
idea that Andiang’s last sentence (It was hard for us and for his family members to see
that he was tormented) captured, and which Kiangu elaborates in more details here:

The corpse, it is already dead. It is true that when you kill it for the second
time, its spirit continues to suffer because, as people think, its takes with it the

131
Georgine Mankieta, (65 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Cœur, 22 November 2013.
132
Ibid. See also Marie Nzamba (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 26 March 2013.
133
Mbembe, Critique de la raison…, p. 212.
134
Ibid.
 101

marks of torture that it suffered when it was put to death. But, it should be said
that the corpse will no longer be aware of the kind of death it was put to, nor
will it remember the torture it was subjected to. It is those who are connected
to the deceased person who will suffer in its place. [...] Whenever they think of
him [the deceased person], they will only see something they would have
never wanted to see in their lives. As you can understand, to think, in such
circumstances, becomes a new form of suffering. […] This kind of suffering is
specific in the sense that it stays forever.

Death was given at a particular moment, but it was given with an

overwhelming power so that [...] everyone remains with profound feelings of
regret, and over time they get to ruminate the same kind of suffering over and
over again. [...] As you can see, not only is that person dead, but the others,
those who are connected to him, are humiliated because they are condemned to
bear this pain [...]. The suffering inflicted in this way is not only inflicted on
the deceased body, it is also imposed on all the others, those who remained in
the world. […] So, and I think this is what we should take from all of this, the
kind of pain inflicted this way does not go away once and for all. It comes
back all the time; and it identifies itself with those who remain in the world. 135

Conclusion

This chapter deals with the various acts of giving death that emerged in the course of the
Mulele rebellion, and the pain and suffering that such acts and the politics underpinning
them caused, as remembered by some of the actors who lived through this drama and
eventually survived it. It is an attempt at analysing and exploring the memories of death
and suffering, both by the people who were forced to give death to others, and by those
who were forced to receive death but who, at some point, survived to tell the story of
these defining moments, a long time later.
The rebellion, in its extreme manifestation, distinguished itself by its ability of
inflicting pain and suffering on people’s bodies in specific ways. It relied strongly upon
the triple logic of cruelty, excess, and sadism. This consisted in “seizing from the world”
the bodies of negated subjects and putting them to death, a death without essence. During
the rebellion, the body was a body because it was primarily a target. It was a target
exposed to various forms of assault. It was not only at the centre of the act of giving or
receiving death, it was the actual subject of this act. The numerous forms of assault it
was exposed to aimed at its destruction and dismemberment. If death was given to this

135
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 mars 2015.
 102

body, this giving was not done at random. It was given step by step, the result of a
deliberate and at times orchestrated assault on a number of body parts which, with more
or less systematic demolition, led to the final end. Conspicuous in this regard are a
number of lethal practices. First, practices of perforation which led to the loss of blood.
The idea was that the subject would lose blood. Multiple perforations of the body of the
subject would accelerate this loss of blood until, ultimately, the person would die. The
anatomy of this kind of death differentiated it from death by shooting. Second are the
practices of amputation and dissection which also aimed at the loss of blood and the
destruction of the body. Third are the practices of self-consummation, which consist of
forcing the subject to consume their own bodily organs as a form of punishment. Lastly
is the overarching question of pain and suffering and the responses to this question.
The rebellion, in its extreme vivid manifestation, also distinguished itself by its
ability to incorporate the crowd—numerous “symptomatic” bodies gathered forcibly to
witness the violence that was being deployed on the bodies of the victims—into the very
act of killing or giving death. By this it transformed the crowd into “terrifying statues,”
“recipients of pain,” and “abject of death,” by transposing onto them, through the politics
of seeing the brutality of physical contact, the pain and suffering of the subjects who
were being invested by relations of power.
In the last resort, the rebellion distinguished itself by its ability to pursue people
beyond all suffering and into death itself: violating their bodily integrity and, at the same
time, annihilating both their material and immaterial lives. Such way of proceeding had
huge consequences for both the dead and the living. On the one hand it led to the
emergence of an overlapping relationship between the dead and the living. On the other
hand it resulted in condemning the living to carry the dead along with them through their
lives as a heavy and inseparable burden. By seizing the bodies of the victims and
inflicting pain and suffering on them until they were completely annihilated they not
only destroyed these bodies in their present actuality, but also inscribed pain and
suffering onto the future of those who remained in life.
 Chapter Three – Scars, Marked Bodies, and Suffering

Papa, [in 1970], when I came out of the bush, the first thing I had to ask for
when I got in Kikwit was a mirror. I did not want people to continue telling me
stuff about my scars. […] I wanted to see with my own eyes what my face had
become. […] I wanted to see myself and understand. […] I asked for a big
mirror. Not only that I wanted to see my face, I also wanted to see my back
and all the marks that my back was carrying. In the bush, people used to tell
me. But I was sick of them always talking about me. […] This time, I wanted
to see myself and understand. […] I wanted to have a clear idea of what my
body had become in its entirety. […] After locking myself into the house, I
took off my clothes. […] Papa, it was horrible. I assure you that it was horrible
to see my face in the mirror. […] People used to tell me, but now I could see
for myself what my face had become. […] I did not believe at all that it was
me, Kitoto. […] I could see scratches all over my back. […] On my buttocks,
you cannot even tell. Besides, you can see how scars abound on my legs, just
to show you these ones. [see Figure 10] 1

These are the memories of Kitoto, the emblematic figure discussed at length in the
previous chapter. The morbid spectacle of his being cut up, as we saw, was an indication
of the passage of human being into animal, meat, and nothingness. The fragments of
testimonies he provides are painful, full of emotions and regret. To a large extent, they
shed light on the new form of life that took shape at the moment when disruptions and
reductions—aiming to reduce everything that was corporeal to “pieces, fragments, folds”
and wounds difficult to seal—were introduced into the continuousness of the corporeal.
It is this new form of life, which I deliberately call the life of scars, which constitutes the
subject of this chapter.
The basic argument of this chapter is that the scars which people bear on their bodies
can produce or reproduce suffering in the longue durée, as long as those who bear them
live. In the first part of the chapter I discuss the production and reproduction of suffering
in relation to the self, the image of the self, and the gaze of others. The second part takes
up these themes in relation to temporality, and shows how people could make use of
scars to project themselves into the future and imagine what was possible in this future.

1
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
 104

Living with scars: Self, image, others, and suffering

To live with the scars of the rebellion is to permanently live in a state of self-questioning,
or self-interrogation, about the transformations that the body has undergone. 2 It means,
to a large extent, continuously and critically looking at one’s body as a shapeless mass
that has undergone a series of mutilations and destructions, in order to grasp the nature of
the terrifying act that led to these bodily reductions. 3 As many people from the contested
region remembered, this is what was happening in everyday life, both during the
rebellion as well as after it had ended and stability returned.

This is exactly what we experienced. […] My cousin, a very grown and strong
man, was arrested by the militaires on the night of [30 June 1964]. They cut
off his right arm from here [elbow]. […] And then, they cut off his left hand.
[…] One can only imagine the kind of trouble he went through! […] I can see
how he was howling that day. It was not really different from the howling of a
beast. […] All the time we spent in the bush, he could not stop looking at
himself. […] Whenever we got somewhere after many hours of wandering, he
would prefer to withdraw and be alone. […] He would constantly raise the
stumps of his arms and look at them. It was painful. One could read the pain
on his face. He was always sad. […] Tears used to run down his cheeks almost
every minute. At the end of the rebellion, he could not do anything. He would
stay in the village from morning to night, regretting all the time. […] One day,
after having looked at his arms, he turned to me and asked me sadly: ‘What
did I do to deserve all of this? […] Is there anyone out there who can give me
a clear explanation?’ Papa, looking at his body and asking himself a bunch of
questions had become his new life. As he could not bear the pain and the
humiliation anymore, he died prematurely in 1968. 4

But, to have a look over one’s own body is more than this gesture of self-questioning.
Sartre states that this gesture requires one “to stand” in front of someone or something
that is being questioned, interrogate this person or thing about his or “its ways of being”
and, on the basis of a “pre-interrogative familiarity” with this person or this thing,
“expect” an unveiling of his/ “its being” or his/ “its way of being.” 5

2
As shown in Kitoto’s testimonies at the beginning of this chapter.
3
Osam (83 years old), phone call, Kikwit- Idiofa, 8 August 2015; Evariste Nzonzele (80 years old), phone
call, Kikwit-Idiofa, 8 August 2015; Palmie Andiang (77 years old), phone call, Kikwit-Idiofa, 8 August
2015; Placide Ngay (82 years old), phone call, Kikwit-Idiofa, 8 August 2015, and Adolphe Kuma Kuma
(76 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
4
Georgine Mankieta (67 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015. See also Adolphe
Kuma Kuma (76 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015; and Ernest Kiangu (59
years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 14 December 2015.
5
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., pp. 4-5.
 105

To have to look at one’s own body means turning this body into an object of
knowledge and creating a discourse on it. It implies rejecting how others represent my
body, even when I know that in situations such as these, whereby I myself cannot see the
deformities of my own body, I have to rely on others to describe these deformities to me;
or, as Lacan states, “the image of my body passes necessarily through the one imagined
in the gaze of the other.” 6
Looking at my own body means also confirming for myself that my bodily
disruptions are concrete and cannot be restored by adding up the individual parts of my
body that others, those who look at me, describe. Looking finally means that I can only
accept the gravity or profundity of the reductions introduced to my body’s natural life if I
can see these disruptions myself.
This opens the question of how I can appreciate the disruptions introduced to my
body while I am unable to see these disruptions myself. How do I make the disruptions
of my body the object of my attention when I am unable to see them? How do I get a
clear idea of the disruptions when I am deprived of the faculty that would enable me to
grasp their essence? These are fundamental questions that most of the people who
experienced violent disruptions to the continuity of their bodies posed themselves in the
years after the rebellion. A woman from Banda, whose uncle’s body underwent a series
of mutilations in Mukulu in 1965, remembered this questioning:

He was arrested at night. The militaires waited until the first rays of the sun to
dissect him. […] They stabbed his right thigh with the bayonet. The man
began to shout like an animal. […] They seized his right eye. They stabbed it
with their bayonet. We were standing in front of the militaires, watching and
applauding how they were dissecting my uncle. […] They seized him again.
They gave him a blow of the bayonet in the left eye. There was blood. […]
After all of this, they decided to release him. They asked him to run away. […]
How could he run away while he could not see anymore? […] It was so sad.
[…] The man lied down on the ground. His body was covered with blood. […]
He could barely speak. […] After the departure of the militaires, he tried to
open his mouth and speak, but he could not. You could tell that the man was
deeply racked by pain. In the following months he would ask himself: ‘Oh the
world, why? […] Why me? How could they take everything away from me?
Even my own body, I cannot see it anymore.’ It was really hard. He would not

6
Jacques Lacan, cited by Sabine Melchior-Bonnet, The Mirror: A History, trans. Katharine H. Jewett,
New York-London: Routledge, 2001, p. 6.
 106

let anyone tell him anything about his body. He died five months later because
of the pain. 7

All these questions—the ones this man was asking himself as well as those I raised
above—have two implications: firstly, they led the subjects to reject any mediation or
evaluation by others, as they considered the comments as nothing more than the product
of the others’ construction. Phrases such as: “I did not want people to continue telling me
stuff about my scars;” 8 or “I wanted to see with my own eyes what my face had
become;” 9 or “Please stop bothering me with your words, I cannot even see what you are
talking about” 10 all illustrate this rejection of the mediation by others.
Secondly, these questions led the subjects to search for tools that could help them
receive a visual image of themselves and thus make this mediation unnecessary. Hence
there was an increasing desire by victims to get access to a mirror. 11 But, what would
happen in front of this polished and metallic glass, believed able to capture what one
really looks like and place it in front of oneself? It is precisely the “divorce between
seeing and touching,” 12 “a discrepancy, a gap between the subject and his/her
representation, a space of intrusion and dissonance between the subject and its fictitious
double [double fictive] represented by the shade” 13 that these women and men
experienced in front of their mirrors. Kitoto’s fragments of testimony, which highlight
how he saw a new geography of his body represented through the mirror, are evoking.
The most difficult part of the engagement with the mirror was, however, confronting the
image that appeared in it and its surprising and in appalling appearance. At the moment
when the subjects step in front of the mirror, appearances were transcended. The subjects
went beyond the boundaries between sight and touch and reached a peak point where

7
Marie Nzamba (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 9 August 2015.
8
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
9
Ibid.
10
Marie Nzamba (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 9 August 2015.
11
Usually, during the rebellion, people used to look at themselves through water whenever they wanted to
carry out a self-examination of their bodily disruptions. Bathing, in these conditions, became a moment of
self-torturing. Those who had no injuries on their bodies would splash into the stream without wondering,
while those with bodily disruptions would stop for a moment, look at their images in the water to see if the
wound was healed or not (Ernest Kiangu, (59 years old, oral interview, Kinshasa, 14 December 2015).
12
Mbembe, Critique de la raison…, p. 202. See also Françoise Frontisi-Ducroix and Jean-Pierre Vernant,
Dans l’œil du miroir, Paris: Editions Odile Jacob, 1997, pp. 222-224.
13
Mbembe, Critique de la raison…, p. 203.
 107

their psyches cast off their corporeality. 14 They question the images in front of them, and
try to grasp the reality15 that the image in front of them seems to suggest.

Papa, […] I was surprised when I saw the scratches all over my back. I could
not believe that it was me. I thought it was someone else [tears]. […] People
used to tell me, but it is only when I looked at myself in the mirror that I came
to understand what I went through. […] My cheeks were completely distorted.
The scars from the stitches were still there. You can see them, can’t you?
[Figure 11] It was terrible. I remember spending hours and hours in front of
the mirror. I was crying. I was saying to myself: ‘If only I could change what I
see into something else!’ Papa, I could not stop wondering if what I saw in the
mirror was me. I could not believe. It was so painful for me. 16

We can see how the process of self-examination could also become an act of self-
torture. However, the images that the subjects saw in the mirror surprised them. This
surprise lies, essentially, in the monstrous character of the image. Yet it also goes beyond
this monstrous character. In The Ground of the Image, Jean-Luc Nancy writes:

The image disputes the presence of the thing. In the image, the thing is not
content simply to be; the image shows that the thing is and how it is. The
image is what takes the thing out of its simple presence and brings it to pres-
ence, to praes-entia, to being-out-in-front-of-itself […] The image is of the
order of the monster. […] [I]t is outside of the outside the common sphere of
presence because it is the display of presence. It is the manifestation of
presence, not as appearance, but as exhibiting, as bringing to light and setting
forth. 17

But the image of Kitoto’s deformed body, and his encounter with this image, is of a
qualitatively greater and different degree than an encounter with any image, as he,
himself, shows in this testimony:

I spent hours and hours in front of the mirror. […] Thoughts began to multiply
inside of me when I saw the image of myself in the mirror. […] What could I
do? […] I was crying. I could not believe that. […] The hardest part was when
I looked between my thighs. I came to understand that I had become worthless
[…]. I held my [penis]. […] I raised it. […] I looked at it through the mirror.
Papa, what a pain! It was terrible. I hit my hands against each other. […] It is
true that when I was in the bush, I would touch my scrotum and my genitals.
[…] But in front of the mirror, things were different. […] I could see that my

14
On this phenomenon, see Jean Starobinski, The Living Eye, trans. Arthur Goldhammer, Massachusetts:
Harvard University Press, 1989, p. 4.
15
A reality whose reading was hitherto only possible through the mediation of the other.
16
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
17
Jean-Luc Nancy, The Ground of the Image, trans. Jeff Fort, New York: Fordham University Press, 2005,
p. 21-22.
 108

scrotum had lost its [normal form]. […] I could not stop thinking about what
the militaires had done to me. 18

The surprise caused by what the subjects saw in the materiality of their mirrors was
also due to the fact that the images seen brutally interrupted the ignorance in which they
had hitherto been able to live with regards to their bodily deformations. 19 And yet, while
disturbing and troubling the subjects by taking “the thing out of its simple presence and
bring[ing] it to pre-sence,” 20 the images also revealed some truths. As the testimonies
above show, the truths revealed by the images were disturbing and shocking insofar as
they only came out of themselves in order to harm. This is what Kitoto points out:

I was completely horrified. […] Even though my [consciousness] reminded me

all the time that it was me, still I could not believe that [the image] I saw [in
the mirror] was me. […] Tears were spilling from my eyes. […] [Having a
look beween my legs] reminded me more than once that it was over. My
marital life had no more meaning. A man without [testicles], was he still
worth? […] I cried out: ‘Oh [my testicles], you are [now] gone! I will no
longer have you.’ […] Papa, I cried out. I asked myself: ‘The militaires, why
did you cut my [testicles] off? […] Why? And yet you had already stabbed me
everywhere, why could not you just leave me my [testicles]?’ 21

The most striking element in this process of revealing the truth is the way in which
Kitoko recounted scrutinizing his body as something alien, something strange, something
over which he had no power; and, in the process of this self-examination, talking to parts
of himself, to fragments, to his genitals: “Oh … you are gone!” Of course it is common
among men to experience the penis as a self-animated subject, distinct, and autonomous
from the body that bears it. But here Kitoto described it as a lost possession and an
autonomous subject worthy of address, one whose gratuitous, inexplicable destruction at
the hands of the militaires has rendered him without “worth.” This, as we can see, has
some bearing on the question of the “wholeness” and partibility—or even the
fragmentation—of one’s body as an object of examination by oneself. 22

18
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
19
Jean-Luc Nancy, Being Singular Plural, trans. Robert D. Richardson and Anne E. O’Byrne, Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 2000, pp. 171-172.
20
Nancy, The Ground of..., p. 22.
21
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
22
Here, of course, it is a question of gender/sexuality as indexed by parts of the body. There is something
of value in the literatures on this related to mastectomy following breast cancer. See, for example, S. L.
Jain, “Cancer Butch,” Cultural Anthropology 22, 4 (2007), pp. 501-538.
 109

The image that the subject perceived through the materiality of his mirror, in which
the body appeared in all its nakedness, reminded him that the body has been separated
from its original form. It has undergone a becoming, a “radical metamorphosis.” 23 It has
become something else, something other than what it previously had been. Hence the
shock, regret, loss of will, and negativity, as we can see from the testimonies above. The
same image that the subject saw in the mirror revealed the marks that a violent person, in
this case the militaire, wanted to see on “the thing or being he assaulted.” 24 It revealed to
the subject how this violent person was only preoccupied with seeing “the internal life
principle externalized, with all its colourful and flowing intensity;” 25 and how, through
this act of externalization, the same violent person wanted to appropriate death, “not by
gazing into emptiness of the depths but […] by filling his eyes with red […] and with the
clots in which life suffers and dies.” 26 Kitoto remembers this double act of
externalization of his “internal life principle” and appropriation of death by the
militaires:

When I saw my face in the mirror, I was shocked. […] My mouth widely
opened, I suddenly remembered the young man that the militaires killed like
an animal in Lutshima. 27

Instead of killing him far away, they preferred to kill him in the presence of his
father. They took the bayonet. They began to stab the child. The child fled.
They ran after him. They caught him. They opened his eyes widely. Two
blows of the bayonet into the right eye: ‘kiek, kiek.’ The eye burst. Blood […]
flowed. They grabbed him again. They bayoneted him at the neck, ‘kiek, kiek.’
They began to turn the bayonet [in the neck of the child]. They moved the
bayonet. The child shouted: ‘Ah, ah, munu!’ They pulled the bayonet out

23
On this concept of “radical metamorphosis,” see Catherine Malabou, The Wounded: From Neurosis to
Brain Damage, trans. Steven Miller, New York: Fordham University Press, 2012; Catherine Malabou, Le
Change Heidegger: Du fantastique en philosophie, Paris: Editions Léo Scheer, 2004; Catherine Malabou,
Ontology of the Accident: An Essay on Destructive Plasticity, trans. Carolyn Shread, Cambridge: Polity
Press, 2012; Catherine Malabou, The Future of Hegel: Plasticity, Temporality, and Dialectic, trans.
Lisabeth During, New York: Routledge, 2005; and Adrian Johnston and Catherine Malabou, Self and
Emotional Life: Philosophy, Psychoanalysis, and Neuroscience, New York: Columbia University Press,
2013.
24
Nancy, The Ground of..., p. 20.
25
Ibid, p. 24.
26
Ibid., pp. 24-25.
27
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
 110

[from the neck of the child]. They gave him another blow to the chest, ‘kiek,
kiek.’ Over. The child gave up his soul [azenga ntima].’ 28

I was horrified. I could see how the bayonet blows would make the young man
urinate. It was painful to remember all of this. 29

This is where the obsession with looking at one’s own image in the mirror could
lead. But more than that, the image that the subject perceives through the materiality of
his mirror revealed to him how violence “denatures, wrecks, and massacres that which it
assaults.” 30 It also revealed how the same violence, once it has intruded into the body,
“takes away [the] form and meaning” 31 of that which it has assaulted, and makes “it into
nothing other than a sign of its own rage, assaulted or violated thing or being,” a thing or
being “whose very essence now consists in its having been assaulted or violated.” 32

It [the image] also reminded me of [those terrible moments] when the

militaires came towards me and caught me. 33

They took the bayonet. They wanted to kill me with the bayonet. I said to their
leader: ‘Pardon, […] Lieutenant Nguya. I am begging you. Please shoot me.
Don’t kill me with your bayonet […].’ The militaire replied: ‘No, you spent so
much time deciding. You must die by bayonet as your comrades were. If you
do not want to, you will die ‘suffocated’ like […] the other recalcitrant [have
been killed]. […] The weapons […] will [only] [help] to kill Mulele. But you,
you must die by bayonet […].’ They decided to kill me. They asked me to pass
ahead. They tied me up. I was shaking. They shot. The bullet penetrated my
cheek. Then, it came out on the other side. […] I was bleeding. They left me
naked. I managed to flee. […] I took a wire and made a belt. [Afterwards], I
took the leaves of bantundu. I put them all around my hips. Papa, to leave
Lutshima and [reach] Kakobola, what a […] sun! It was shining! I began to cry
like a child. There were itches everywhere. I [began] to scratch. […] I decided
to take off the belt and leaves I wore. […]. I [reached] […] a village called
Yongo […]. My heart was overheating […]. Everyone was laughing at me as I
was naked. […] It was painful. I [cried out] and regretted having been born. 34

On reading these testimonies, one can see how images from the past, that the subject
would not probably want to remember, are being crystallized again and again in his

28
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
29
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
30
Nancy, The Ground of..., 16.
31
Ibid.
32
Ibid.
33
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
34
Eugène Kitoto (78 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
 111

memory. But the same image in the mirror, that raised so many questions and thoughts in
the subject, reminded him that violence, which unexpectedly intruded into his body, is
only “stupidity” “in the strongest sense, the thickest and most irremediable sense.”35
And, as Nancy put it, “it is not the stupidity that comes from a lack of intelligence, but
much worse it is the stupidity of the stupid twat.” 36 It is “stupidity” for, once it has
intruded into the body, it does not want to substitute anything else other than itself. 37 It
owns the body that it has invaded, and imprints itself on it. Instead of leaving those
marks free, it assigns them new functions, that of producing and reproducing suffering. 38
A focus on the fragments of memories of those who experienced “the stubborn will” 39 of
violence, which makes it “concerned only with its own shattering intrusion,” 40 can help
to have a better understanding of how, in the longue durée, these marks imprinted on the
bodies fulfiled this role of production and reproduction of suffering assigned to them.

If I am miserable today, it is because of what the militaires did to me. […]

When I came out of the bush [in 1970], it was very difficult for me. […] At the
time, Mobutu did not want people to speak about the rebellion anymore.
Talking about my injuries to strangers was really a problem. Whenever I was
in front of a stranger, I would lie about the cause of my injuries, because you
never know […]. I was a man of pride when I was born. But, today, I am
worthless. […] I am now the object of mockery for everyone because of what
the militaires did to me. My voice, I no longer have it. And it has been years
now. Along the way, people make fun of me. […] They say to me: ‘Look at
this “mute” [espèce de muet] walking up and down.’ ‘Mute’ is the name they
gave me because of my voice. When I tell them that I have not always been so,
no one understands me. When they begin to laugh at me, you have no idea!
And when I see all of this, […] pain and sorrow multiplies in me. Even when I
politely tell them that I was not born with these deformities, nobody
understands me. On the contrary, they laugh out loud at me. This is what I
have been experiencing—and still experience—for years. […] It is painful! 41

35
Nancy, The Ground of..., p. 16.
36
Ibid., pp. 16-17.
37
Ibid., p. 17.
38
After having seen his image in the mirror, Kitoto said: “I came to the conclusion that the militaires
cannot be anything else than dogs. They are […] idiots […] All they know is to destroy. All they know is
to destroy. […] They do not care about the consequences of their actions” (Eugène Kitoto, 80 years old,
oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015).
39
Nancy, The Ground of..., p. 16.
40
Ibid.
41
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
 112

Hence, to seize bodies during the rebellion, to torture these bodies until they are
marked is to expose these bodies to the perpetual renewal of humiliation, and to crush
them into subjectivity across time. It is also to render the mobility of these people
vulnerable within a political regime that is essentially preoccupied with liquidating its
enemies. By grafting tighly on the skin, the marks imprinted on people’s bodies
automatically linked them to politics. This was particularly the case in the Mobutu
regime which, as the testimonies above suggest, often understood the scars imprinted on
a body to suggest that its bearer had been part of the rebellion. The scars could thus lead
to the arrest of entire “body” as they betrayed the bearer. People bearing scars could be
dragged before military courts and condemned to death, a violent death. They could be
hanged in public, in front of everyone, without mercy. 42 The raison d’être of power
during the Mobutu regime, as suggested by the previous chapter, was decidedly
“nervous.” It could “penetrate the bodies of its subjects with nervous energy.” Once in
the bodies, it would place the subjects “in extremely dangerous and vulnerable situations
and [...] arouse in them different orders of sensation.” This could go “from physical pain
to convulsions.” It resulted from this nervosity “bodies that were [...] [violently] spread
out,” or “shaken by terrible jerks.” 43 This man remembers what happened in 1965 near
Kikwit Airfield:

They [the militaires] began [the process of killing] the young man, who was
arrested because of his scars, by giving him food. They gave him a lot of food
and forced him to eat. […] [And then] they beat him heavily to the point where
he could not rise anymore. [After that] they dragged him in front of the
wooden podium that was there. […] They forced him to say in front of
everyone why he was going to be killed. […] Afterwards, they placed the rope
around his neck. They destroyed the plank [he was standing on]. […] The
young boy began to swim in the air. His body was shaking. His tongue came
out. The saliva was flowing from both sides of the mouth. The young boy died
while he was still urinating and shitting. […] Papa, watching this scene was
really awful. 44

Beyond this humiliation caused by political power is the form of suffering created by
the narrative construction by others. In the specific case of Kitoto, this narrative

42
Jacques Kuma Kuma (66 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
43
Achille Mbembe, “Variations on the Beautiful in Congolese Worlds of Sound,” in Sarah Nuttal (ed.),
Beautiful/Ugly: African and Diaspora Aesthetics, Durham-London: Duke University Press, 2006, p. 74.
44
Jacques Kuma Kuma (66 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
 113

construction by others led to the attribution of degrading stereotypes such as “mute.”

Other victims were nicknamed “eighteen” or “diboité” [dislocated], depending on
whether they lacked two fingers or two toes, or they walked with a limp. As this woman
recalls:

The militaires arrested three young men. […] Papa, do you know what they
did to them? […] They grabbed the first one. They stabbed his right arm [with
the bayonet]. And then they cut his thumbs off. […] They caught the second
one. They beat him up heavily. And then they cut his ears off. […] They
turned to the last one. They beat him as well and they cut his lips off.
Afterwards they asked the three young men to walk away to the bush. […] Do
you know how people used to call these three young men? The first one people
used to call ‘eighteen’ as he lost both thumbs. The second they used to call
‘maseke’ [horns], because he would put his hands around the eardrums to hear
better as he was no longer had ear cups. The fact of continuously putting his
hands around his ears gave the impression of someone who had horns. That is
why he was nicknamed ‘maseke’ [horns]. […] The last one people used to call
‘aseka kala,’ meaning someone who always laughs, because he did not have
his lips anymore. And having his teeth always visible gave the impression of
someone who always laughs. 45

“Mute,” “diboité,” as well as “maseke” are primarily words. “A word,” writes Achille
Mbembe, “always refers to something. But the word also has a proper thickness, a proper
density. A word is made to evoke something in the consciousness of that which it
addresses, or who hears it. The more it has a density and thickness, the more it provokes
sensation, a feeling, a resentment among those to which it refers. There are words that
hurt.” 46 “Mute,” “diboité,” and “maseke” are among those words. Worn permanently as
an insult, the effects of their weight mark the consciousness of those who are sentenced
to bear them unconditionally. As we can see, the words “mute,” “diboité,” and “maseke”
objectify, degrade, paralyse, amputate, and emasculate those who are forced to bear
them, as Kitoto went on saying:

When they insult me like that, I do not even know how to answer. […] Isn’t it
that you can only answer with words? I am deprived of those words. What do
you want me to do? […] When I dare to speak, they multiply insults. […]
They say to me: ‘Look at this mute who wants to speak. What is it that he
wants to say exactly? […]’ It is painful. Even my own son-in-law calls me

45
Georgine Mankieta (67 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015. Also Adolphe
Kuma Kuma (76 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015; and Osam (83 years old),
phone call, Kikwit-Idiofa, 8 August 2015.
46
Mbembe, Critique de la raison…, p. 219.
 114

‘mute.’ Nobody has any idea of what I am going through. […] Those who
cannot make fun of me openly, they do it through gestures. […] What can I
do? When I try to speak, my blood pressure increases, my body gets tired, I
suddenly get breathless. And this is even one more reason for them to intensify
the insults. […] How can I live in peace? How should I not be sick all the
time? 47

Apart from these degrading words, the narrative construction by others also led to the
use of gestures as a way of making fun of the victims, as Georgine Mankieta explains
below. It is within this economy of gestures that the marked bodies could become a fixed
idea and, therefore, destroyed. When people could not make use of gestures to fix them,
they would make use of metaphors from their web of words. People developed ways of
separating words and sentences from their conventional meanings. They would use those
words in contradictory ways and, in doing so, offended those living with disruptions
inflicted upon their bodies.

Papa, people suffered a lot. […] You get into a village to only find that some
people do not have ears, others do not have legs, and some others do not have
arms. […] You would not even be able to look at them. […] Once in front of
them, all you could do is to pretend that you have not seen anything while
actually you are watching them from the corner of your eyes. […] This is what
we used to do. […] One day, my friends and I sat down on the edge of the
road. […] We saw ‘eighteen’ coming. […] My friend touched me slightly on
my thigh. She said to me in a low-pitched voice: ‘Georgine, look, “eighteen” is
coming towards us.’ I lift up my eyes. I saw the man coming. Quickly, I turned
my eyes around in order not to give the impression that I was looking at him.
[…] My friend insisted. I pretended not to understand and was absolutely not
in the mood of lifting up my eyes. […] She dug her nails into my leg. […] And
when I lifted up my eyes, she stretched her mouth twice in the right direction,
as to point the direction from which ‘eighteen’ was coming. I lifted up my eyes
again. After a few minutes we saw ‘eighteen’ stopping. […] He turned towards
us and stared at us. […] We understood that he was aware that we were
watching him. For a few minutes he stood in front of us. He shook his head
and then left. You could tell that he was very depressed. […] Everyone had
their own tips when it came to making fun of people. […] One could laugh in
front of this man without lips to say that this man had been laughing forever. 48

Confronted with such humiliation, the marked body could do no better than itself
seek refuge in laughter:

I was walking down the street. And all of a sudden they began to laugh at me.
[…] I stopped and turned around. […] I saw them as they were laughing out

47
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
48
Georgine Mankieta (67 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
 115

loud at me. […] As I could not say anything, I just shook my head […] and
laughed as well. […] I decided to go away as they were intensifying the
insults. But all along the road I could not contain myself. I continued to
laugh. 49

What was this kind of laughter that captured and invested the marked body,
maintained and extended itself across time? Certainly it was not the laughter of mutual
recognition, the one that happens when one suddenly encounters someone one knows but
rarely sees. 50 It was not even the “cackling carnivalesque laughter,” 51 the one described
by Bakhtin and which, in the postcolony, has constantly been used and mobilized by
subjects as “a means of resistance to the dominant culture.” 52 It was not even “a laughter
that mocked,” 53 the one used by children when they witness “the fall of someone they
fear.” 54 It was rather something closer to what Nancy Rose Hunt calls “the nervous,” the
“agonized shaking,” “the trembling laughter”; one that emerges out of “the unknowable”
and “anguish,” in so far as “the unknown makes” people “laugh”; and one that comes
55
from “prolonged and diffuse suffering.” After having erupted, this kind of laughter
usually involves a proliferation of thoughts which can no longer be stopped, not even by
the person who is laughing.

While I was laughing, I could easily think of the swarms of flies which swirled
around the streaming blood of my wounds, when the militaires shot at me. […]
I was asking myself if these people who were making fun of me have already
suffered. […] I could not understand why they were taking pleasure in my
suffering. 56

Despite the excessive suffering caused by the laughter and gestures by others, the
scars that the subject bears on his body never stop producing hardship and a particular
state or kind of subjecthood. He is constantly immersed in asymmetrical relations of
subordination. In contact with others, an atmosphere of submission has permanently been

49
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
50
Georges Bataille, Writings on Laughter, Sacrifice, Nietzsche, Un-Knowing, trans. Annette Michelson,
Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1986, p. 69.
51
Hunt, “An Acoustic Register...,” p. 51.
52
Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 103.
53
Hunt, “An Acoustic Register...,” p. 51.
54
Bataille, Writings on Laughter..., p. 68.
55
Hunt, “An Acoustic Register...,” p. 51.
56
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
 116

created because of the transformations that his body has undergone. Within the deeply
paternalistic society in which a man like Kitoto lives, having lost his manhood, his own
wife speaks to him in the way one speaks to a child. He is deprived of any right to assert
himself. His body is both the object of appropriation and rejection. He is constantly
driven to question the reasons for his continued existence.

We who were born very well have now become like kids because of the lack
of testicles. […] Oh, the militaires! My wife can treat me as her child and give
me orders: ‘Turn these cassava chips [cossettes de manioc].’ 57 I have no other
alternative. I must do it; otherwise she will not give me food. […] If I dare to
speak, she says to me: ‘Shut up, sterile. Have you got anything on your body
that you can give to a woman? Your body has been dead a long time ago.’ This
is my life. She and I, we never had children. The only ones that we have are
those that she had elsewhere. When I look at those three children, I constantly
cry out. […] Papa, since the day she discovered that I had no testicles we have
no longer had romantic encounters. She has chased me from her bed. I sleep
on the floor. […] What can I say to her? When I tried to talk to her, she replied
with brutality: ‘Open your mouth again, I will tell everyone here that you are
not a man, […] that you do not have testicles.’ […] These days she is dating a
young boy named Jonathan. […] What can I do? Those who have the power to
impregnate women have confiscated my wife. I do not have testicles, what can
I do? […] One day, I made her sit down and talk to me. She said: ‘Look at this
thing that is telling me that [Jonathan] is a child! Do you think he is not a man?
[…]. In my opinion, Jonathan is completely a man. […] You, rather, you are
not a man. Have you got anything on your body that you can give me?’ […]
Papa, what a humiliation! Instead of going out with an adult like me, my wife
would rather go with a child. Oh, the world! 58

This is how the violence experienced during the Mulele rebellion of the 1960s
continues to produce and reproduce humiliation. For Kitoro, it is made far worse by his
wife attributing to him a lack or failure, even though it is one for which he bears no
responsibility. This is the life of scars.

Bodily disruptions, temporality, and suffering

Seeing my child having [his arm cut off] […] was a big shock to me. […] I
never stop regretting that. […] I remember one day [in late 1965], after leaving
the Hôpital Général de Kikwit, I had to wash my child. I took his clothes off.
[…] I made him sit in his pond. Papa, I sprinkled water on his head. […] It
was painful. I began to cry. And to rub soap on his amputated arm, it was a big

57
It is his second wife.
58
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
 117

problem for me. I could not bear the pain. […] My heart was burning. […]
After many hesitations, I managed to wash him. I took him out of the pond.
[…] I made him sit on my legs. […]. To dress him, it was painful. I was
crying. […] My right hand was holding his arm. 59 I was touching his scars. I
was crying while I was looking at these scars. […] I was asking myself: ‘Now
that he has got only one arm, what does the future hold for him? […]’ I was so
scared. […] I kept asking myself: ‘Now that my son’s arm is cut off, what
exactly will he do in life?’ I could not believe it. […] I could foresee all kinds
of suffering that was awaiting him in his life. […] I could see my son
suffering. […] I could see how his friends would laugh at him. […] Papa,
looking at my child’s arm was so painful to me. […] I was afraid to see my
own child suffering. 60

These are the memories of Angelique Niepela, a woman from Impanga Mbele, whose
child experienced a terrible accident at the beginning of 1965. 61 On the one hand, they
highlight the tremendous and deep pain that a mother experienced at the suffering of her
child. On the other hand, they show the possibility of reading time—the future, in this

59
The amputated arm.
60
Angelique Niepela (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
61
The accident took place in early 1965. Her son, then aged three, was shot by a bullet which cost him his
right arm. Isidore Labila, the child’s uncle, described the circumstances of the accident as follows:
The militaires arrived in the village of Impanga. […] There was nobody in the
village. […] The militaires followed people into the bush at night. […] Our
grandfather Ndoko encountered one of the militaires as he was coming out of
his bivouac to go and piss. He turned around. He alerted the camp. […] It led
to a rout. In the morning, the militaires searched the camp. They did not find
anyone. They ransacked it and began to follow the footsteps of the people who
were fleeing. As they [the militaires] were advancing, they communicated
among themselves.

Mama Ambroisine and Mama Angelique, respectively the maternal aunt and
mother of the child, were hiding in the bush, not far from the road, as they
were tired. They heard people talking. Mama Ambroisine, Angelique’s big
sister, came out of the bush where she was hiding. She thought it was the
villagers who were coming back from their flight. Unfortunately, it was the
militaires. They [the militaires] said to her: ‘Kokima te! [Do not run away!]’
When Mama Angelique heard it from where she was hiding, she understood
that it was the militaires, not the people from the village. So, she lifted up her
child and began to run. The militaires shouted at her: ‘Stop!’ She continued to
run. The militaires fired. Mama Angelique fell to the ground. Unfortunately,
the child lifted up his arm. The militaires fired for the second time. The bullet
penetrated the child’s arm. Blood flowed. Mama Angelique, after having seen
this, began to cry. The militaires followed. They caught both the mother and
the child. They took them to where Mama Ambroisine was. […] It was so
hard. (Isidore Labila, 62 years old, oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015)
 118

specific case—from the scars that a person carries on the body. This is particularly true
given the fact that, at the time, the issue of marked bodies and their well-being did not
seem to be at the forefront of the Congolese authorities’ agenda. For the Mobutu regime,
the fact that someone was located in the rebel zone at the time of the rebellion was a
direct indication of collaboration with the rebels. Mobutu wanted to punish not only the
marked bodies, but the region as a whole, accusing everyone living in it of supporting
Mulele and his rebellion. 62 This had a huge impact on the imagination—and conception
of life in general—of those whose bodies were marked. The way in which they
conceived of time and of the future in particular was determined by their physical
condition. Kitoto, for example, remembered projecting himself into an “eternal” future
on the basis of the scars of his testicles and thinking about how the life he had planned
for himself would never come about. 63 Many others with injured bodies took the same
approach. The following is the case of Kuma Kuma’s brother-in-law whose severe
disfigurement was imposed on his body in the late 1960s. Kuma Kuma shows that not
only that marked bodies perceived themselves to have no future, but that they were
actively prevented from having this future by the central government, the community, as
well as by local authorities.

Papa, may nobody delude you with persuasive speech. […] One can somewhat
give oneself the luxury—I insist on the word somewhat—of not worrying
about what happened to one’s body, or what this body has become, only if one
knows that the injuries have been fully taken care of—either by the state or by
the family. […] But when you have undergone [a series of mutilations], like
my brother-in-law, and no effort is being made by the government or those in
the immediate environment to guarantee his safety and life, he who has
experienced these mutilations, how could you expect this person not to worry
about his life and his future in general? […] Georgine [my wife] has just told
you about her cousin who, as she described, was a very strong and well-built
man. […] His arms were [brutally] amputated by the militaires. […] Do you
know how he spent the two years before he died? It was horrible for him. […]
He would not stop complaining about his loss. […] He was always absent-
minded. 64

He continued:

62
Ernest Kiangu (60 years old), phone call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016. This did not change
during the rest of Mobutu reign, as we will see in the following chapter.
63
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
64
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (76 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
 119

Georgine has just told you that he would not stop looking at the stumps of his
arms. […] This is someone who was abandoned to himself. […] He did not
receive any help, neither from the government, nor from the community. […]
People could barely help him. […]. His own wife left him behind with two
children because of his disabilities […]. At the time, we had just come out of
the bush. We had almost nothing to eat. 65 […] I guess you understand how
difficult it was for a man without arms to feed two kids on a daily basis. […]
He would cry every single day. […]. He would think about his future and that
of his children. […] Whenever I visited, he would not stop sharing his fears:
‘Adolphe, I am scared about the future of my children. I know I will die,
maybe this evening, maybe tomorrow morning, or late in the evening. But
should I die anytime soon, please do not forget to take care of my children.’
[…] This had, practically, become his new life until 1968 when he passed
away. […] Papa, […] may nobody convince you otherwise. The question of
the future of these people was absolutely out of the agenda of the authorities.
Nobody cared at all at the time. 66

It is this active denial of a future that led most of those who suffered mutilations
during the rebellion to use their scars, to project themselves into the future, and to
imagine what could happen in this future. The question was now to know how this
imagined future, terrifying and full of fears and uncertainties, would come to fruition. A
careful examination of the fragments of testimonies given by the injured people and their
acquaintances shows that they could not attach a specific date to what they were fearing
would happen in the future. 67 All of them, nevertheless, seemed to be certain that this
terrifying future would come. Niepela’s testimony is clear in this regard. “As a parent,”
she said, “I could not wish anything bad for my child. But [my consciousness] would not
stop reminding me that, one day, this thing would eventually end up [making its
appearance].” 68 As a result, the entire life, or the rest of life, was reduced to waiting for
this terrifying future, this “yet-to-come,” to make its appearance. 69
But how many presents needed to pass before this terrifying future would make its
appearance? How long should one remain “between what goes and what comes, in the
middle of what leaves and what arrives” for this imagined future would make its
intrusion? A focus on the fragments of testimonies of those onto whom this terrifying

65
See Chapter 1 of this thesis.
66
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (76 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
67
This is not to say that this kind of imagined future did not come to pass.
68
Angelique Niepela (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
69
Jean-Paul Martinon, On Futurity: Malabou, Nancy and Derrida, New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007,
p. 1.
 120

future had been projected since 1965 allows a better understanding of the realization of
this “yet-to-come.” 70

All started in 1968. […] I must have been five or six years old at the time. […]
It was the first time that I came to realize that I was abnormal. […] I was
playing with my friends. I was observing them. I could see that each of them
had two arms while me, I only had one. It was painful for me to discover this
truth. I began to be ashamed […]. My friends began to make fun of me. They
would single me out: ‘Oh, look at him. He has only one arm!’ It was a big
shock to me. […] Over the years, things got complicated […]. I was sad all the
time, even though sometimes I would pretend that everything was okay. […]
In 1975, when I went back to the village for the first time since 1965, it was
even worse. […] People gathered around me. They wanted to see me, the child
whose arm was taken away by the militaires during the rebellion. It was not
easy for me because such attention caused emotion and pain in me. […] But it
is at the age of 18 that I really felt the weight of my suffering. […] I came to
realize that I was no longer this child who used to think that life was normal
and that his parents would still be doing everything for him. I came to realize
that I was becoming an adult and that I had to take care of myself. […] But
when I turned to look at myself, all I could see was my deformity. And that
made me feel terrible. […] I was so scared of my own future. I was asking
myself: ‘What will the future hold for me, I who have this deformity? I could
not stop asking myself this question. This is what I was fearing most of the
time. […] And the more the years went by, the more my fears intensified. I
was so scared to face [this] future because of my disability. 71

These testimonies identify the key moments in the chain in which the terrifying
future projected at 1965 began to materialize itself. In the case of Alidor, for example,
there are two key moments at either end of the continuum: five years and eighteen years
of age. Each of these ends is dominated by the awareness of one’s physical condition.
What was the future in 1965 became, as time passed, the present and then the “present
past” or “past present.” 72 The fragments of testimonies of the child lead to another

70
Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning and the New International,
trans. Peggy Kamuf, New York-London: Routledge, 1994, p. 29.
71
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 3 August 2015.
72
Jacques Derrida, “A Time for Farewells: Heidegger (read by) Hegel (read by) Malabou,” Preface to
Catherine Malabou, The Future of Hegel: Plasticity, Temporality, and Dialectics, trans. Lisabeth During,
New York: Routledge, 2004, p. xix. See also Koselleck, Future Past..., pp. 9-25, 58-71, 93-114, 137-151,
255-275; Noël Bonneuil, “The Mathematics of Time in History,” History and Theory 49, 4 (December
2010), pp. 28-46; Helge Jordheim, “Against Periodization: Koselleck’s Theory of Multiple Temporalities,”
History and Theory 51, 2 (May 2012), pp. 151-171; Paul A. Roth, “The Pasts,” History and Theory 51, 3
(October 2012), pp. 313-339; and Juliet Floyd and Sanford Shieh (eds), Future Pasts: The Analytic
Tradition in Twentieth-Century Philosophy, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. It would be great to
insert the child’s realization, on the brink of turning 18, into a political commentary on how what political
and other consequences bearing these scars would have for him. Unfortunately, the fragments of
 121

reality: fear of the future, his own future. His testimonies suggest that, as a state of mind,
this fear gradually multiplied as he approached this “new” future, the one that he posed,
as his mother did long ago, as the “yet-to-come” or that which “comes towards us.” 73 He
relied upon his present situation, as he went beyond perception and what could “present
itself in the present tense of sight.” 74 This emotional state—or this way of anticipating—
something detrimental reflects what Heidegger wrote about the phenomenology of fear
in Being and Time:

That in the face of which we fear can be characterized as threatening. […]

What we encounter has detrimentality as its kind of involment. It shows itself
within a context of involvements. […] The target of this detrimentality is a
definite range of what can be affected by it; thus the detrimentality is itself
made definite, and comes from a definite region. […] The region itself is well
known as such, and so it is that which is coming from it; but that which is
coming from it has something ‘queer’ about it. […] That which is detrimental,
as something that threatens us, is not yet within striking distance, but it is
coming close. In such a drawing-close, the detrimentality radiates out, and
therein lies its threatening character. 75

In this dreading, or “bringing-close,” close-by of fearing, the self-reflective mind

could not have other alternatives than to rely on his emotional states and develop, at the
same time, a variety of moods.

It was not easy at all. […] Fearing my own future had brought a lot of trouble
in my life. I would get angry easily. If I was not sad, I would become shy. […]
I began to isolate myself from the people around me because of shame. […] I
could not stop looking at myself. […]. My own life became boring. […] Evil
thoughts would abound in my mind, you have no idea! […] I would foresee
situations where my friends would be working and getting money, while I
could not do anything because of my deformities. […] Mentally, I was already
limited. […] I could not spend a day without fearing my own future. […] I was
so scared. […] I would imagine myself working with friends somewhere. I
would imagine them being aware of my incapacity to work like them, but none
of them would help me […] [or] say: ‘Let us give him at least 1% of our salary
because his physical condition prevents him from working like us.’ […] No
one could give me anything because, physically, I was not in good shape; and

testimonies at my disposal do not allow such a move. However, as I will show in the last part of this
section, these fragments reveal the emergence of strong anger towards politicians by the time the child
turned 18: “They are the ones who brought their rebellion, of which I do not even know the motivations, if
only to get my arm cut off,” he said.
73
Martinon, On Futurity..., p. 1.
74
Derrida, “A Time for Farewells,” p. xxii.
75
Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson, London: SCM Press,
1962, pp. 179-180.
 122

that I did not work like them. […] These are the kinds of thoughts that were
torturing me. […] I could see how I would already been dismissed from life
whenever it came to work. […] This is [precisely] what was troubling [me] in
my early twenties as a disabled person.76

But the most difficult moment in this process of dreading, which leads, as we have
just seen, to the proliferation of thoughts, is the impression of passivity created on the
side of those who were socially involved with the wounded child. In Muliongo’s own
words, it seems as if the others were unwilling to take any responsibility to avoid this
“terrifying” future that was anticipated since 1965. It seems as though the others
operated, in Žižek’s vocabulary, as “passive aggressive” people. 77 They did nothing and
thus actively ensured that nothing really changed. In an informal discussion, an
interviewee who wished to remain anonymous strongly objected to this view, and
accused the injured themselves of irresolution, passivity, laziness, and weakness:

It is amazing to see how these people [the injured people] remained entirely
passive. […] Normally, when I have anticipated my own future, and I have
discovered that this future I have projected onto myself is not promising, I
cannot just cross my arms and be relaxed about time. […] I must do
something. […] I must think about the ways in which I can overturn this future
that seems too unpromising. […] I cannot take pleasure in withdrawing myself
from the battle, sit down and watch how I am going to fail. […] I must do
something. […] I am greatly surprised that they remained passive when they
knew that the predictions regarding their future were not promising. 78

Such way of thinking, based essentially on a lack of consideration, is evidence of the

kinds of encounters that the injured people continued to have on a daily basis. The
others, by reading passivity, irresolution, and laziness into the actions of the injured
people, to a large extent ignored the efforts made by the injured to counteract this
terrifying “yet-to-come.” 79 Muliongo’sparents, for example, worked laboriously to give
him a better future. They sent him to school at a very young age in the understanding of
the time that it was the best means of gaining social mobility. 80 Muliongo completed his

76
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
77
Slavoj Žižek, The Parallax View, Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2006, p. 341.
78
Anonymous, informal discussion, Kinshasa, 14 December 2015.
79
Martinon, On Futurity..., p. 1.
80
Today, with the increasing number of unemployed academics, the school increasibly loses its symbolic
value of social mobility. See Noël Obotela Rachidi, “L’Université face à une jeunesse en quête de
 123

studies in the early 1980s. 81 Unfortunately, when he began to search for work coincided
with a crisis of unemployment in wider Zairian society. By 1980, the country was
experiencing the consequences of an economic breakdown that had begun in the early
1970s. 82 To avert the crisis, many individuals branched out into the more informal
economy. 83 As most of the young people of his generation, Muliongo felt compelled to
participate in these informal activities. Yet it is exactly in this informal economy that all
his thoughts and fears found their expression. In a long testimony, he provided an
overview of his life trajectory and how he became involved in informal activities.

After leaving school in 1983, I embarked myself in the libanga [informal

economy]. […] In 1985, I was going to buy goods to Brazzaville and sell them
here in Kinshasa. […]. Quickly, I came stopped with it because we were
treated like animals on the Brazzaville side. There was no respect for human
rights. […] In the mid-1990s, […] my friends convinced me to join them
seeking for diamonds at the Congolese-Angolan border. The deal was made. I
went with them. […] In any case, I did not gain anything. I came back empty
handed. […] It was a bad experience. I would even say an ordeal. I could not
work like everyone else because I was limited. […] The diamonds having
become rare, I had to dive into the river to get them. 84 With one arm, how
could I swim? […] It was very hard for me. I felt useless and unproductive.
[…] Life became so difficult to the extent that I could not even afford to buy
bread. […] Nobody would give me anything as I could not work like the
others. […] I felt somehow like I was harvesting the fruit of my deformity. 85

He continued:

In June 2015 I was returning from Kenge. […] I had some merchandise. […] I
took a large vehicle. When we reached Bukanga Longo, the vehicle was about

modèle,” in Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.), L’université dans le devenir de l’Afrique: Un demi-siècle de
présence au Congo-Zaïre. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007, pp. 253-261.
81
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
82
Ndaywel è Nziem, Histoire générale du Congo…, pp. 727-744.
83
Ibid., pp. 745-750. On this informal form of economy, see also Pierre Pean, L’argent noir, Paris:
Fayard, 1988, pp. 139-166; Gauthier de Villers et al. (ed), Manières de vivre: Economie de la débrouille
dans les villes du Congo/Zaïre, Tervuren: Institut Africain, CEDAF, 2002; Theodore Trefon (ed),
Reinventing Order in the Congo: How People respond to State Failure in Kinshasa, London: Zed Books,
2004; and Sylvie Ayimpam, Économie de la débrouille à Kinshasa. Informalité, commerce et réseaux
sociaux, Paris, Karthala, 2014.
84
On the issue of diamonds, see Filip de Boeck, “Postcolonialism, Power, and Identity: Local and Global
Perspectives from Zaire,” in Richard Werbner and Terrence Ranger (eds), Postcolonial Identity in Africa,
London: Zed Books, 1996, pp. 75-106; Filip de Boeck, “Domesticating Diamonds and Dollars: Identity,
Expenditure and Sharing in Southwestern Zaire (1984–1997),” Development and Change 29, 4 (1998), pp.
777-810; and Filip de Boeck, “Garimpeiro Worlds: Digging, Dying & ‘Hunting’ for Diamonds in Angola,”
Review of African Political Economy 28, 90 (2002), pp. 549-562.
85
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
 124

to fall down a cliff. […] All passengers and the crew jumped off, except me.
[…] With only one arm, I could not grab hold of the cross-beams of the
vehicle and jump like them. As a result, I went down together with the vehicle.
My left foot was seriously injured [Figure 12]. The heel was torn. […] The
bone came out. It protruded from the foot. Everybody could see it [Figure
13]. 86

The nurses at Kenge Hospital did not suture my wound well. There was no
difference between a beast and me. 87

It was painful. If I had both my arms, I would have jumped from the car as the
others did. [...] Now that I am talking to you, I am no longer walking. To get
out of the house, I have to crawl like a baby. […] I am lost. What should I
expect again from life? [...] First of all, I have one shortened arm; now that
they are going to cut my leg off, what am I going to become? [...] I am already
unproductive with one arm. With this […] additional blow, it is clear that I am
completely downgraded in life. What should I expect again from life now that
I am 53 years old? 88

Here are fifty years of a life trajectory, essentially dominated by “a proliferation of

metaphysics of sorrow,” 89 dispair, and suffering, and the end of which Muliongo, the
marked body, no longer expected anything, neither from time, nor from existence in
general. Even the future which, not long ago, had made him tremble with fear was no
longer important. It was replaced by a lack of expectations. Time “has gone farther away,
leaving behind only a field of ruins, an immense weariness,” as well as “an infinite
distress.” 90 At the heart of this distress, the injured body can only discover the
senselessness of the life he has spent on earth: “I have wasted my life for nothing. What
have I earned from all of this? Oh, life is unfair! It has no mercy at all.” 91 If not nullity, it
is a combination of disgust, pain, and sorrow. 92 This relates to the kind of suffering that
Kiangu referred to as “supreme suffering” when he said: “One feels like a wreck that was
used and that has been subsequently cast, because it does not have any value.” And, as a
result, the injured body “feels completely lost, and, at the same time, disconnected from

86
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
87
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 19 December 2015.
88
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
89
Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 199.
90
Ibid.
91
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 19 December 2015.
92
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
 125

the world.” 93 In contact with others, the marked body has always been considered as a
burden, a surplus, an excess, because of its physical condition.

Even in my family people usually do not need me because they know that I am
worthless. When there are family gatherings, no one invites me. They know
that I will not bring any money or any contribution to their reunion. […] I am
the king of rejection. […] On more than one occasion I overheard my own
family members saying: ‘Ah, what is it that Alidor is going to do again in his
life?’ Even my own nephews, they often repeat that: ‘It is over for him. He
will no longer do anything in life.’ […] You see! Now, do you think there is
anything else I can do to change their minds? What can I tell them to convince
them, I who has already been downgraded in life? […] I am useless. [All of
this is happening] because of this arm. 94

Confronted with the proliferation and continuity of this “metaphysics” of sorrow, the
marked body cannot do better than immerse itself into negativity and produce a critique
of time—and the future more specifically:

With all of these [pains and sufferings], why should I continue to believe in the
future? I am 53 years old now. I will be 54 years old next year. I am not
married. 95

I do not have a wife. I do not even have a girlfriend. Ladies do not like me.
Even when I approach them for a simple friendship, they run away because of
my arm. 96

93
Ernest Kiangu (58 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 14 December 2015.
94
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
95
On the issue of marriage, this is what Isidore Labila, his uncle, said:
You see, with his amputated arm, he does also think of finding a woman. […]
In 2012, he came to ask me to find a wife for him. . [...]. He told me sadly:
‘Big brother, with this age that I have reached, [50 years old now]], can I not
get married? Can’t you consider finding me a woman?’ [...] It was very
embarrassing for me. [...] My answer was simple: ‘Go find yourself a wife
because, at the time you will talk to her, she will see herself that you have an
arm amputated. [...] If she agrees, please then come back and tell me. Together
with others, we will organize ourselves and go pay the dowry.’ [...] This is
what I told him. […] But until now, He never came back to tell me anything.
(Isidore Labila, 62 years old, oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015)
96
On 19 December 2015, Alidor was completely amazed when he saw me disembark at his place with my
friend L., for the follow-up to our meeting in August 2015. This because he felt, in many ways, that he was
the king of rejection. The fact that I was paying attention to him was unusual to him. After I had gone to
talk to his mother who was sick in the house, Alidor asked L.: “Is Emery your boyfriend?” L. replied: “No,
he is my friend. We have known each other for three years now. We met at the American School.” Alidor
was completely overwhelmed to hear this answer from L. He asked her: “Are you sure he is just a friend? I
do not believe that. And you have come from a far just to accompany him do his research? I am impressed.
 126

I do not have children. Why should I continue to believe in the future? My

friends with whom I grew up are all married. They have children. […]
Tomorrow, it is these children who will be helping them. For my friend, there
is at least a hope for the future. […] The future means something for them. For
me, however, it is nothing at all. […] Why should I continue to think about the
future? Have I ever gained anything from this future for me to continue to
believe in it? […] My life is a mess. I have failed everything. I do not even
have an offspring because of my deformities. Why should I again believe in
the future? It is over. 97

To compensate for this lack of interest in the future, the marked body turns back to
the past and lives in a mode of repetition. But in this movement to the past, he no longer
sees “the connected and sequential chain of events” he, as a “forward-looking” person,
used to conceive of as a future possibility. 98 All he can now see is one catastrophe; the
thing that made part of his body, in this case the arm, prematurely lifeless; a material
thing that brought an untimely experience of death, as well as an incomplete sense of
time.

I was a child at the time. I must have been two or three years old. […] I do not
even know why the rebellion broke out. […] I never asked anybody because it
is out of my interest. […] When I am deeply in my thoughts, all I can see from
this past is only my wound. The rebellion has brought a lot of pain in my life;
that is all I can see. […] When it comes to the rebellion itself, it is really out of
my interest. I do not even know why Mulele [took arms] and started the
rebellion. […] All I know is that I got injured from his rebellion. And this has
brought a lot of trouble in my life. 99

To me, it means that you are really good friends.” He went on saying: “I, however, have always had
trouble approaching girls in my life. Even when I offer them a simple friendship, they never wanted. They
have always pushed me away.”
After this long talk, Alidor asked L.'s phone number which L. gave him without any hesitation. On our
way back home, L. told me about her conversation with Alidor. When I asked her whether she had given
her phone number to Alidor, she said: “Of course, I did. But it is a wrong number. If he calls me, he will
not get hold of me.” I asked her: “But, why did you do that?” She said to me: “What? Do you really think I
can give my phone number to this guy? Never will I do that. I do not want him to bother me. Besides, what
can I do with such a man? What will he give me? He will just impregnate me unnecessarily and tomorrow
I will suffer with my children. I do not really want that happen to me.”
L.’s reaction and perception show the extent to which people lack consideration, interest, and respect in the
present and future of the marked-bodied people.
97
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
98
I am drawing here on Walter Benjamin’s conception of history. See David Couzens Hoy, The Time of
Our Lives: A Critical History of Temporality, Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 2009, p. 154.
99
Alidor Muliongo (53 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 3 August 2015.
 127

This is the life of scars, a life which consists of navigating backwards and forewards
in time, only to find oneself at the heart of disappointment, disinterest, nullity and
inutility.

100
Figure 10: Eugene Kitoto’s scars on his leg

100
Photo by author, Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
 128

101
Figure 11: Eugène Kitoto’scars on the cheek

101
Photo by author. Kikwit, 1 November 2013.
 129

102
Figure 12: Alidor Muliongo’s newly injured foot

103
Figure 13: Alidor Muliongo’s foot

102
Photo by author, Kinshasa, 2 August 2015.
103
Photo by author, Kinshasa, 19 December 2016.
 130

Conclusion

This chapter deals with scars, their signifying capacity, their relationship not only with
the body but also with the apprehension of time, the arresting of time, and the
annihilation of future time that the scars seem to both signify and put into effect by
making the body useless and also undesirable, revolting to others. To be tortured during
the rebellion was unimaginably terrible. But the suffering did not stop there. There was
something beyond that, something even more important, that causes a kind of psychic
suffering which not only exceeds the physical, but also extends across time. This
happened first and foremost at the moment in which the self encountered its image, a
deformed image, an image it could not recognise, a representation which, to a large
extent, was also a monster of itself. It also happened at the termination of seeing one’s
life continuously failing. It finally happened at the moment when the injured people
engaged in social relations with others. In this sense, the scars that people bear on their
bodies register and condense, in the course of time, a sense of hurt. They bristle at the
unethical treatment that the injured people receive from others, by the indifferent or cruel
regard in which they are held by others, those who ought to exercise greater moral
responsibility towards them. This only shows the extent to which the people, whose
bodies were made ugly during the rebellion, are continuously being made ugly and
objectified, throughout time, by the gaze of others, the very same people that are
supposed to help them reconcile their bodies with themselves. Because this process of
reconciling with one’s body never takes place, it is not possible to expect marked bodies
to live in peace. Rather we find frustration, desolation, and lack of interest in time—and
in existence.
 Chapter Four – The Politics of Forgetting

It was the [1st of October 1968]. [...] I turned on my small radio that had
survived the rebellion. [...] I heard that Pierre Mulele was now in Kinshasa.
[...] The journalist said that an agreement concluding his extradition was
signed between the Government of Brazzaville and that of Kinshasa. [...] After
listening to this news, I got worried. But not too much because I had faith in
our president. [...]

On the [10th of October 1968], I switched on my radio once again. After few
songs, the journalist went on to say that Pierre Mulele had died. He was put on
trial by the military court and found guilty and then killed. […] The journalist
added that now people can rejoice. Because their enemy was definitely
defeated. He ended by saying that the page was turned. […] Everyone should
forget about everything. […]

Seized with emotion, I burst into tears. […] I had completely forgotten that it
was forbidden to talk about Mulele, or about events in relation to his name.
[…] I got into my house. I scratched my head. I could not believe that Mulele
was killed. […] It was just impossible to believe, knowing who this man was.
[…] It pained me to hear that. Mulele was someone who lived among us. After
hearing this, how could I not be worried? […]

I had not spent thirty minutes inside the house when I heard someone knocking
on my door: ‘Bastard! Come out of the house. Today, we are going to crush
your head.’ I came out of my house only to find that seven plain-clothed armed
men had invaded my yard. […] One of them raised his voice and said:
‘Bastard! You have not learned anything! Are you a stranger to this region?
You know very well that it is forbidden to talk or think about this monster. But
now you allow yourself the luxury of resuscitating him. Today, you are going
to see what we will do to you.’ Even before this man finished talking to me,
another raised his bayonet and stabbed me, here, on the chest. I moved a little
bit. The bayonet scratched me here. You can see the scar. [Figure 14] I begged
them, but none of them would listen to me. […] I cried out: ‘Please, I have had
nothing to do with this man.’ They said to me: ‘Shut up, idiot! You think you
are above the law. Today, we are going to correct you.’ […] They began to
beat me up. My mouth swelled up. You could not even see my face. I became
unrecognizable. […] They grabbed me. They threw me in their vehicle. They
took me to Kikwit and put me in jail.1

With these words Cyril Mukelenge, a former rebel from Idiofa whom I met in
December 2013, recalled his experiences in the late 1960s. Painful by nature, these
words referred to the Mobutu regime’s approach to managing the memory of the
rebellion. It is this politics, which I call the politics of forgetting, that constitutes the
subject of this chapter.

1
Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
 132

The main argument is that putting in place a variety of strategies to force people to
forget about their past experiences, or to force them to remember those experiences in a
particular way is to do violence to these people. In what follows, I will demonstrate this
by analysing, first, the ways in which the Mobutu regime maintained a system of control
and surveillance over people in the aftermath of the rebellion (1960s-1970s); and,
second, by focusing on the suspicions that this system of monitoring caused among
Mulele’s followers and how they responded to it in the 1970s and 1980s. With the
collapse of the Mobutu regime in 1997 and the transfer of power to Laurent Désiré
Kabila, significant changes took place in the country. I will briefly examine this era,
Kabila’s politics towards the rebellion, and the renewed suffering that it brought about
among those who had been subjected to bodily disruption during the rebellion.

End of the rebellion: Imbroglio and tight control of people

From 1964 to 1968 the Congolese government attempted to pacify the Kwilu region. 2 It
was during this period that people came out of the bush. During this time, many of the
rebel leaders were arrested, with most of them killed by the Mobutu regime. 3 These
arrests and killings essentially quashed the rebellion. 4 They marked the end of a
historical moment that had begun in July 1963 when Pierre Mulele reached the Kwilu
region to set up his maquis, as we saw in Chapter One.
Yet, even if the arrests and killings marked the official end of the rebellion, the
problems that rebellion had caused for the ruling regime were not solved. The first years
when people returned from the bush were dramatic. The controversy sparked by the
rebellion rebounded dramatically. Those who had been affected and even threatened by

2
See Chapter 1 of this thesis; and CRISP (ed.), Congo 1965, pp. 125-134.
3
See Jean Mbadu, “Lettre: Arrestation Commandant rebelle adjoint Menaba Evariste,” Kikwit, 6
Novembre 1967, reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/34. Archives Conseil National; Anonymous,
“Télégramme,” Kikwit, 29 novembre 1967, reel 11, box 8, folder 4, file F, doc. G67/ 35. Archives Conseil
National; Innocent J. Lobo, “Lettre: la rébellion en C.I. Imbongo,” Imbongo, 1 février 1968, reel 11, box 8,
folder 4, file F, doc. G68/5. Archives Conseil National; and François Ngunda, “Rapport administratif sur
l’arrestation du chef rebelle Louis Kafungu,” Kilembe, 25 juin 1970, reel 11, box 8, folder 5, file F., docs.
G70/ 18 A-18 B. Archives Conseil National.
4
See the title of Ndom Nda Ombel’s book, Pierre Mulele assassiné...
 133

the rebellion demanded that effective and fair trials should be held. 5 People bitterly
demanded revenge for their suffering, to the point of re-fracturing social cohesiveness. 6
The re-opening of courts at the level of the sectors acted as a catalyst in this situation.
The heads of sectors called on those living in their jurisdictions to lodge complaints.
These could vary from dealing with mere annoyances to reporting big offenses. In
September 1965, the chief of Lozo sector vigorously defended this decision: “Everyone
must lodge their complaint with the court as was done before [the rebellion]. […] In
every country where the courts do not work, the population is not at peace. Things must
work normally [as they used to].” 7 Encouraged by this decision, people flooded to the
courts. On 30 April 1966, for example, a man reported the theft of stolen goods:

They [the rebels] stole my 3 iron metal trunks. Each had 60 pièces américanis
[fabrics]. Each pièce costs 800 francs. The grand total was 48,000 francs. They
also stole 3 pairs of my pressed trousers. Each of them was worth 3,000 francs.
The three of them would cost 9,000 francs in total. They stole 3 empty iron
metal trunks. Each of them was 350 francs; 1,050 francs in total. They stole 2
dress shirts, each of them was worth 600 francs; 1,200 francs in total. […]
They stole 30 drinking glasses, each cost 20 francs; 600 francs in total. They
took 2 golden oil cans, each cost 150 francs; 300 francs in total. They stole 2
singlets, each was worth 100 francs; 200 francs in total. They stole my brand
new Continental typewriter [...] for my office. I had bought it at 50,000 francs.
[...] They stole 3 deluxe cupboards I bought in Kikwit at 5,000 francs each;
15,000 francs in total. 8

5
Frade Zunga Zunga (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013; Agnès Lakung (56
years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 16 October 2013; Fidéline Kifokie (63 years old), oral interview, Idiofa,
16 November 2013; Grégoire Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 November 2013; Eulalie
Fam (59 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; and Adolphine Izingamio (64 years old),
oral interview, Idiofa, 15 December 2013. Eulalie Fam joined the maquis when she was 14 years old.
6
Odette Zunga Zunga (66 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013; Palmie Andiang (75
years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; Tony Etono (70 years old), oral interview, Luano, 26
October 2013; Hortense Ngo (63 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 22 November 2013; Isidore Ngyum (73
years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013; Bertin Mukela (70 years old), oral interview, Idiofa,
23 December 2013; Théophane Kambembo (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 18 November 2013;
Ndiang Kabul (67 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 March 2013; Prospère Yamba (62 years old),
oral interview, Kikwit, 24 October 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16
December 2013.
7
Anonymous, “Procès verbal de la réunion du Conseil de secteur Lozo tenue en date du 4 septembre
1965,” reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, doc. G65/27A. Archives Conseil National.
8
David Yengo, “Rapport: Conséquence de la révolte, Mukedi, 30 avril 1966,” reel 11, box 8,
folder 3, file D, doc. G66/ 29. Archives Conseil National.
 134

The grand total of the stolen goods comes to 128,950 francs. I say one hundred
twenty-eight thousand nine hundred and fifty francs. 9

By 24 June 1966, wanted notices against individual rebels were multiplying, as this
letter by the mayor of Gungu to the head of Lozo sector shows:

Mr. Chief of Lozo sector, I have the honour of sending you a warrant of arrest
against Nzofu, accused by the Chief of the Kiboba-Matadi sector of
confiscating his goods during the rebellion. We called him before our court,
but he did not want to attend. He ran away. He is now in your jurisdiction. He
is from Lozo Munene. [Here is the list of goods he confiscated:] 1) Two pairs
of pants. 2) One pair of trousers 3) Three long-sleeved shirts. 4) A bed sheet
and 1,500 francs in cash. 5) One bar of Tango soap. I would appreciate it if
you could send him to me under escort. 10

On 30 June 1966 a man lodged a complaint against the rebels about his friends who
had been killed during the rebellion. He vigorously called for an investigation in order to
establish who was responsible for this:

Here are the names of my fellows [...] murdered by the Mulelists: Kapita, [...]
Kiwevua, [...] Leonardo Poofele, [...] [Jacob] Kituku, [all of them from]
Mukedi. Matthieu Kabula, one of the most important merchants of Mukedi.
Thau, a mother; she left four children behind. Hangwa, from Mukedi, has
[also] left four children behind. Bwalungu, the chief of the Madimbi
groupement has also been killed. Kipoy, Bwalungu’s little brother, was killed.
[Norbert] Khongolo, a [...] man from Madimbi, was [also] killed. [Justin]
Yenge, Ngulungu and Mutemangandu from Madimbi, [have also been killed].
[…] Those who committed these crimes must pay before the court. 11

9
David Yengo, “Rapport: Conséquence de la révolte, Mukedi, 30 avril 1966,” reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file
D, doc. G66/ 29. Archives Conseil National. See also Matadi-Frère and B. Kambembo, “Liste de bien
[pillés] lors des événements dans le village Lufuchi–secteur de Loso,” reel 11, box 7, folder 13, file G, doc.
F?. Archives Conseil National; F.G. Mukanzo, “Liste des biens pillés pendant la rébellion 1964-1966,
secteur Gudi,” Gudi, 30 mars 1969, reel 11, box 7, folder 13, file G, doc. F?. Archives Conseil National;
Anonymous, “Liste des gens et du montant confisqué,” reel 11, box 7, folder 13, file G, doc. F?. Archives
Conseil National; and Daniel Gidinda, “Les biens du collège permanent, Gidinda Daniel, consommés par
les jeunesses mulelistes,” reel 11, box 7, folder 13, file G, doc. F?. Archives Conseil National.
10
J.B. Fu…, “Lettre: Affaire Nzofu,” Gungu, 24 juin 1966, reel 11, box 8, folder 1, file G, doc. G66/37.
Archives Conseil National. See also Modeleur Richard Xavier, “Lettre,” 13 mars 1964, reel 2, box 2, doc.
1190. Archives Conseil National; and Richard Mhodelece, “Rapport des biens enquêtés et pris par le
dirigeant de l’équipe de Kafunda–Mukedi Victor,” Soudan-Ngonga, 13 mars 1964, reel 2, box 2, doc.
1191. Archives Conseil National.
11
David Yongo, “Rapport conséquence de la révolte,” Mukedi, reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/
66. Archives Conseil National. See also Sébastien Kikongo, “Dépôt n° 15 au chef de bureau administratif
de et à Léopoldville,” Itanga, 31 janvier 1966, reel 11, box 7, folder 13, file G, doc. F? (22). Archives
Conseil National; Emile Mungulu, “Lettre: Assassinat parents fonctionnaire Mungulu Ball Désiré par les
rebelles mulelistes,” Kikwit, 30 septembre 1965, reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, docs. G65/26 A-B, E.
Archives Conseil National; and Emile Désiré Mungulu, “Liste nominative et définitive des principaux
 135

During the days that followed, the situation became increasingly confusing. Everyday
life came to be regulated by an economy of vengeance. The rebels could no longer live in
peace in the sectors: they were being dragged in front of the courts and forced to pay tax
for the Mulele Caisse [the Mulele checkout till]. This was to compensate for what they
had stolen during the rebellion. In early 1966, for example, the authorities of the Kobo
sector forced Vendo, a man from Kikhandji, to pay 10,000 francs for the Mulele
Caisse. 12 At the same time, Edouard Kita from Kikanda village paid 5,000 francs to the
same authorities. In April 1966 Kita said the following to the Gungu préfet:

Mr. Préfet, I should tell you the truth. At a certain moment, I went to the
sector’s office. I was told, verbally, that I had to bring all the money and goods
that I used to keep in the warehouse, during the rebellion. When I went back to
the village, I took what I still had with me: 5,000 francs, a jacket and a pair of
trousers, and went to deliver them to the secteur. 13

Even within the administration tensions ran high. Most of the administrative officers
adopted extremist positions against the rebels. They wanted to avenge what they called
“wounded conscience” [conscience blessée]. 14 The main reason for them to act in such a
way was that they had been the rebels’ primary target during the rebellion. The rebels
had strongly believed that the administrative officers embodied the power of the
Congolese state. They killed many of the officers and humiliated many others. They
weakened the officials’ authority and replaced it with their own hegemony. This had a
huge impact on the decisions taken by the administrative officers at the end of the
rebellion. Many applications submitted by former rebels for their re-insertion into the
administration were dismissed. 15 The situation became extremely chaotic. 16 Herbert

auteurs de la mort tragique des parents du fonctionnaire Mungulu Emile Désiré, assassinés par les rebelles
mulelistes le 11 janvier 1964—en annexe à la lettre n° 0076/M.E.D./ 65 du 30 septembre 1965,” Kikwit,
30 septembre 1965, reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, doc. G65/ 26 C. Archives Conseil National.
12
F. Kindela and Ph. Makulu, “Lettre: Perception taxe pour caisse Mulele,” Kobo, 16 avril 1966, reel 11,
box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/32A. Archives Conseil National.
13
Ibid.
14
Secrétaire provincial du Kwilu, “Reprise des fonctions du chef de secteur Banga,” Kikwit, 1 février
1966, reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/7. Archives Conseil National.
15
Laurent Luyolo, “Lettre: transmission rapport administratif de Mr Kalunga Philippe sur ses
activités dans le bois, Mbangi, 13 octobre 1965,” reel 11, box 7, folder 14, file E, doc. G63/16.
Archives Conseil National. See also B.H. Kambembo, “Rapport sur le dossier de Mr Samano J.,
agent territorial sorti récemment de forêt,” reel 11, box 7, folder 13, file G, doc. F? doss 14.
Archives Conseil National; Joachim Samano, “Commentaires, Gungu, 19 mai 1964,” reel 11,
 136

Weiss, an American political scientistwho later wrote a book on political protest in the
Congo 17 said the following about his visit to the region in 1966:

I can give you a short testimony to confirm what you have just said. It is the
case of Fimbo. Fimbo […] was perceived by the administration [officers]
[and] also by other civilians […] of Gungu as having been fierce in his
activities as Chef de zone [during the rebellion]. Nevertheless, he managed to
get out of the bush and continued to live in Gungu. The administrator of
Gungu hired him for hunting wild game. He [the administrator] gave him a
rifle and cartridges. […] This was a combination [of events] that had nothing
to do with him. In the absence of the administrator he was put in prison for
illegal possession of a weapon. Yet it is the administrator who had given him
the weapon and cartridges. [I guess you understand that] he was only arrested
because of jealousy […]. This is how the District Commissioner, with whom I
spoke later, interpreted it. 18

Added to this state of confusion was the hostility felt by the population for the rebels.
In many areas communities judged rebel activities with extreme severity. They
demanded social re-organizations. They asked that all those who had instilled fear and
terror during the rebellion be excluded. They forced many rebels to move away. 19 Those
who failed to move were subjected to reprisals. 20 They were accused by the militaires

box 7, folder 15, file E, doc. G64/28. Archives Conseil National; and Daniel Gidinda, “Les biens
du collège permanent, Gidinda Daniel, consommés par les jeunesses mulelistes,” reel 11, box 7,
folder 13, file G, doc. F?. Archives Conseil National.
16
Delphin Mafuta (75 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 22 October 2013.
17
Weiss, Political Protest... He first came to Congo in 1959 as a member of the African Economic and
Political Development Project at the Center for International Studies, Massachusetts Institute for
Technology.
18
Herbert Weiss, “Commentaires Ndom-Weiss sur les documents Kwilu-administration,”
Bruxelles, Summer 1988, 7609_a_0000927_r02_pt02-N’Dom, Weiss-CD2of2. Archives Conseil
National. It is also the case of Louis Kinkondo, the rebel’s chief, who was arrested a few months
after his release by Major Yamvwa. The administration officers believed that he had committed
many crimes. Therefore he should be sent to jail. They questioned his release by Major Yamvwa.
They imprisoned him in the absence of the latter. He was then transferred to Leopoldville where
he spent several months in the Makala prison. Delphin Mafuta (75 years old), oral interview,
Kikwit, 22 October 2013.
19
Laurent Luyolo, “Lettre: transmission rapport administratif de Mr Kalunga Philippe sur ses activités
dans le bois,” Mbangi, 13 octobre 1965, reel 11, box 7, folder 14, file E, doc. G63/16. Archives Conseil
National; and F. Kindela and Ph. Makulu, “Lettre: Perception taxe pour caisse Mulele,” Kobo, 16 avril
1966, reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/32A. Archives Conseil National. Also Justin Kaziama (60
years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 1 December 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview,
Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
20
B.H., “Lettre,” Gungu, 6 septembre 1965, reel 11, box 8, folder 2, file D, doc. G65/23A. Archives
Conseil National. See also Odette Zunga Zunga (66 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September
2013; Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; Tony Etono (68 years
old), oral interview, Luano, 26 October 2013; Hortense Ngo (63 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 22
 137

who were still in the region. 21 In the following extract the receiver of revenue of the
Lozo sector referred to this climate of hostility in a letter of 6 May 1966 about the
hearing of Cercle Kilembe:

I have the honour to inform you that [...] only two workers [may] take care of
[Lozo-Munene and Kinzamba] dispensaries. [...] The worker in charge of
Kinzamba dispensary will be Mr. Bernabé Kianza. Mr. Beledji will be in
charge of the Lozo-M[unene] dispensary. But the latter is in one month’s
arrears because he had seriously threatened the population during their
rebellion. [...] The population of Lozo does not want to see him working in the
dispensary again. [...] At the end of May, we will send his successor. 22

To deal with this situation, the Congolese authorities introduced new measures
between 1966 and 1970. 23 First they decided to treat everyone as “victim” of the
rebellion, regardless whether they had been rebels or civilians. 24 Mulele alone would be
made to carry the responsibility for all the crimes committed during the rebellion. 25
Those who were captured by the peacekeeping mission were issued certificates stating

November 2013; Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013; Bertin Mukela
(70 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013; Théophane Kambembo (57 years old), oral
interview, Idiofa, 18 November 2013; Prospère Yamba (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 24 October
2013; Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; and Emile Nkwimi (58
years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 18 October 2013.
21
Théophane Kambembo (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 18 November 2013; Bastin Bembo (66
years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; and Emile Nkwimi (58 years old), oral interview,
Kwanga Carrefour, 18 October 2013.
22
Timothée Fulbert Gamaygelo, “Lettre: engagement travailleurs dispensaires C.I. Mukedi, 6 juin 1966,”
reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. 66/33. Archives Conseil National. These conflicts also emerged in
families and clans. People used occult practices and poisoning to eliminate those who were fearsome
during the rebellion. See Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; Justin
Kaziama (60 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 1 December 2013; and Willy A. (40 years old), oral
interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
23
Constant Ndom, “Commentaires Ndom-Weiss sur les documents Kwilu-administration,” Bruxelles,
Summer 1988. 7609_a_0000927_r02_pt02-N’Dom, Weiss-CD2of2. Archives Conseil National.
24
Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” p. 331.
25
Herbert Weiss, during his stay in Gungu in June-August 1966, said:
It is the reason why I had to abandon the project of doing interviews when I
travelled there—because everyone who was known to have participated in the
rebellion in summer [19]66 said that they were Mulele’s prisoners. You could
not find a former rebel throughout Kwilu region. There were only Mulele’s
prisoners.” (Herbert Weiss, “Commentaires Ndom-Weiss sur les documents
Kwilu-administration,” Bruxelles, Summer 1988. 7609_a_0000927_r02_pt02-
N’Dom, Weiss-CD2of2. Archives Conseil National)

On the fate of the leaders of the rebellion, see Anonymous, “Le Général Mobutu déclare: Les chefs de
rébellion comme les Mulele, les Bocheley, les Soumialot, les Gbenge doivent être jugés par la justice
congolaise,” Courrier d’Afrique 39, Thursday 3 October 1968, no 2102, pp. 1, 5.
 138

that they were survivors of war. 26 This measure allowed many rebels to be re-integrated
into the administration. 27 In 1988, Constant Ndom, a former rebel, said:

What happens at this point in Zaire [in 1966-1967], [and more specifically] in
the Kwilu region, is that everyone is being treated as a victim of Mulelism.
[The authorities] sought to re-integrate the people into their previous lives and
have, [to a certain extent], avoided making them scapegoats. The only person
responsible, who remained to be found and arrested, was Mulele. Even people
like Kafungu or Kandaka were not seen as responsible. [...] So those who came
out of the bush at this point and fell into the hands of the peacekeeping mission
were not accused of any crime. They were not presented as people who had
done something [nasty and] whose heads should be cut off. […] Since they all
were sons of the country and had fallen into the hands of the peacekeeping
mission, [...] they should not be condemned for any crime, so be it. […] And
therefore they had to return to work. 28

The second measure taken by the authorities consisted in the suspension of all
prosecutions for stolen property during the rebellion. The Provincial Secretary, following
the Council of Ministers of the Bandundu province 29 held in August 1969, instructed his
administration as follows:

I have the honour to inform you that the study and approval of records of
property looted during the rebellion have been suspended by the Council of
Ministers. Given the above, I refer you to read the following instructions: 1)
No more administrative authority of the province of Bandundu can approve a
dossier on the matter, nor conduct any investigation relating thereto. 2) The
cases filed in your office will be inventoried, numbered and kept pending until
further notice. 3) Three copies of the minutes concerning the deposits of these
files will be sent to the Department of Internal Affairs and Customary

26
Delphin Mafuta (75 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 22 October 2013. But those who fell in the hands
of the militaires continued to be killed. See Prospère Yamba (62 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 24
October 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
27
Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013; and Delphin Mafuta (75 years
old), oral interview, Kikwit, 22 October 2013. The issuing of a certificate to everybody so that they
become officially “victims” on paper, created a specific relationship between the government and the
“victims.” This further complicated the situation because the “real victims”—in the humanitarian sense of
the word—never get any assistance from the government as we saw in the previous chapter. This kind of
victimhood made official by the government has been recently at the core of debate and theorization. See
Pamila Gupta, “Departures of Decolonization: Interstitial Spaces, Ordinary Affect, and Landscapes of
Victimhood in Southern Africa,” in Steffen Jensen and Henrik Ronsbo, Histories of Victimhood,
Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014, pp. 198-217.
28
Constant Ndom, “Commentaires Ndom-Weiss sur les documents Kwilu-administration,” Bruxelles,
Summer1988. 7609_a_0000927_r02_pt02-N’Dom, Weiss-CD2of2. Archives Conseil National. See Also
Delphin Mafuta (75 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 22 October 2013; and Anonymous, “Remarques sur
le rapport d’inspection administrative de Gungu du 24 mars au 16 avril 1966,” pp. 2-3, cited by Monnier,
“La province de Bandundu,” p. 333.
29
In 1966, Congolese authorities created Bandundu province and Kwilu became one of its districts.
 139

practices. This is an instruction. I ask you to ensure its wide dissemination

among the Regionals of your respective jurisdictions. 30

The final measure was to call upon the population to live in peace and harmony. 31
The words “forgiveness” and “reconciliation” became common in official speeches. 32
This was the official launch of the regime’s policy in dealing with the past. The
authorities wanted to make the rebellion a place of loss, but a loss that should not
necessarily lead to the claiming of debt. 33 Strong emphasis was placed on forgetting the
past. 34 Everyone should transcend the rebellion and the problems it caused. 35 People
could rejoice that the “lost children” had been “retrieved.” 36 The region was liberated.
Everyone could enjoy their freedom. 37 A speech made by the administrator of Gungu
during the release of prisoners in 1970 demonstrates the scope of this measure:

The honour falls to me, today, to thank in particular the forces of order of our
valiant Congolese National Army which, day and night, deployed
commendable efforts to restore order, tranquility and peace in this […]
territory. [...] Today constitutes a decisive phase for the administration. [...] It
is understood that, after the efforts of the Congolese National Army and the
Congolese National Police, we have found hundreds of our misguided brothers
who have returned to the fold. As says an adage of the Gospel: ‘These are the
lost children who find their father.’ The paternal decision of the General
Headquarters of the National Congolese Army, requesting the surrender to the
civil authorities of all [...] persons captured during operations, is a reunion for
them. In fact, they are required to return to their villagers, rebuild their villages
[…] and live again in peace. This day marks the end of the disorders that has
[...] [paralysed] the region. Lost brothers, [...] go back to your villages! Forget
the past! I invite you to rebuild the territory. You will have to redo your huts,

30
A. Musumani, “Lettre: Assistance à l’audience pour dossiers biens pillés par les rebelles,” Kikwit, 4
Août 1969, reel 11, box 8, folder 5, file H, doc. G69/16. Archives Conseil National.
31
Anonymous, “Allocution prononcée par Monsieur l’Administrateur de territoire de Gungu à l’occasion
de l’évacuation des personnes capturées par l’Armée Nationale Congolaise, Gungu, 25 avril 1970,” reel
11, box 8, folder 5, file F, doc. G70/ 8A. Archives Conseil National.
32
Daniel Palambwa (83 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa. 23 September 2013. See also Anonymous,
“L’Assajef tente une réconciliation entre les divers partis au Kwilu,” in Courrier d’Afrique, 35, Thursday,
18 August 1964, no 190, p. 5; and Monnier, “La province de Bandundu, ” p. 320.
33
“You lost your goods and family members during the rebellion, but you cannot claim them anymore.”
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 14 December 2015.
34
Anonymous, “Allocution prononcée par Monsieur l’Administrateur de territoire de Gungu à l’occasion
de l’évacuation des personnes capturées par l’Armée Nationale Congolaise, Gungu, 25 avril 1970,” reel
11, box 8, folder 5, file F, doc. G70/ 8A. Archives Conseil National.
35
Ibid.
36
Ibid.
37
Ibid.
 140

[...] your fields, [...] get back to life, as in the past, and live in harmony and
peace [...] gained at the cost of enormous sacrifices.38

“Concord,” “peace,” “harmony,” and “freedom” are the words that most capture the
imagination of the people who gathered at the ceremony. 39 The restitution of property
looted during the rebellion was indeed suspended. Those who came out of the bush truly
benefitted from the fact that the status of being a victim was conferred to everyone. But
the promise to enjoy the freedom achieved “at the cost of a thousand sacrifices”40
remained, for most of those who returned from the bush, a utopian project. The
authorities distinguished themselves by their inability to maintain a balance between
theory and praxis. Their attitude towards those who came out of the bush was completely
ambiguous. Zénon Mibamba, former companion of Pierre Mulele and sent from one
prison to another between 1968 and 1972, is one of those who lived these ambiguities. In
an interview he said:

When I was released [in 1972], Matungulu, who was head of security here in
Kinshasa at the time, received me in his office. He said to me: ‘Zénon, you
have now been released. But you are not free. You must know that they will
follow you wherever you go. So be careful about all you are going to say. Be
careful about the people you are going to spend time with. You must be careful
about your behavior. Do not say anything. Do not do anything. [...] Do not
spread ideas against the government. Do not join any movement, otherwise,
tomorrow, they will come and pick you up and throw you in jail. [...] You have
been released. But you must know that you are not free at all. They will follow
you. You will be watched. At the slightest movement, you will be caught. 41

These ambiguities were in compliance with the general policies of Mobutu regime. It
should be said that the main concern of local authorities at the time was the
implementation of the regime’s overall vision: “People and colleagues,” wrote the
administrator of Gungu to his regionals and heads of sectors in April 1966, “we all must

38
Anonymous, “Allocution prononcée par Monsieur l’Administrateur de territoire de Gungu à l’occasion
de l’évacuation des personnes capturées par l’Armée Nationale Congolaise, Gungu, 25 avril 1970,” reel
11, box 8, folder 5, file F, doc. G70/ 8A. Archives Conseil National.
39
Philémon Lozo (74 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 12 January 2014; Elie Kakesa (79 years old), oral
interview, Gungu, 12 January 2014; and Nestor Mukwangu (79 years old), oral interview, 12 January
2014. These three people were among the crowd.
40
Anonymous, “Allocution prononcée par Monsieur l’Administrateur de territoire de Gungu à l’occasion
de l’évacuation des personnes capturées par l’Armée Nationale Congolaise, Gungu, 25 avril 1970,” reel
11, box 8, folder 5, file F, doc. G70/ 8A. Archives Conseil National.
41
Zénon Mibamba (75 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 28 March 2013.
 141

42
now follow the policies and dictums of the current government.” As stated in the
literature, Mobutu suspended the activities of political parties after his coup d’etat in
November 1965. 43 He set up a single-party regime that abolished people’s freedoms. 44
He sought the collaboration of members of his administration to consolidate and stabilize
his regime. 45 He instructed them to watch over all forms of political and social conflict. 46
He recommended that they oppose all forms of political propaganda that criticised his

42
Here are more excerpts from the letter:
I have the honour to reproduce for you the full text of the letter of Mr. Minister
of Interior and Public Administration […] in order to educate the entire
population. I regret to inform you that [...] I can [...] [still] listen to political
slogans along the road. [...] I hope that you will do everything in your power to
put an end to this [situation] so that, the next time, when I come back, I can no
longer hear all of these. You will agree with me that [...] this mindset can
hinder the actions of the administration. People must be educated by you. It is
in your responsibility to make every effort to change this state of mind. […]
This means that people and ourselves must now follow the politics and slogans
of the government that is currently leading us. This is in a word the meaning of
the remark of the Minister. Please go and immediately execute this instruction.
(B.M. Kambamba, “Lettre: Rapport fanatique de la population,” Gungu, 14
avril 1966, reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/25. Archives Conseil
National)
43
Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” pp. 305, 311.
44
Ndaywel è Nziem, Histoire générale du Congo…, pp. 665-772. See also Jules Chomé, L’ascension de
Mobutu: du sergent Désiré Joseph Mobutu au général Sese Seko, Paris: Maspero, 1979; Jean Kestergat,
Du Congo de Lumumba au Zaïre de Mobutu, Bruxelles: Paul Legrain, 1986; Jean-Claude Willame,
L’automne d’un despotisme: Pouvoir, argent, obéissance dans le Zaïre des années quatre-vingt, Paris:
Karthala, 1992; Colette Braeckman, Le dinosaure. Le Zaïre de Mobutu, Paris: Fayard, 1 992; Nzongola-
Ntalaja, The Congo...; Charles Didier Gondola, The History of the Congo, Westport, CO: Greenwood
Press, 2002.
45
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 23 March 2015. See also B.M. Kambamba,
“Lettre: Rapport fanatique de la population,” Gungu, 14 avril 1966, reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc.
G66/25. Archives Conseil National; and Monnier, “La province de Bandundu,” p. 303.
46
B.M. Kambamba, “Lettre: Rapport fanatique de la population,” Gungu, 14 avril 1966, reel 11, box 8,
folder 3, file D, doc. G66/25. Archives Conseil National; Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview,
Kinshasa, 23 March 2015; and Zénon Mibamba (75 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 28 March 2013.
An overview on the history of Congolese student movements can show how any form of contestation was
violently repressed. See Emery Kalema, “Les Congrès de l’UGEC (1961-1968),” Mémoire de licence,
Université de Kinshasa, 2012; Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.), L’université dans le devenir de l’Afrique:
Un demi-siècle de présence au Congo-Zaïre, Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007; Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.),
Les années Lovanium: La première université francophone d’Afrique subsaharienne, vol. 2. Paris:
L’Harmattan, 2010; Jean-Marie Mutamba Makombo, “L’Union Générale des Etudiants Congolais et la
lutte pour la démocratie (1961-1969),” in Sabakinu Kivilu, Elites et démocratie en République
Démocratique du Congo, Kinshasa: PUK, 2000, pp. 83-89; and Pedro A. G. Monaville, “Decolonizing the
University: Postal Politics, the Student Movement, and Global 1968 in the Congo,” PhD thesis, University
of Michigan, 2013.
 142

regime. 47 Yet to a large extent the rebellion continued to play a central role in the Kwilu
region. It allowed the articulation of political propaganda contrary to that of the Mobutu
regime and its impression on both individual and collective memory. 48 It is from this that
the necessity arose for the regime to maintain control and surveillance over the people
that returned from the bush. A former intelligence security officer of the Kwilu region
explained this in an interview:

Even if the rebellion was over and people came out of the forest, it was quite
obvious that we could not suddenly stop monitoring their actions. [...] It is true
that they suffered a lot during the rebellion. [...] But this did not prevent the
authorities to continue to exercise vigilance. [...] We could not trust any of
them. [...] We knew that things could blow up [any time]. […] It would not be
good to wait for the outbreak of a new insurgency against which the authorities
would need to fight. We had to take precautions. This explained why we
continued to monitor them closely. 49

The regime opted for a system of monitoring based on the imbalance between what
was seen, the visible, and what was not seen, the invisible, the intention; and between
what was heard or spoken and what was concealed, the secret. The regime would take
care of the ex-rebels, or some of the orphans left by the most influential of them, only to
put them under its control. 50 In this way the regime added mental and psychological
asepcts to traditional technologies of surveillance and control of people. The authorities
ensured that the ideas raised by the rebellion, as well as the name of the man who had

47
B.M. Kambamba, “Lettre: Rapport fanatique de la population,” Gungu, 14 avril 1966, reel 11, box 8,
folder 3, file D, doc. G66/25. Archives Conseil National.
48
Bogumil Jewsiewicki, “Pour une histoire comparée des révoltes populaires au Congo,” in Catherine
Coquery-Vidrovitch and al., Rébellions-révolution au Zaïre, vol.2. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1987, p. 141. Also
Zénon Mibamba (75 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 28 March 2013.
49
N.M. interviewed by Kibari Nsanga in the late 1980s, private collection, Kibari Nsanga, Kikwit. See
also Théophile Kisaki (Frère), “Lettre: Protestation contre les arrestations arbitraires,” Kingandu, 12
Octobre 1966, reel 11, box 8, folder 3, file D, doc. G66/ 49. Archives Conseil National; and Zénon
Mibamba (75 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 28 March 2013.
The children of some of the rebels were forced to marry intelligence agents so that, through them, the
regime could gain better control over their parents. Also, in this process of control of people, other rebels,
especially those who had been feared during the rebellion, lost their wives to the heads of intelligence
services, as punishment. The wife of Zénon Mibamba, for example, was impregnated by the head of the
intelligence service while Mibamba was imprisoned. Zénon Mibamba (75 years old), oral interview,
Kinshasa, 28 March 2013.
50
After the assassination of Mulele, some of Mulele’s children benefitted from the care of some militaires,
without knowing that the latter were watching them (Jeannette Mulele, 57 years old, oral interview,
Kinshasa, 16 September 2013). Zenon Mibamba was intentionally given a post in the administration so
that he could be easily monitored (Zénon Mibamba, 75 years old, oral interview, Kinshasa, 28 March
2013).
 143

raised them, disappear from people’s minds. 51 The regime distinguished itself by its
ability to dispossess social actors by claiming the power of sharing and talking about the
events of the rebellion and the suffering it had caused. Speaking about the rebellion
became an offense against the regime in everyday practice. 52 The name of Mulele was
banished from the public sphere. The regime officially declared a “war” against those
who pronounced the name of Mulele, as well as those who remembered the events
associated with this name. 53 The regime set up mechanisms to fight against all forms of
mobilization of this memory. The following fragments of testimonies of those who lived
during the 1960s and 1970s provide an insight into how these strategies worked:

Papa, who could speak again about Mulele? […] Mobutu placed guards
everywhere, here. They were watching us in our villages. 54

At the end of the rebellion, [...] [four] militaires were still stationed here in
Mungay. One of them was called Maurice. The second, Alia Atundi, meaning
‘he who has eaten and who is now full.’ The third was called Alingi Abima,
meaning ‘he wants to get out.’ He nicknamed himself Alingi Abima because,
once he pulled his bayonet out of its protective carrier case, he would only

51
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014.
52
Prospère Mbwisi (63 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 17 October 2013; and Zénon
Mibamba (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 March 2013.
53
Palmie Andiang (75 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; Tony Etono (68 years old),
oral interview, Luano, 26 October 2013; Hortense Ngo (63 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 22 November
2013; Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 November 2013; Bertin Mukela (69 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013; Théophane Kambembo (57 years old), oral interview,
Idiofa, 18 November 2013; Prospère Mbwisi (63 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 17
October 2013; and Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013.
54
Prospère Mbwisi gives further explanation about who exactly became these guards and intelligence
agents.
Is there anyone who could pronounce the name of Mulele again? Those who
dare to pronounce his name died immediately. Mobutu infiltrated intelligence
agents among us. There was first the CVRs [Corps des Volontaires de la
République], and then the JMPRs [Jeunesses du Mouvement Populaire de la
Révolution]. These are the people who used to watch everyone here. […] If
they see you talking about Mulele, finish! You will immediately disappear.
[…] Here in Kikwit, they had an office that was cooperating directly with the
presidency of the Republic in Kinshasa. If they see you talking about Mulele
or the rebellion, they arrest you. They will not judge you here. They send you
directly to Kinshasa headquarters of the intelligence service. [...] Many people
disappeared here because of that name. […] We used to live in fear here in
Kikwit. There was no single time when you would not hear that a person has
been kidnapped. We used to breathe and eat in fear. (Prospère Mbwisi, 63
years old, oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 17 October 2013)
 144

return it back if he had hurt someone. […] The fourth was called Napoleon.
[...] These are the nicknames they brought to the region. [...]

They would brutally kill people. If they caught someone, it was only to cut
their head off. […]. One day, those that had been infiltrated among us to
monitor [not only] us [but also] […] our conversations arrested a man. They
accused him of inciting people to talk about Mulele. […] They took him to
Mungay. [...] For Alia Atundi, this man was only a beast. Before he was even
untied, Alia Atundi had already taken out his bayonet. […] He jumped on the
man. He strangled the man. […] It was hot that day. The blood was flowing.
Alia Atundi asked for a bowl. They brought him a bowl. […] The blood of this
man ran into the bowl as if he was a beast. [...] The man died on the spot. [...]
To the surprise of everyone, Alia Atundi undressed. He mixed blood with
water. He began to bathe in the presence of everyone. [...] It was horrible [...]
[to see how] […] a man, responsible for a family, was killed […] simply
because they wanted him to forget Mulele’s name. 55

He continued:

The next day, they brought another boy. […] He was accused of stealing and
talking about Mulele. The militaires said to him: ‘It is Mulele who taught you
how to steal. […] Today, we are going to help you get rid of Mulele
permanently.’ Alingi Abima took his bayonet out. He began to stab the boy:
Kwek, kwek, kwek. Papa, blood! Alingi Abima opened his mouth widely. […]
He began to drink the blood of the boy. Without even worrying about
anything, he told us who were gathered there: ‘This is our beer. We drink it
and we have always drunk it. It is not a problem at all.’ 56

He concluded:

Papa, we lived a terrible life when we came out of the bush. [...] It was even
hard to think about what we went through during the rebellion. […] Personally
I was scared to do so because I thought somehow I would end up talking to
myself […]. And, do you know what would happen if somebody heard me
talking to myself about what we went on during the rebellion? They would go
and accuse me of resurrecting the name of Mulele. […] This was our curse. 57

From these testimonies, we can see how the “bodies” of the “victims” were subjected
to destruction by the militaires in the name of the policy of forgetting; and how, at the
same time, those who were forced to witness the deployment of violence onto these
“bodies” were exposed to the perpetual renewal of a stronger fear, the one that wrecks

55
Tony Etono (68 years old), oral interview, Luano, 26 October 2013.
56
Ibid.
57
Ibid.
 145

even the ability of thinking. 58 Hence, to set up a variety of strategies in order to control
people and force them to forget images they had formed during the rebellion is to do
violence to these people. It is to uphold a regime of suffering on these people and deprive
them of their fundamental freedom to hold their own memories. 59 It is to condemn their
minds to constantly navigate between “wanting not to know” and “wanting not to tell”
their experience(s) of the past. 60 As the interviewees put it in these testimonies:

After the rebellion, [wanting not to know] what others had experienced when
fleeing during the rebellion was a very tough task. […] Personally I was
curious to hear the stories of others. But since it was strictly forbidden to talk
about it, I had to discipline myself. […] But it was not easy at all. Many times
I found myself walking into the trap, even though I knew that, at the end, it
was a choice between life and death. 61

This is why, all this time, I never got the courage to tell my children what I had
experienced. […] I did not want them to become victims. […] You know how
kids are. You tell them something now; even if you say to them that it is a
secret, they will end up sharing it with their friends. […] I was scared that one
day they would end up being arrested because they shared what I had told
them. […] I preferred to keep quiet for the sake of their safety. 62

The result of navigating between “wanting not to know” and “wanting not to tell,” as
the above testimonies show, was the repression of one’s memory within oneself. People
were doomed to fall back on themselves as fragmented “bodies,” and live piecemeal
between the corporeal world, the body, and the incorporeal world, the world of
memory. 63 Because they were not allowed to share these memories, their lives became
fragmented—and they themselves became fragmented people. In the real world, as

58
See also Chapter 2 of this thesis. Reflecting upon the “what is a thinking thing?,” René Descartes writes:
“It is a thing that doubts, conceives, affirms, denies, wills, refuses, that imagines also, and perceives”
(René Descartes, A Discourse on Method, trans. John Veitch, London: Dent, 1912, p. 89). Doubting,
conceiving, affirming, denying, willing, refusing, imagining as well as perceiving are the attributions of
existence; they are existence in themselves. In the context of extreme fear—as Etono’s testimonies show—
it is impossible for the subject to think. In such conditions, existence becomes a denial—and the subject a
non-existence because they are unable to perform to think.
59
Neuro-psychological theories would probably argue that memory is not a freedom. It is a natural
reaction, impulse, or compulsion; it is a function of the human brain, and as such it cannot be subjected to
any form of control. But, and this is what I am suggesting here, I strongly believe that in the political
realm, which is my concern here, memory can be framed as a freedom, as something that can be subjected
to the forms of control by political power.
60
Paul Ricœur, La mémoire, l’histoire, l’oubli, Paris: Seuil, 2000, p. 580.
61
Hortense Ngo (63 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 22 November 2013.
62
Tony Etono (68 years Old), oral interview, Luano, 26 October 2013.
63
On the corporeal dimensions of memory, see Chapter 3 of this thesis.
 146

Etono’s words above demonstrate, they would live in fear. While seeking refuge in the
incorporeal world, they would feel watched by the state. 64 Under such conditions of
permanent fear, the incorporeal world itself became a space of organized repression, a
site of the impossibility of all possibilities. This is what Tony Etono referred to as the
“impossibility of thinking,” reminding us of the work of trauma and the impossibility of
making memory. 65
To set up a variety of strategies to control people and force them to forget their past
experiences is also to force them to live continually between the domain of secrecy—a
form of remembering, but specifically and deliberately not disclosing or making known
what one remembers at all—and the refusal to consider this secret as a secret—because
the conscious mind is aware that what happened is not secret. It is the impossibility of
navigating between these contradictory poles that led to numerous people being arrested
in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Cyril Mukelenge, who was arrested in 1968, raised this
problem in front of the investigating judges of the Parquet de Kikwit in 1969, framing it
within the realm of memory and forgetting. He recalls:

I kindly told the judge: ‘Dear sir, with all the suffering that we went through
during the rebellion, I wonder if it is really possible to forget everything.’ […]
We were in 1968. We had just come out of the bush. […] Whenever you were
tired and tried to sleep, what is it that [always] came to mind? Isn’t it [the
images] of the rebellion? Either you are fleeing the militaires, or you are
burying someone who has just passed away because of malnourishment. [...]
With all of these [experiences], how could we forget everything? […] How
could we forget, when our [own] dreams were [infused] with [the images] of
the rebellion? […] This is what I told him. 66

64
See Tony Etono’s testimonies above.
65
See Primo Levi, The Voice of Memory: Interviews, 1961-1987, edited by Marco Belpoliti and Robert
Gordon, New York: The New Press, 2001; Fabienne Castaignos-Leblond, Traumatismes historiques et
dialogue intergénérationnel: Un difficile exercice de mémoire, Paris: L’Harmattan, 2001; Richard Werbner
(ed.), Memory and the Postcolony: African Anthropology and the Critique of Power, London: Zed Books,
1998; Duncan Bell (ed.), Memory, Trauma and World Politics: Reflections on the Relationship Between
Past and Present, New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2006; Katharina Hodgkin and Susannah Radstone
(eds), Contested Pasts: The Politics of Memory, London: Routledge, 2003; Bruce M. Ross, Remembering
the Personal Past: Description of Autobiographical Memory, New York: Oxford University Press, 1991;
Roger Luckhurst, The Trauma Question, London: Routledge, 2008; Cathy Caruth, Unclaimed Experience:
Trauma, Narrative, and History, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996; Cathy Caruth (ed.),
Trauma: Explorations in Memory, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995; Hannah Arendt, The
Burden of Our Time, London, Secker and Warburg, 1951; and Paul Connerton, The Spirit of Mourning:
History, Memory, and the Body, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011.
66
Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
 147

Despite these remarks on the impossibility of an absolute forgetting, 67 the authorities

seemed not lose their commitment of fighting against the memory of the rebellion.
Several people continued to be sent in jails. The shadows of these people were constantly
monitored under the effects of the “panopticon.” 68 Through this approach, the authorities
sought to create a new “anatomy of power” that would help define their relations to those
onto whom they sought to impose forgetting. As this man explains in this testimony:

I thought my comments would bring the judge to reason. On the contrary, it

only brought confusion. [...] The judge opened his eyes widely. [...] He
became raging mad. His attitude changed completely. [...] You could read it
from his face. […] His gaze became increasingly threatening. [...] He rose
from his seat. He pointed his finger at me and said: ‘Who are you to challenge
the president, huh? […] Today you are going to die. Nobody will plead for
you.’ [...] He ordered that I be sent to prison. [...] Two policemen came to
escort me. They threw me in jail. [...] It was awful. […] It was a small room
with a few dozen prisoners. There were two small windows above, which […]
let in fresh air. [...] But, even with them the smell of urine was unbearable. [...]
Lower down in the wall there were two other openings. They were protected
by an anti-theft system. […] It is through these openings that our movements
were tracked. […] The supervisor would see our shadows moving and come
open the door roughly: ‘Tala biyungu yayi! [Look at these idiots!]. Do you
want to be released? Invoke Mulele to come and release you!’ 69

In some prisons, portraits and effigies of the president were distributed to prisoners,
as a way of maintaining control over them. After liberation, the ex-prisoners were forced
to put these portraits in their private homes, just as they would have been in public and
official spaces. 70 To avoid any attempt of re-embracing Mulele’s ideas, they had to
contemplate portraits of the president every morning. 71 They were made to acknowledge
that the president’s power was based on the notion of exclusivity and concentration of
sovereignty. 72 The idea that the president was jealous and, as such, could not tolerate any
other forms of worship than those addressed to him was enforced. 73 This demonstrates

67
On this topic, see Ricœur, La mémoire...
68
Gilles Deleuze, Foucault, Paris: Minuit, 1986, p. 40; and Foucault, Surveiller et punir…, p. 197.
69
Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
70
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014; and Cyril Mukelenge (73 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
71
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014.
72
Ernest Kiangu (60 years old), phone call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016.
73
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014. Mobutu constructed his person
around a religious cult from early 1970s onwards. See Filip de Boeck and Marie-Françoise Plissart,
Kinshasa: Tales of the Invisible City, Antwerp: Ludion, 2006, p. 110.
 148

how the regime, over and above controlling physical bodies, sought to gain control over
people’s imaginations, making them strongly believe in the actual existence of the forms
of bodily power “dis-embodied” in official photograph and portraits.
Symbolically, rapprochement through the portraits of the president indicated the
regime’s presence among its detractors. It exercised personal surveillance over its
opponents. The president’s “magical power” allowed the exercised of tight control over
them. 74 But, above all, the president’s rapprochement through portraits was an indication
of both the abolition and maintenance of distance. 75 He was far away in Léopoldville-
Kinshasa while, at the same time, he was present in people’s houses as “tangible,
palpable, and visible” material. 76 A former militaire of the 1960s strongly confirmed in
an interview that it was their responsibility to maintain this rapprochement by the
president.

Our task was to show to people that Zaire, as a state, had a president; and that
all those who went against the will of the president would be punished. [...]
When we wanted to punish, we would do so without any hesitation. […] We
had to ensure that those we were punishing no longer went back to past
mistakes. [...] In the late 1960s, when I began my military career, those that we
arrested for the Mulele case, we had to ensure that each of them got a portrait
or an effigy of the president when they were released. [...] We would ask them
to put them up in their houses [...] We would tell them that the president
himself was going to watch them. [...] He would be with them, live among
them, and participate in their lives. [...] We would remind them that the
president was endowed with magical powers. […] He could multiply
whenever he wanted and listen to their conversations in what form they were.
[...] We would tell them that the president could read their thoughts, including
their intensions. [...] We would remind them that the president was a leopard
and that his portrait could anytime […] devour those who would think about
Mulele again. [...] This is how we proceeded. 77

74
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014. On the magical aspect of the
president, see Pius Ngandu Nkashama, Les magiciens du repentir: Les confessions du frère Dominique
(Sakombi Inongo), Paris: L’Harmattan, 1995; John F. Clark, “Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire as a
Nondemocratic Presidential Leader,” in Lyn Graybill and Kenneth W. Thompson (eds), Africa’s Second
Wave of Freedom: Development, Democracy, and Rights, Lanham: University Press of America, 1998, pp.
81-101; Carter Grice, “‘Happy are those who sing and dance’: Mobutu, Franco, and the Struggle for
Zairian Identity,” MA thesis, Graduate School of Western Carolina University, 2011; and Gary Stewart,
Breakout: Profiles in African Rhythm, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.
75
In Cameroon, Paul Biya proceeded in the same way. See Mbembe, On the Postcolony, p. 153.
76
Ibid.
77
Anonymous (70 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 22 December 2013. On the effigy of the president, see
H. Thassinda Uba Thassinda, Zaïre: les princes de l’invisible. L’Afrique noire bâillonnée par le parti
unique, Paris: Editions, 1992, pp. 93-110. On the leopard, see Serge M’Boukou, “Mobutu, roi du Zaïre.
 149

This is how, in the name of a politics of forgetting, people’s imagination became the
subject of control alongside their physical bodies. The authorities were convinced that
the distribution of portraits of the president should have an effect on the imagination of
those on whom they sought to impose forgetting. But, they were also aware of the fact
that the mere distribution of the portraits was not enough to bring the figure of the
president to the core of his detractor’s lives. Thus, they resolved to maintain a dose of
coercion on the people, to whom they promised protection and freedom, to get them to
comply. 78
The principle was, therefore, to infiltrate information officers among former
prisoners, to ensure that the latter had kept the portraits of the president on their walls. 79
The implication was that there was virtually no limit to what the president could do. He
could tear their flesh and organs apart and break their bones. 80 He could drink their blood
and, in so doing, demonstrate the locus of his excessive power and brutality. 81 It was
known that he was “the all-powerful warrior who, because of his endurance and
inflexible will to win, goes from conquest to conquest, leaving fire in his wake.” 82 Strong
emphasis was put on the fact that he was an absolute subjectivity, “god.” 83 As such, he
could surround everyone and have dealings with them; especially because they had not
managed to replace him with Mulele.84 All of this contributed to people permanently
living in fear, as this man remembers:

Living during the Mobutu [era] was painful. […] Every morning I had to kneel
down in front of his portrait. […] I had to testify continuously my loyalty in
front of his portrait. I was supposed to do this every morning […] as [my]
morning prayers. […] This is something I could not get over. […] I was

Essai de socio-anthropologie politique à partir d’une figure dictatorial,” Le Portique [En ligne], 5-2007 |
Recherches, mis en lignes le 06 décembre 2007. Accessed on 11 February 2016.
URL:http://leportique.revues.org/1379.
78
Anonymous (70 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 22 December 2013.
79
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014; and Cyril Mukelenge (73 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
80
See Chapter 2 of this thesis.
81
See Etono’s testimony above and Chapter 2 of this thesis.
82
This is the meaning of Mobutu’s full name, Sese Seko Kuku Ngbendu wa za Banga, which he adopted
in 1972 onward.
83
See Unna Stannard, A Few Kind Words about Hate: The Dark Side of Family Life and the Bible, San
Francisco: Germainbooks, 2006, pp. 42-43.
84
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014; and Cyril Mukelenge (73 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
 150

constantly being monitored. […] I even became suspicious of my own wife

and children because you never know who is going to betray you. […] Who
could stand against Mobutu? […] Papa, no one. […] There was no way to
escape. 85

This is the point to which the obsession with controlling people and forcing them to
forget their past experiences led. The authorities maintained this logic to the point of
getting themselves immersed in a regime of indistinctiveness. The regime even targeted
who criticised the rebellion in art. It confiscated these artworks in the name of the
politics of forgetting. The artists were told to stop bringing the “pervasive” name of
Mulele to the surface. Justin Kaziama is one of those people who experienced the
arbitrariness of the regime, for defying the president’s authority. In 1971 he brought to
life a substantial critique of the Mulele rebellion through his play La mort de l’abbé
Lankwan. 86 It led not only to the arrest of all actors, but also to their intensified
surveillance.

The deputy commissioner called the head of my school and said to him:
‘Before we release your teacher, he must reassure us that: 1. He will no longer
make plays for the theater, neither here in the town of Idiofa nor in other parts
of the territory of Idiofa. He must guarantee us that he will keep his promise.
2. He must bring us all the texts, manuscripts, and typescripts [...] that he and
his students used for the production of this play. We will burn them. […] No
one will have access to these documents again. 3. He must reassure us that,
from now on, he will pay attention to the type of readings that he will provide
his students with. No more anti-revolutionary readings. 4. He must promise to
everyone that he will never convey messages that go against the president
personality nor against his ideology. 5. And you, his head of school, from now
on you will ensure that he is transmitting good quality of education to his
students. [...]’ These are the conditions under which the Commissioner of the
zone released me. […] I lost my freedom [...] The security services were
constantly watching me. [...] I stayed in Idiofa for a while. Then I decided to
leave. 87

The above testimonies show how the regime was deeply invested in its politics of
forgetting. It did not matter that someone was critiquing the rebellion; what was taken
exception to was that the name and the presence of Mulele were highlighted in people’s
imaginations. From 1963 onwards, the regime was at war with this name and its

85
Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
86
Abbé Adolphe Lakwan was a priest of the Diocese of Idiofa. He was arrested and killed in 1965 by the
rebels in his attempt of running away from the maquis.
87
Justin Kaziama (60 years old), oral interview, 1 December 2013.
 151

presence. Hence it felt the need to censor the play and impose a strict control over all
persons involved in it, as well as its means of production and dissemination of
knowledge.

The “re-incarnation” of Mulele: Mourning, ghost, and forgetting

The regime’s ambiguities analysed above, and the suffering that these ambiguities
caused, led many people to become suspicious of the regime. If it was true that Mobutu
had killed the man who had threatened his regime, why did he continue to mistreat
them? 88 Why was the government working so hard to deprive them of their freedom of
thinking, if the man who constituted the threat was dead? 89 Why did the government
keep doing this? 90 Why did it not allow them to live in peace? Why did they continue to
have to subject themselves to this regime? 91 These are some of the questions that people
affected by this regime began to ask themselves in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The
treatment of Mulele’s body after his death, as well as the absence of any burial of the
body, reinforced these suspicions even more. 92 The testimony by Osam illustrates this:

They said they killed him, but where did they bury him? Before Mulele left, he
recommended that we return to our villages. [...] He said he went to seek
reinforcements in Brazzaville [...] He advised that we return to our respective
villages and go wait for him. [...] We were surprised when we learned that he
was killed. [...] If, indeed, he had been killed, where had they buried him? […]
What did they do to his body? [...] This man, we had seen him doing
extraordinary things; how could he let himself be killed without escaping? [...]
Besides, Mulele had all the power. [...] He could turn into anything. [...] He
could become a woman or a girl. [...] We used to call him Eniang Mvul
[Raindrop]. How could someone kill a raindrop? [...] Whenever the militaires

88
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
89
Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; and Cyril Mukelenge (73 years
old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
90
Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
91
Ibid. My interpretation.
92
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; Bastin Bembo (66 years old), oral
interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; and Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23
December 2013. In terms of the treatment reserved for the body of Mulele, it is clear in Faccia Di Spia
(1973), a film directed by Giuseppe Ferrara, that Mulele was an object of dismemberment and several
mutilations. In 1977, the former governor of Bandundu province, Daniel Monguya Mbenge, confirmed
these facts in his Histoire secrète du Zaïre: l’autopsie de la barbarie au service du monde (Bruxelles:
Editions de l’espérance, 1977). In 1985, Ludo Martens took up this story in his book Pierre Mulele ou la
seconde vie de Lumumba.
 152

wanted to arrest him, he disappeared and reappeared on the other side. [...] We
were very surprised to hear that they killed him. If it is true they killed him,
where did they bury him? [...] Where did they put his body? Mulele could not
be killed. For the record, he continued to live with us. [...] We saw him many
times appearing to us […] and giving us his instructions. [...] Whenever he
came back, he would go and sleep at my friend’s place. 93

These are the mysteries that surrounded Mulele’s death. Apart from the skepticism
that it created among Mulele’s followers, it left many of them in a situation where it was
impossible to mourn. Osam’s testimony seems to be, at first glance, phantasmagorical.
But a close reading of them shows that, to a large extent, it is this impossibility of
mourning that was at stake. In addition to the fact that “the contract” between them, the
living, and the dead had not been broken—which is the opposite of Filip de Boeck’s
postcolonial “beyond the grave” 94—this impossibility of mourning led Mulele’s
followers to keep the dead Mulele among them. They could revive him in their
imagination, talk to him and interact with him, despite all of the regime’s prohibitions
against interiorizing or exteriorizing Mulele in any form whatsoever. They could let
themselves be entertained by him. 95 They could bear his name in their thoughts, while
being unable to locate and identify his corpse and his remains. 96 They could appropriate
him as an image and, as such, internalize him and incorporate him within themselves, in
a form of “cannibalistic consumption.” 97 This way of proceeding to keep the dead alive,
because of a lack of a corpse and the absence of a burial, reflects what Jacques Derrida
evokes in his theory of specters, even though he is writing from within a European
context: “[Mourning] consists always in attempting to ontologize remains, to make them
present, in the first place by identifying the bodily remains and by localizing the dead.”
For these identifications and localizations to take place in good condition,

[o]ne has to know. One has to know it. One has to have knowledge. […] to
know is to know who and where, to know whose body it really is and what

93
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013. Even now, he still does not believe that
Mulele was killed. When he received me in his house, he said to me: “Who knows if you are not Mulele.
Mulele used to take many forms. He could present himself like a young man like you.”
94
De Boeck and Plissart, Kinshasa..., p. 82.
95
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
96
Cyril Mukelenge (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
97
Sean Gaston, The Impossible Mourning of Jacques Derrida, London: Continuum, 2006, p. 2. See also
Jacques Derrida, The Work of Mourning, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas, Chicago-London:
University of Chicago Press, 2001, p. 159.
 153

place it occupies—for it must stay in its place. In a safe place. […] Nothing
could be worse, for the work of mourning, than confusion or doubt: one has to
know who is buried where—and it is necessary (to know—to make certain)
that, in what remains of him, he remains there. Let him stay there and move no
more! 98

The impossibility of getting rid of Mulele, as well as the incapacity to locate and
identify the remains of his body, had certain consequences. It left many of Mulele’s
followers in an interminable period of waiting. For most of them, Mulele’s life has never
ended. His life, as well as his living self, have never been interrupted. Hence the firm
belief that he will come back, a coming back that lies not far in the future. 99 Because
Mulele had the power to transmogrify and turn into something else, 100 all would begin,
to use Derrida’s words, “in the imminence of a reapparition,” “a reapparition” of his
spirit “as apparition for” the second time. 101 They strongly believe in such a return
because of the “agreement or the contract signed” between them and Mulele. While
Mulele was among them, they took on the responsibility of remaining faithful and loyal
to him. They promised to fight against any form of conspiracy against Mulele. 102 They
promised to work, even unto the ultimate sacrifice, to preserve the life of their leader.
After the departure of Mulele to Brazzaville, most of his followers renewed their
commitment:

We had to hold on to our promise. […] When he was among us, we promised
that we would protect him. And that nobody would betray him. [...] This is
what we did. We kept our promise and nobody betrayed him. 103

He remained among people as a fish in water. […] All this time, from 1963 to
1968, he stayed in a small territory. […] The central government mobilized
enormous resources. They even resorted to anti-Castro, the Cuban counter-
revolutionaries […] They sent them to villages to capture Mulele. But they

98
Derrida, Specters of Marx..., p. 9. See also Augustin Nsanze, “Le deuil du passé est-il possible?,”
Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 44, 173-174 (2004), pp. 420-425; and Igor Kopytoff, Ancestors as Elders in
Africa, New York: Bobbs-Merill, 1971. The same happened for Lumumba. See Bogumil Jewsiewicki and
Bob W. White, “Mourning and the Imagination of Political Time in Africa. Introduction,” African Studies
Review 48, 2 (2005), pp. 1-9; Tshonda, Lumumba, drame sans fin…, pp. 221-262; and Bogumil
Jewsiewicki, “Corps interdits: la représentation christique de Lumumba comme rédempteur du peuple
zairois,” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 36, 141-142 (1996), pp. 221-262.
99
Ernest Kiangu (60 Years old), phone call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016.
100
On this aspect, see Chapter 2 of this thesis.
101
Derrida, Specters of Marx..., p. 4.
102
Adolphe Kuma Kuma (76 years old), oral interview, Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
103
Placide Ngay (77 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 17 November 2013.
 154

could not capture him. […] Why? Because people had signed an agreement
with Mulele. They had promised to protect him despite everything that could
happen to them. 104

[In 1968], when he was about to take leave from us, he recommended that we
return to our villages. […] He said to us that he went to seek reinforcements
and that he would return. [...] These were his own words. [...] He said he
would come back. [...] We were sure and certain that he would come back.
That is the reason we went back to our villages to wait for him. 105

This was the psychological atmosphere that prevailed at the time. The combined
elements of the harassment by the regime, the mystery surrounding Mulele’s death, the
impossibility of grieving and mourning, as well as the anxious wait for Mulele’s return
caused people to mobilize en masse when, in the late 1970s, a prophet by the name of
Kasongo suddenly made his appearance in the region. Kasongo proclaimed to be Mulele
“re-incarnated.” With this re-incarnation, the memory of the rebellion that the authorities
had sought to contain resurfaced. No one could speak of anything else but this man, the
“new” Mulele. No one could think of anything anymore, except only of this specter, the
becoming-body, the “new” Mulele. 106 Even though Kasongo had a body and attachments
to the land, Mulele’s followers firmly believed that he was an absence; something not
really existing. 107 They were convinced that he was the “living repetition” of Mulele, the
“regenerating reviviscence” of his spirit. 108
These “ghostly” and “magical” ways of thinking were largely dependent on the ways
in which Kasongo, the “new” Mulele, introduced himself to the region. His life mirrored
that of the “old” Mulele. Kasongo was primarily a “vagabond.” He entered the region
from the north of Idiofa. He settled in sector Banga. After being dislodged by the
authorities, he went to Madimba sector and later on to Lukamba. He set up his
headquarters in Mulembe, at the very same location where the “old” Mulele had
established his headquarters. And as the “old” Mulele, Kasongo could speak the
language of the “revolution.” He could teach the “revolution” to his followers. He could
teach them how to conquer the keys to power and how to neutralize and overturn

104
Zénon Mibamba (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 30 March 2013.
105
Osam (81 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013.
106
Emile Nkwimi (58 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 18 October 2013.
107
Grégoire Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 November 2013.
108
Derrida, Specters of Marx..., p. 109.
 155

Mobutu’s hegemony. 109 In the same way that administrative officers were considered to
be the representatives of the state power during the “old” Mulele era, they were now
perceived with the “new” Mulele. 110 Kasongo could attack them anytime and, if
necessary, kill them. 111 He could use the same war strategies as the “old” Mulele to
neutralize his enemies. In January 1978, when he started his “revolution,” his followers
used poupous (home-made guns), machetes, sticks, bows, and arrows, exactly as during
the time of the “old” Mulele. Faced with military bullets, his followers filled their
pockets with sand and declared themselves invulnerable, exactly as Mulele’s followers
had done in the 1960s.
Although Kasongo was primarily driven by economic interests, 112 his sudden
appearance was of great value to most of Mulele’s followers. It allowed them to re-
imagine the physical integrity of their leader. It offered them the opportunity of
fantasizing about the presence of their leader. As some of those who were part of the
movement remembered, they could represent him not as an amorphous and motionless
mass but as a presence-absence, as he was now a specter. 113 They could project him as
something that is cast on an imaginary screen. 114 They could visualize him—at the very
moment when they were unhurriedly projecting themselves into the incorporeal world.
At the end of this process they would gain peace, evoke their own memories as in
dreams, and escape from the constraints of time and location. 115 Under such conditions,
the stability and tranquility of mind were quickly retrieved.

We used to go at night to the camp. [...] There was food and drink. [...] There
were big holes, underground deposits, where we used to keep our goods, as at
the time of Mulele. [...] We had everything. [...] We were fine. […] Personally,
I did not get to see Kasongo. He was hiding in a house. But even then we were
reassured that he was Mulele. [...] He would teach us and give us time to
remember Mulele’s marvels. [...] He would give us a time for intense
meditations. [...] Everyone would remain calm. [...] After these moments of
meditation, we would gather in front of his house. Everyone would tell what

109
Emile Nkwimi (58 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 18 October 2013.
110
Insim (70 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
111
Ibid. Also Grégoire Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 November 2013.
112
Kasongo was primarily a traditional healer. He wanted to use the name of Mulele and, in doing so,
extort the population as he knew that the latter would easily be fooled after hearing the name of Mulele.
113
Anonymous (60 years old), phone call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016. Emphasis is mine.
114
Ibid.
115
Ibid.
 156

he had seen during his meditation. […] People would say everything. Some
people would say that they had seen Mulele alongside Lumumba. […] Others
would say that they have seen him sitting beside Kimbangu. Some others
would say that they saw him with a big army that was going to free the country
soon. [...] After all that, we would have the moment of prayers, followed by
healing sessions. People would go one after another in his house. […] They
would not see him, but only listen to his voice. 116

With all of these activities, the camp of the “new” Mulele became not only the place
of production of reverie and fantasy as during the colonial era, but also the site of
remembering the rebellion. 117 The camp became a site par excellence for the
representation of the past, where the move between the corporeal and the incorporeal
world was no longer subjected to any forms of control. 118 Those who attended the camp
declared that they held a portion of the specter. Through a purely paradoxical
incorporation, the “new” Mulele’s followers believe that the specter could confer
Mulele’s powers on them. Following the completion of this process, those who received
the power of the specter could leave their bodies and travel through time. They could
exceed the boundaries of what they could usually express in their language. They could
stutter or go into trance where they could talk with the specter. 119 When ideas were
detached from the specter, Kasongo’s followers would prepare their “bodies” to receive
them. 120 After receiving the ideas, their bodies were, in turn, fused and merged, to use
Derrida’s words (although made in a different context), “by the very subject of the
operation who, claiming the uniqueness of its own body” would then become “the
absolute ghost,” “the ghost of the ghost of the specter.” 121 At the end of such an
operation, the ghost who had become “the ghost of the ghost of the specter”122
engendered several other ghosts, the small ghosts. These, in turn, would also generate
other ghosts, through the spread of the ideas of the previous ghost, the “original” specter,

116
Anonymous (71 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
117
On Nganda (camp) as site of refuge, reverie and fantasy during the Belgian colonization, see Hunt, A
Nervous State..., pp. 80-81, 101-110, 113-116; and Hunt,” Espace, temporalité...,” pp. 115-136.
118
Anonymous (60 years old), phone call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016; and Anonymous (71
years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
119
Anonymous (60 years old), phone call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016.
120
Osam (81 years), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; and Anonymous (60 years old), phone
call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016.
121
Derrida, Specters of Marx..., p. 127.
122
Ibid.
 157

the becoming-body, the “new” Mulele. In so doing, Kasongo could maintain his
lineage. 123 The “new” Mulele based his action in this system of beliefs.
The echoes of this movement were quick to reach the political sphere. The authorities
were very confused. Most of them could not make sense of what was going on. 124 They
did not understand, not because they were ignorant but “because this non-object, this
non-present present, this being-there of an absent or departed one, no longer” belonged
“to knowledge.” 125 They did not understand whether it was living or dead. Even though
they did not speak of Kasongo as Mulele directly, they were confused whether it might
not be Mulele after all. In their anxiety and their obsession with dismembering collective
memories, they decided to conjure away the “new” Mulele, 126 this “presence-absence,”
the becoming-body, the man who brought back to the surface not only the name of their
enemy, but also the popular ideology of resistance. 127
In January 1978, Mobutu sent the Red Berets from camp Tshatshi (Kinshasa) to
occupy the whole territory of Idiofa. 128 The decision was kill Kasongo, he who
condensed himself into people’s lives and overtook their personal identities. Before
making use of the violence of death, the militaires began their procedures by hunting.
They hunted the ghost, as well as those who belonged to his lineage, like animals. To
effectively combat the “new” Mulele, civil authorities of the region were forcibly
militarized. The intelligence services were mobilized. 129 Youths of the MPR were
mobilized and enscripted, alongside the brigadiers of the sectors. They had to assist the
militaires in their efforts of putting people to death. 130 All Idiofa villages, and some
villages of Gungu, were invaded by the militaires. Several people were arrested, but
most of them were killed in the name of both the politics of forgetting and the powerful

123
Osam (81 years), oral interview, Idiofa, 24 November 2013; and Anonymous (60 years old), phone
call, Johannesburg-Kinshasa, 28 January 2016.
124
Ignace Kapitene (72 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 20 December 2013. He was the head of Cité
d’Idiofa in 1978.
125
Derrida, Specters of Marx..., p. 6.
126
Ibid, p. 127.
127
Jewsiewicki, “Pour une histoire compare…,” p. 135.
128
Anonymous (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 December 2013; and Mbo Way (57 years old),
oral interview, Kinshasa, 6 October 2013.
129
Anonymous (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 December 2013.
130
Emile Nkwimi (58 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 18 October 2013.
 158

bureaucratic tradition of fear of resistance that the regime had towards the population.131
One of the intelligence agents who participated in this operation remembers:

The militaires arrived at Idiofa. [...] They were armed to the teeth. They
commanded us to serve as guides. They gave us uniforms. [...] Together we
moved across the villages. [...] They would force the chiefs of the villages to
gather people. [...] They would call the names of those who had gone to
Kasongo’s headquarter. [...] We would put our hands on them and pass them to
the militaires who would then kill them. […] We arrested Impey, a man from
Musenge Mputu. We also arrested Célestin Nsinankutu and Inswey. [...] We
handed them over to the militaires. They killed them at close range in the
bush. […] In my own village, we arrested eight people. [...] I still remember
that the militaires killed a lot of people that day. They buried them in mass
graves in the bush [...]. Those they could not bury were left within reach of the
pigs. [...] Corpses were everywhere. When they began to smell, it was terrible.
No one could stand the smell. 132

If the death given to most of the little ghosts was private—that is, mostly
administered in the bush and not witnessed by the other villagers—the death of the
“new” Mulele took on public qualities. Because Kasongo had made an attempt to raise
the name of Mulele to the surface, the militaires declared absolute ownership over his
body and the right to end his life. 133 Together with fourteen of his disciples, Kasongo
was hanged in Mayunga stadium in Idiofa. 134 Unlike the secretive characteristic of the
assassination of the “old” Mulele, the militaires decided to make Kasongo’s execution a
“highly visible act.” 135 They requested a huge crowd to witness how his body and those
of his followers were “invested by power” 136: the crowd was meant to realize that, as in
the time of the rebellion, the power of the state in Congo-Zaire was primarily based in an
economy of death. The bodies of Kasongo and his followers were smashed with
extraordinary power. The militaires intended to ensure that, in the future, they would no

131
Bastin Bembo (60 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 December 2013; Isidore Ngyum (73 years old),
oral interview, Idiofa, 21 December 2013; Grégoire Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16
November 2013; and Jewsiewicki, “Pour une histoire comparée,” p. 135.
132
Anonymous (60 years old), oral interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 20 October 2013.
133
Isidore Ngyum (73 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 21 December 2013; and Grégoire Engwel (71
years old), oral interview, 16 November 2013.
134
15 people according to the president of Mulele Foundation (Anonymous, “Commémoration du 35ème
anniversaire de la mort de Pierre Mulele,” 14 October 2003, http://www.f-ce.com/cgi-bin/news/pg-
newspro.cgi?id_news=1175, accessed on 17 March 2016).
135
Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 16 October 2013.
136
Mundele (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 November 2013; Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral
interview, Kikwit, 16 October 2013; and Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29
September 2013.
 159

longer come back 137 because, as Derrida reminds us, “the specter is” first and foremost
“the future. […] It is always to come, it presents itself only as that which could come or
come back” again in the future. 138 They assured the crowd of the impossibility of any
further return of the specter, either publicly or in secret. They forced the same crowd to
witness this certainty, as these two men remember:

We were mobilized en masse to see how the man who had caused trouble in
the region was killed. [...] Mobutu decided that Kasongo, as well as his
disciples, should be killed where they were arrested. [...] The militaires
requested Charles Dia’s orchestra. […] There was music to decorate the
hanging scene. We all surrendered to the militaires. They were looking at us.
[…] No one could cry. We had to applaud. 139

Kasongo was killed here outside by the militaires. […] Everything started with
a speech. A militaire gave a long speech: ‘I have been sent by the military
court to execute some people.’ He then mentioned the name of Kasongo. […]
They asked him to stand on the staircase. They forced him to confess. [...]
Then they quickly removed the planks [he was standing on]. […] Kasongo was
suspended in the air. Suddenly he began to urinate. Finished! He was dead.
The militaires cut the rope off. [...] They asked the medical doctor who was
there to confirm that Kasongo was dead. The latter approached the corpse. He
confirmed with certainty that he had died. The militaires shot the corpse to
show the crowd that Kasongo was really dead. 140

Then a bayonet was plunged into his chest. They began to tear his body apart,
in the presence of everyone. After that they threw the pieces of his body into
their vehicle. […] It was the end. […] Kasongo was dead. No one could deny
it. 141

Even though the “ghost of the ghost” was killed, the multitude of small ghosts he had
brought to life were eradicated, and people shared the certainty that a future return of the
specter was impossible, the regime’s obsession with controlling people and forcing them
to forget their experiences of the rebellion did not come to an end. On the contrary, the
regime continued to mobilize resources. People’s imaginations remained under
control. 142 The meanings the military invested in Kasongo’s physical body, followed by
the public spectacle of its destruction, revived the trauma of the rebellion that many of

137
Innocent Yamb (56 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013.
138
Derrida, Specters of Marx..., p. 39.
139
Grégoire Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, 16 November 2013.
140
Mundele (57 years old), oral interview, 16 November 2013.
141
Grégoire Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, 16 November 2013.
142
Mbo Way (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 6 October 2013.
 160

them had not confronted for years. The result was that many of the people became
incapable of remembering themselves as integrated beings. 143 The biographies and
trajectories of those who were killed in the bush and buried randomly in mass graves
according to the arbitrary will of the state power became entangled with the landscape.
They continued to haunt the place like ghosts. 144 The name of Mulele and discourse
associated with his name remained banned. Idiofa was declared a red zone of high
political and social conflict for the rest of Mobutu’s reign. Together with Gungu, its
inhabitants were subject to maneuvers by the military operations Nguma I and II in the
1980s. 145 People from the area continued to be arrested and tortured as a result of these
military activities. 146 This is the situation which the politics of forgetting put people into
during the 1970s and 1980s.

The re-invention of Mulele: Facts, friction, and suffering

On 17 May 1997 the troops of the Alliance des Forces pour la Libération du Congo
(AFDL) entered Kinshasa. 147 With this, Mobutu and his regime fell. 148 Laurent Désiré
Kabila took power. 149 This was the beginning of a new era in the history of Congolese
nationalism in general and Mulelism in particular. As with most Congolese nationalists,
the Mulelists were honoured. 150 Many of them were rewarded for their “anti-Mobutu”
and “anti-imperialism” efforts of the 1960s. 151 They recovered the freedom they had

143
Pascal Atum (68 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 4 December 2013; Mbo Way (57 years old), oral
interview, Kinshasa, 6 October 2013; and Mundele (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 November
2013. Atum’s wife had an abortion following the spectacle of the killing of Kasongo and his disciples.
144
Mundele (57 years old), oral interview, Idiofa, 16 November 2013; Emile Kwimi (58 years old), oral
interview, Kwanga Carrefour, 18 October 2013; and Adolphe Kuma Kuma (76 years old), oral interview,
Kikwit Sacré Coeur, 6 August 2015.
145
Mukidi Mbongo (68 years old), oral interview, Gungu, 13 January 2014.
146
Ibid. In Kinshasa, those who defied the power of the president by pronouncing the name of Mulele in
public were arrested. It is the case of Thérèse Pakasa of the Parti Lumumbiste Unifié (PALU), and many
other women of the same political parti. See Anne-Marie Akwety Kale, “Itinéraire politique d’une femme:
Thérèse Pakasa. Du P.S.A. au Palu (1959-1995).” Mémoire D.E.S., Université de Kinshasa, 2011.
147
Reyntjens, The Great African War..., pp. 102-166.
148
Ndaywel è Nziem, Nouvelle histoire du Congo…, p. 604.
149
Ibid.
150
Zénon Mibamba (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 17 September 2013.
151
Ibid.
 161

been denied for years. Now they could talk about Mulele. They could remember him
without worrying about anything. With the new regime giving them this chance, they
could evoke his name in public places without any problem. 152 It was a complete
liberation of the memory of the rebellion. 153
The presence of Faustin Munene as Minister of Interior made things easier. 154
Presenting himself as Mulele’s “spiritual heir,” he devoted all his energy to re-valorizing
and re-inventing Mulele’s memory. 155 His task was to give assistance to the forgotten
dead. 156 He had to exhume Mulele for a “third” life, the first and the second having been

The great Congolese politicians do not intervene directly in all cases. For each
political gang [clan politique], they choose a man they use for that, somehow,
to serve as their vassal. [...] For the Western Front, Laurent Kabila chose
Abdoulaye Yerodia. It was him who should channel all the aspirations and
claims of the people of the West, including the Mulelist. […] Me, for example,
I was appointed Member of the ACL-PT [Assemblée Constituante et
Legislative—Parlement de Transition]. People jostled to submit their
applications at Grand Hotel. Even M’zee Kabila’s political opponents fought
to get there. But I had not submitted an application to become a member of
parliament. I was secretary general in the Administration. [...] One day, we
found ourselves at the Palais du Peuple for a political awakening morning, a
series of encounters organized by the presidency office. [...] They used to
invite the population, executives, in short, everyone. And that day, I
accompanied my Minister of Youth, Mutombo Tshibal. After his speech, I
meet Professor Mupapa. [...] The latter said: ‘Noko [uncle], you were chosen
as deputy. You are going to Lubumbashi as Member of Parliament.’ I asked
him: ‘Noko, how?’ He said: ‘Yes, that is how it is.’ I asked again: ‘But how?’
He said to me: ‘The president asked comrade Yerodia for five people from
Western Front. Yerodia asked me for the name of people he could send to
Lubumbashi. I gave him your name.’ He said: ‘Ah, noko, I was still going to
forget about him!’ You see? I had never sought to become a deputy. I did not
even think about it. But it happened because M'zee Kabila rewarded above all
the revolutionaries.
152
Paul Lama (54 years old), oral interview, 22 September 2013.
153
Ernest Kiangu (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 14 December 2015; Zénon Mibamba (77 years
old), 28 March 2013; Paul Muyenzi (64 years old), oral interview, Kikwit, 16 October 2013; and Grégoire
Engwel (71 years old), oral interview, Idiofa 16 November 2013.
154
This was Mulele’s nephew. He was among the people that the Mobutu regime arrested on 2 October
1968 in Bomboko’s residence, together with Pierre Mulele.
155
Honsek, “Faustin Munene, l’héritier spirituel de Pierre Mulele,” La Solidarité, 4-7 October 1997, no
136, p. 3.
156
Ibid.
 162

brutally stripped away by the Mobutu regime. 157 In an interview in October 1997, he
said:

I remember [...] in prison [...] that night, one last time he [Mulele] said to me:
‘My son, we are stuck. I can escape, but where to? To Brazzaville? There I
will still be taken and it will not do any good. As we are stuck, I want
something of me to remain. They [can] kill me. Let them kill me. Let them do
with me whatever they want. But I want something to remain. I am thinking of
you. If you are ready to serve the revolution; if you can affirm that, I will die
happier.’ 158

The Mulele Foundation, created in June 1995, served as a springboard for this
project. 159 One only has to read press articles published between the 2 and 4 October
1997 in Kinshasa to realize the magnitude of this project. During these three days,
Kinshasa was in an uproar. 160 Grandiose demonstrations were organized by the Mulele
Foundation to commemorate the 29th anniversary of Mulele’s assassination. Countless
events, on an epic scale, were organized to celebrate the anniversary. 161 Members of
government and officials took part. Panel discussions on Mulele’s life, work, ideas and
legacy were held at the Kinshasa Zoo. 162 Poems evoking the immortality of Mulele were
recited. 163 Mulele’s biography was sung by Langung, a folk group from Idiofa. Concerts
featuring nationally acclaimed artists, such as Tabou Ley, were organized. 164 Mulele’s
friends and fellows stood at the podium, one after another testifying to Mulele’s life. 165
There was an unprecedented effervescence. 166 Mulele’s daughter, who took part in this
ceremony, remembers:

It was great! A large crowd of all kinds of people came to discover the
greatness of Pierre Mulele. […] For the first time we gave him the tributes he

157
Paul Lama (54 years old), oral interview, 22 September 2013.
158
Honsek, “Faustin Munene...,” p. 3.
159
M. Lakubu (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 21 September 2013.
160
E. Kiekike, “Réhabilitation de la mémoire de Pierre Mulele,” La Solidarité, 4-7 October 1997, no 136,
p. 3.
161
Ibid.
162
Particularly by Ludo Martens, Pierre Mulele’s hagiographer.
163
Anonymous, “Programme des manifestations pour la célébration du 29me anniversaire de la mort de
l’assassinat de Pierre Mulele,” La Solidarité, 4-7 October 1997, no 136, p. 1. The poem recited by
Georgette Kimpanga was entitled “To die in order to live” (Mort pour vivre).
164
Kiekike, “Rehabilitation...,” p. 3.
165
Especially Léonie Abo, Théophile Bula-Bula, Léon Makasa and Nelly Labut.
166
Zénon Mibamba (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 17 September 2013.
 163

deserved. We showed the world that Mulele was a great man. [...] We showed
everyone that Mulele was the subject of an excessive demonization by
Mobutu. I, who am speaking to you, how many times have I not been
subjected to scorn because of my father? At school, friends used to tell me:
‘Get out of here; your father is a rebel!’ […] One morning you get to school
and you hear people singing in front of the flag: ‘Pipi dongo, nani atiaki tembe
na Mobutu? Mulele atiaki tembe na Mobutu, lelo asuki! [Pipi dongo who
defied Mobutu? Mulele defied Mobutu, today he is no longer!]’ Can you see?
A song professing insults against my father! I guess you understand the pain I
felt at the time as a young Mulele girl! […] Morally, we have suffered in our
lives. We were put to shame. We were told that our father was a rebel. […] It
was said of him that he was an assassin. They never presented his good side.
[…] I, who am talking to you, I have spent my whole life crying. [...] I even
managed to change my name from Mulele to Holele to avoid this moral
suffering. […] How could we go to school? My brother, Benoit, was a rowdy
child. At school, he was the target of everyone. ‘Mulele Rebel,’ this is how
they used to insult him on a daily basis. […] Even if we had to make an effort
to overcome all of these, it was not possible because we were consumed. […]
We suffered terribly. But, from the 2nd to the 4th of October 1997, we managed
to turn the page. It was really great! For the first time in our lives, we could
breathe. 167

The aim of these commemorations was to expand the presence of the dead, Mulele,
into the realm of the living. He had to come back, this time not to be conjured away but
to live forever and serve as a bridge between the living and the dead. He had to come
back so that the forgetting “equation” imposed by the Mobutu regime could be reversed,
from “remembering-forgetting” to “forgetting-remembering.” Paul Lama, one of the
Mulele Foundation staff members explained it as follows: “During the Mobutu regime,
we were forced to forget. But, when Laurent Kabila came into power, things changed
completely. We were asked to remember Mulele.” 168 The tradition of commemorating
the anniversary of his assassination was maintained and continued over the years. The
Mulele Foundation set up exhibitions to spread his memory. 169 Numerous activities were
organized to explain the meaning of his struggle. Congolese historians were approached
by the Foundation to write “a scriptural tomb” to Mulele. 170 The name of Mulele began
to re-capture the Congolese imagination in a new way. 171 On 3 October 2001, Abdoulaye

167
Jeannette Mulele (57 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 16 September 2013.
168
Paul Lama (54 years old), oral interview, 22 September 2013.
169
Ibid.
170
Michel de Certeau, The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley, New York: Columbia University Press,
1988, p. 2.
171
Zénon Mibamba (77 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 17 September 2013.
 164

Yerodia—one of Mulele’s former companions, director of the office of president Laurent

Désiré Kabila between 1997 and 1999 and Foreign Minister between 1999 and late
2000—held a rousing speech. In his address, he raised Mulele to the level of a signifier
and martyr. He invited the population to award him honours worthy of a national hero. 172
He reiterated his loyalty to the memory of the symbol of Mulele. 173 He called all
Congolese to proceed in the same way as him, reminding them of the form of death that
Mulele had been subjected to:

Mulele dead 33 years ago, comes out of a forgetting into which they wanted to
hide him. He stands […] in front of us, as he cannot disappear; he has been
raised to the dignity of a symbol. As you may know, the symbol stands for
something else. [...] We are loyal to the Mulele memory, as we are faithful to
the memory of Lumumba and Kabila. [...] May there arise everywhere [...] the
flames with the names of those who were tortured and executed. The names of
Lumumba, Mpolo Okito, Mulele, Kabila. [...] I pronounce the names of the
victims so that executioners recognize and remember what they did,
particularly the plenipotentiary that led Mulele to the boat, who accommodated
him at his home for three days, to fatten him up, before delivering him to the
ignoble punishment of which we have video images: they cut his hands off
with an ax; they cut his legs off with an ax; they tore out his eyes. Mulele was
still alive! They cut his body into small pieces. [And with the help of a
helicopter,] they scattered the pieces [of his body] in the Congo River. That is
the reason why our dear Pierrot [Pierre] does not have a grave. The ghosts will
say: ‘We dissolved Lumumba’s body in acid; we picked Mulele up in
Brazzaville and we conveyed him to the place of his execution; we also
arrested Lumumba, tortured, and sent him to his execution.’ These crimes
must be remembered and shouted in the face of all ghosts. 174

But above all, in his speech, Yerodia invited everyone to reflect upon the meaning of
the supreme sacrifice which Mulele symbolized. He repeatedly insisted on the fact that
the figure of Mulele was indexical of “the Congolese nation” and that, by identifying
with him and his death, each Congolese person was invited to stand for, index, embody
or instantiate the nation as a whole—and the individual self-sacrifice that made the
transcendent, enduring collectivity possible and imaginable. He strongly recommended
that a special place be reserved for Mulele by each Congolese person to allow his
reproduction and survival, this time in the absolute “deepening” of their imagination.

172
Abdoulaye Yerodia Ndombasi, “Sur quel[le] mort suis-je vivant?” Allocution du Camarade Yerodia
Abdoulaye Ndombasi à l’occasion de la commération de la mort de Pierre Mulele, Kinshasa, 2001, p. 4.
173
Ibid.
174
Yerodia, “Sur quel[le] mort…,” pp. 4-5, 7-9.
 165

Interestingly, he added a comment that resonates with the supreme sacrifice of Jesus
Christ, automatically rehabilitating and re-inventing Mulele:

Our brother and comrade, Mulele, had none of the funeral pomp reserved for
heroes, those who have served their country. We do it for the first time in 33
years. This raises a question. Each of us should reflect on—and answer—the
question that I’ve formulated from Retamar’s poem: ‘We, the survivors, who
are we to survive? Who died for us in jail? Who received in their heart the
bullet that was meant for me? On what death am I alive? His bones incrusted
in mine, the eyes that they tore from him can see from the gaze of my face;
and the hand which is not mine stands at the end of my arm. This hand which
is not mine traces broken words where they no longer survive.’ 175

This great campaign of the rehabilitation of Mulele and his release from oblivion
came to fruition in 2002. The governor of Kinshasa, in discussing what he called the
“historical struggle” led by Mulele in the liberation struggle of the Congo, declared the
death of Mulele as a sacrifice “for the safeguarding of” the Congolese state’s
“independence and sovereignty.” 176 Having considered the duty to immortalize Mulele in
the history of the Congo, he decided, in his order of 8 February 2002, to rename Avenue
de la libération after Pierre Mulele, the man who paid with his life in 1968. 177 With this
the governor assigned Mulele a lieu de mémoire which he had been denied for many
years, in the heart of the Congolese capital. The new Avenue Pierre Mulele became both
a symbol of the reconciliation with loss, the dead Mulele, and a grave for this loss. The
media reported the event lively, considering the “renaming” itself as a form of revenge
against the Mobutu regime:

On 8 February 2002, a moving ceremony was held in central Kinshasa. The

avenue which, in 1968, led Pierre Mulele to his death at Camp Kokolo was
renamed after the martyr [Mulele]. The Minister Abdoulaye Yerodia, who
chaired the ceremony, began his speech with very simple words: ‘I look
forward to unveiling this plaque of Avenue Pierre Mulele.’ His voice breaking
with emotion, he continued: ‘There are not many people to whom it means
something to hear the name of Pierre Mulele. This is not the case for those of
us who have followed him in his fight [...].’ Indeed, the choice of this street is
not the result of any coincidence. This Avenue de la liberation, that will now
bear the name of the chief of maquis of Bandundu, was formerly called

175
Yerodia, “Sur quel[le] mort…,” pp. 11-12.
176
Anonymous, “Pierre Mulele, héros et martyr d’Afrika,” Servir le Peuple, le blog des Nouveaux
Partisans.http://servirlepeuple.over-blog.com/article-pierre-mulele-heros-et-martyr-d-afrika
41243941.html. Accessed on 16 March 2016.
177
Anonymous, “Pierre Mulele...”
 166

‘Avenue des victimes de la rébellion,’ and then ‘Avenue 24 Novembre,’ the day
of Mobutu’s coup in 1965. It is a form of revenge that, today, it becomes
‘Avenue Pierre Mulele.’ Because, as recalled by Abdoulaye Yerodia, ‘Pierre
has no grave. His tomb is the waves of the river, the waves multiplied by the
number of pieces of his body since, while he was still alive, Mulele was sliced,
cut up into pieces, in a place that is always there, on the avenue that bears his
name.’ 178

If these sepulchral mechanics, triggered by the new regime in 1997 and prolonged
until 2010, 179 contributed to re-inventing the name of Mulele in the imagination of the
Congolese, it should be said that it also constituted a form of subjugation for those who
suffered during the rebellion. Men and women whose bodies were marked with
disruptions by the violent interventions of war have seen—and continue to see—in these
practices the manifestation of a political power, both authoritarian and exclusivist; as
intensively devoted as the previous regime to control the minds of its citizens. They have
seen—and continue to see—in these decisions an attempt by a regime to impose a unique
form of remembrance—through the production of an authoritative historical master
narrative which reifies the emergence and the hegemonic presence of Mulele, the man
who brought pain and sorrow in their lives. They have seen—and continue to see—in
these procedures the embodiment of a political power, as strongly devoted as the
previous regime, to transform its citizens into “beings-outside” the world. They have
seen—and continue to see—in these proceedings the manifestation of a political power
characterized by an unprecedented and spectacular blindness, the one that is driven by a
strong desire of imposing a unique form of apprehension of the past in order to only
“totalize the de-totalized totality which” 180 it is. This is what these two people express in
the following testimonies:

The ways in which [my body] was treated [during the rebellion], how different
is it from death itself? [...] The militaires gave me a bullet through my cheeks.
[...] They [literally] destroyed [my organ of language]. [...] They seized my
testicles, they cut them off. What is that? And when they sing: ‘Mulele

178
Anonymous, “Pierre Mulele...”
179
In 2010 General Faustin Munene attempted a coup against Joseph Kabila. Since then, the name of
Mulele has been banished again from the public sphere; this time, because of its association with Munene’s
name.
180
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., p. 357.
 167

asekwa! [May Mulele resurrect!],’ where does that put me? […] Where is my
place? Don’t I deserve to be treated with dignity and honour? 181

These are the scars that we will continue to carry throughout our lives. We will
never forget about them. [...] The day they took the decision to rehabilitate
Mulele, it was a big humiliation for us. [...] They showed us that we are […]
only the figures of indignity; people mingled here and there for scraps of a
derisory humanity. [...] They belittled us and, more than that, they force us to
continuously live with an unbearable pain. [...] This is something we will take
up for infinity. […] And what is ridiculous is the fact that they got up one
morning and decided to rename an avenue in the heart of the city after Mulele.
What is that? It is like all the evil that this man did to us was not enough. […]
Now they come forcefully to impose to the [very] same people the man who
hurt them badly. [...] Isn’t this a kind of violence on the people? [...] Isn’t this a
way of continuing to insult the same people whom this man made suffer? [...]
Isn’t this a [form] of colonization? […] And you want people to applaud you!
[...] What about those who died prematurely in the bush? […] What about
those who lost their lives in the midst of the forest and whose bodies we could
not locate? Are they also going to be proclaimed martyrs? This is unacceptable
[and] painful. 182

But above all, the same people whose bodies were marked by disruptions have
seen—and continue to see—in these decisions a “gruesome” performance of a “sadistic”
behavior by the state. In their own words, this “sadistic” behavior is characterized by
“tenacity.” 183 As the previous regime, the new one is strongly engaged in a “for-itself”
kind of relationship. It is engaged in this form of relationship to the extent of seeing itself
as engaged, while intentionally ignoring the consequences of this engagement for those
who suffered during the rebellion. It persists in this “for-itself” form of relationship and
colonizes its subjects. It invests in their minds to the point of incarnating in them,
184
through the violence of speech, the other, Mulele, the man who brought the rebellion
that left them in unbearable pain and suffering.
This new form of state sadism is what many of them understood as “appropriation”
because, as Sartre reminds us, “the object of sadism is” first and foremost “immediate
appropriation.” 185 It is appropriation in so far as “it seeks to strip the other of the acts
which hide him. […] It enjoys being a free appropriating power confronting a freedom

181
Eugène Kitoto (80 years old], oral interview, Kikwit, 7 August 2015.
182
Frade Zunga Zunga (58 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 8 August 2015.
183
Anonymous (59 years old), oral interview, Kinshasa, 9 August 2015; and Anonymous (58 years old),
oral interview, Kinshasa, 29 September 2013.
184
See Yerodia’s speech above.
185
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., p. 375.
 168

captured by flesh.” 186 But since the culture of inflicting physical pain on the flesh
belonged to the past, the sadist—that is, the new regime—enjoys “confronting a freedom
captured” by the minds of its subjects. It enjoys making suffering more apparent by
“consciously” treating those who suffered during the rebellion as instruments:
decomposing their minds, getting hold of their freedom and capacity of imagining and
freely interpreting their past; as well as forcing them to remain subjectively crushed as
they used to be during the Mobutu regime. Hence the presence of frustration,
disappointments, and disapproval on the side of the injured people, as shown in the
testimonies above. This is where the reversal of the remembering “equation,” from
“remembering-forgetting” to “forgetting-remembering,” led those living with disruptions
in their bodies.

186
Sartre, Being and Nothingness..., p. 375.
 169

187
Figure 14: Cyril Mukelenge showing his scars

Conclusion

Every political regime in Congo from the late 1960s up to the present has dealt with the
memory of the Mulele rebellion in different ways. Through fragments of stories, this
chapter looked deeply into this history in order to understand the ways in which this
politics has been constructed since the late 1960s. During the Mobutu regime, this
politics was incredibly violent. The regime distinguished itself by its ability to configure
a set of strategies to enforce silence and create a public forgetting about Mulele. In this
manner, the regime shifted the focus of control from the physical (or actual bodies) to the
mental, the mind or the imagination. This is to show that relations of domination during

187
Photo by author, Idiofa, 23 December 2013.
 170

the Mobutu regime were very powerful because even the mental fields of its citizens
were controlled by power relations. This way of proceeding, which consists of setting up
a variety of strategies to control people and force them to forget images of their
experiences of the rebellion, was primarily to do violence to these people. It was also to
impose a regime of suffering on these people and deprive them of their fundamental
freedom to remember their own past. It was to condemn their minds to constantly
navigate between “wanting not to know” and “wanting not to tell” or transmit these
experiences of the past.
The result of this new form of control was that people were doomed to fall back on
themselves as fragmented “bodies” and live piecemeal between the corporeal world—the
body—and the incorporeal world—the world of memory. Because they were not allowed
to share the images of these memories, all their lives became fragmented and they
themselves became fragmented people. In the real world, they would live in fear. While
moving to the incorporeal world to seek refuge, they would feel as if they were
continuously being watched by the same power, the state.
This new form of control proved to be “partially” a failure, given the fact that
memories of Mulele merely became private or secret and that the potential for a ghostly
avatar that would re-publicize those memories always remained, as evidenced by
Kasongo. The advent of Kabila in 1997 as well as the inversion of the injunction to
forget Mulele after he came to power left Mulele’s victims feeling equally and mentally
“colonized” by the political memory-work of the new regime.
 Conclusion

Summary of arguments

This thesis is about a moment that is relatively forgotten in the history of decolonization
in Africa: the period that almost immediately followed the declaration of independence
and transfer of sovereignty from colonial authorities to the authorities of the new states.
In a number of countries, this period was characterized by conflict, most of them calling
into question the legitimacy of the new states. This was the case of the Congo in the
1960s when the political sphere was dominated by a cycle of contestations and the
national territory was torn apart by a spiral of violence in an event called the Mulele
rebellion. 1
Naming, transcribing, documenting, and analysing the suffering caused by this
rebellion was one of the goals of this thesis. How this suffering was inscribed in the
imaginary of the survivors—and, indirectly, the Congolese State and different political
regimes in power in Kinshasa from the 1960s to the present—was also the subject of
exploration. It is the overall question of the “imaginaries of suffering” that lay at the core
of analysis. Four meanings were given to the concept of suffering: suffering as what a
person experiences in the concrete conditions of the rebellion; suffering understood as
what a person experienced in the body during the rebellion; suffering as what the “body”
remembers because it carries visible marks, recognizable by the self and others; and
suffering as what leaves marks in the minds of the suffering subject. The thesis used the
voices of the victims and the testimonies of the witnesses for a deep analysis of power,
its meaning, and the interplay of forces between power, suffering, and memory.
The thesis draws upon debates from philosophy, history, anthropology, literary
studies, and medical humanities published over the last thirty years by scholars from
Europe, Asia, the Americas and Africa. Key theoretical inspiration was drawn from the
work of Georges Bataille, Deleuze, Michel Foucault, Reinhardt Koselleck, Achille
Mbembe, Jean-Paul Sartre, Martin Heidegger, Jacques Derrida, Elaine Scarry, Jean-Luc

1
See Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem, “Du Congo des rebellions au Zaïre des pillages,” Cahiers d’Etudes
Africaines 38, 150-152 (1998), pp. 417-439.
 172

Nancy, Frantz Fanon Nancy Rose Hunt, Walter Benjamin, Cornelius Castoriadis, Paul
Ricœur, Jean-Pierre Vernant and Sabine Melchior-Bonnet.
The analysis led to five major conclusions. Firstly, violent conflicts in their nature
always shatter the mental, temporal, and spatial frameworks from which people make
sense of their lives. The thesis shows that when the conflicts in Congo broke out, and
accompanied by violence, terror, and actual physical movements, they ruptured the
previous logics of daily life that people used to make sense of their lives. Not only did
this affect the physical bodies of people, but it also affected the relationship of the self
and the environment. To grasp the meaning of suffering produced by such conflicts and
its inscription in the imagination of people necessitates the mobilization of a variety of
approaches: from philosophy and the study of (un)consciousness to phenomenology and
the study of affect.
Secondly, the rebellion and the Congolese state had a particular way of inflicting pain
and suffering on the bodies of its subjects: its enemies. This—way of inflicting pain—
strongly relied upon a triple logic of cruelty, excess, and sadism. It consisted of seizing
people and torturing them until their bodily integrity was violated. It followed them
beyond death and beyond all suffering. It humiliated and annihilated them in their
present actuality to the extent of inscribing pain and suffering into the future for those
who remained alive, as living “bodies.”
Thirdly, the thesis demonstrates that the scars and marks left on the bodies of the
subjects tortured during the rebellion—including those who were accidently injured—
have the ability of producing and reproducing suffering in the longue durée, as long as
those who bear them live. This may apply to most—if not all—post-conflict situations,
not only in the region explored in this thesis. To be tortured during the rebellion was
unimaginably terrible. But the suffering did not end there. There was something beyond
that, something even more important, that caused a kind of psychic suffering which not
only exceeded the physical, but also extended itself across time. This happened first and
foremost at the moment of the encounter of the self with the mirrored image of itself, a
deformed image, a non-recognizable image, a representation which is also a monster of
oneself. It also happened at the termination of time, when a person, the scarred “body,”
decided he had had enough of seeing his life breaking down continuously. It finally
happened at the moment of the involvement of the scarred “body” in social relations with
others.
 173

Fourthly, the thesis shows that efforts by the state and quasi-state authorities to put in
place a variety of strategies to force people to forget their past experiences, or to force
them to remember those experiences in a particular way, was to do violence to these
people. It was also to maintain a regime of suffering on these people and deprive them of
their fundamental freedom to remember their own past. It was to condemn their minds to
constantly navigate between “wanting not to know” and “wanting not to tell” or transmit
these experiences of the past. As is extensively shown in the thesis, the result in the
context of the Mulele rebellion was that people were doomed to fall back on themselves
as fragmented “bodies” and live piecemeal between the corporeal world—the body—and
the incorporeal world— the world of memory.
Finally, the thesis explores the interplay of forces between power, memory, and
suffering. This interplay is complex. It does not form a simple interlocking form, with a
power-memory pair opposing a power-suffering pair. Ths istuation rather takes a
triangular form of power, memory, and suffering. Its mode of operation follows a pattern
of power producing suffering, in the first instance, during the rebellion. It is because of
power that the bodies of the subjects were assaulted at that time. That same power was
the reason for pain, objectification, torture, anger and fear beaing spread. Suffering was
embodied into this “original” power [pouvoir originel]. But what made this suffering
continue long into the future was memory. Particular forms of memory were
continuously evoked through power. Power, as the transmission belt of memory, always
generates suffering. It moves between spaces, keeping the “energy” up and continuously
changing itself. At the same time, it changes the other that is the suffered “body.” Power
does not flow from a particular person or memory. It is outside of bodies and memory. It
is because of power that memory reverberates across time and takes new forms. It is
because of the same power that memory can never heal and continues to produce
suffering.

Challenges, contributions, and perspectives for the future

Writing a thesis on the Congo from South Africa can never be easy. One does not always
have the documentation needed as scholarly literature in French is not easily accessible
in Johannesburg. The same applies to the Congo itself where little scholarly literature is
available in English and where it is hard to find archival materials relating to the post-
colonial era. As a result researchers are forced to work with “absences.” Despite the
 174

paucity of the data, I humbly believe that the thesis has made some significant theoretical
interventions. One such intervention relates to disciplinary methodological debates. The
thesis argues for a confluent approach, one not contained by conventional
historiographical, ethnographic or philosophical frameworks. This approach can be
useful to scholars working in repressive postcolonial contexts where debates, critical
historical research, and dissenting views are curtailed.
A second intervention lies in the relationship between place and memory—lieu de
mémoire—which scholars, often historians, have looked at separately. When discussing
suffering on the body, writers from Elaine Scarry to Veena Das have focused on
corporeal suffering. This thesis proposes that it is necessary to consider four elements—
the landscape, the body, the scars, the mind or memory—in a way that allows these to be
part of a unified structure. It has done so by bringing them into conversation with
existing and insightful theoretical and historical works.
A third intervention is how the thesis has approached the analysis of disability. There
is a big divide between pessimistic and optimistic approaches in the study of disability. 2
This thesis suggests a different direction, neither the first nor the second, but rather
argues that the wound from the rebellion remains active across time and space.
The last intervention relates to the historiography of the Mulele rebellion. The themes
that have attracted the attention of scholars since the 1960s, as I discussed in the
introduction, are issues of ideology, political radicalization, mass mobilization, socio-
political analysis of the rebels, their identities, the causes of the rebellion, the ambiguous
features of the movement, the Mulele rebellion as an illustration of the processes which
led to the founding and development of social movements in the Third World after 1945,
the role of international powers in the Congo crisis, Mulele’s action as a rebellion or
revolution, Pierre Mulele as second Patrice Lumumba, the Mulele rebellion as “social
theory,” and Pierre Mulele between treachery and heroism. I have expanded these
themes by focusing on questions of the imaginaries of suffering, places, the body, and
the relationship between power, memory and suffering.

2
See, for example, Ernest Cole, Theorizing the Disfigured Body: Mutilation, Amputation, and Disability in
Post-conflict Sierra Leone, Trenton: Africa World Press, 2014.
 175

This thesis studies suffering in one very particular place and time, the Congo during
the Mulele rebellion of the 1960s. Its findings indicate, however, that there is a need for a
much wider, comparative study of the history of suffering across the world, a study that
would break all bounds of a dissertation. It is a task for the intrepid.
 Bibliography

Archives

Hoover Institution Archives. Stanford University. California, United States.

Collection: Conseil national de libération (Congo) Commandement des forces armées

populaires. Etat major général records (abbreviated as Archives Conseil National)

Private collections

Ernest Kiangu (Kinshasa), photographs in the author’s possession.

Kibari Nsanga (Kikwit), interview with N.M. Muntunzambi in the late 1980s.
Handwritten note book in the author’s possession.

Interviews

Kinshasa

Anonymous. 59 years old. 9 August 2015.

Anonymous. 58 years old. 29 September 2013.
Atum, Pascal. 67 years old. 2 October 2013 and 4 December 2013
Kaziama, Justin. 60 years old. 1 December 2013.
Kiangu, Ernest. 57 years old—in 2013. 20 September 2013, 23 March 2015, and 14
December 2015.
Kimbamba, Anaclet. 65 years old. 7 October 2013.
Labila, Isidore. 62 years old. 3 August 2015.
Lakubu, M. 57 years old. 21 September 2013.
Lama, Paul. 54 years old. 22 September 2013.
Matalatala, Baudouin. 57 years old. 30 September 2013.
Mibamba, Zénon. 77 years old. 28 March 2013 and17 September 2013.
Mulele, Jeannette. 57 years old. 16 September 2013.
Muliongo, Alidor. 53 years old. 3 August 2015 and 19 December 2015.
Muyenzi, Paul. 64 years old. 16 September 2013.
Nagadala, Donatien. 71 years old. 1 October 2013.
Ndiang Kabul. 67 years old. 30 March 2013.
Niepela, Angelique. 77 years old. 3 August 2015.
Nzamba, Marie. 60 years old—in 2013. 26 March 2013.
Palambwa, Daniel. 83 years old. 23 September 2013.
 177

Way, Mbo. 57 years old. 6 October 2013.

Yamb, Innocent. 56 years old—in 2013. 29 September 2013.
Yembele, Frédérique. 60 years old. 3 October 2013.
Zunga Zunga, Frade. 56 years old—in 2013. 29 September 2013 and 8 August 2015.
Zunga Zunga, Odette. 66 years old. 29 September 2013.

Kikwit

Bipele, Jules. 55 years old. 15 October 2013.

Dema, Viviane. 75 years old. 1 November 2013.
Ilo, Barthelemy. 62 years old. 19 October 2013.
Kasay, Eugide. 55 years old. 14 October 2013.
Kitoto, Eugène. 78 years old—in 2013. 1 November 2013 and 7 August 2015.
Kuma Kuma, Adolphe. 74 years old—in 2013. 22 November 2013 and 6 August 2015.
Kuma Kuma, Jacques. 66 years old. 6 August 2015.
Lakung, Agnès. 55 years old. 16 October 2013.
Mafuta, Delphin. 75 years old. 22 October 2013.
Mankieta, Georgine. 65 years old—in 2013. 22 November 2013 and 6 August 2015.
Mbwisi, Prospère. 66 years old. 22 November 2013.
Mokwabu, Gode. 55 years old. 17 October 2013.
Nzamba, Marie. 62 years old. 9 August 2015.
Pablo, Bokilo. 65 years old. 24 October 2013.
Yamba, Prospère. 62 years old. 24 October 2013.

Idiofa

A., Willy. 40 years old. 16 December 2013.

Akwanga, Godelieve. 80 years old. 15 December 2013.
Andiang, Palmie. 75 years old. 24 November 2013.
Anonymous. 71 years old. 21 December 2013.
Anonymous. 70 years old. 22 December 2013.
Bembo, Bastin. 66 years old. 16 December 2013.
Bongongo, Bonaventure. 70 years old. 16 December 2013.
Engwel, Grégoire. 71 years old. 16 November 2013.
Fam, Eulalie. 59 years old. 16 December 2013.
Izingamio, Adolphine. 64 years old. 15 December 2013.
 178

Kapita. 55 years old. 17 November 2013.

Kapitene, Ignace. 72 years old. 20 December 2013.
Kambembo, Théophane. 57 years old. 18 November 2013.
Kifokie, Fidéline. 63 years old. 16 November 2013.
Mabwa, Clémentine. 63 years old. 23 December 2013.
Mukela, Bertin. 70 years old. 23 December 2013.
Mukela, Emmanuel. 67 years old. 23 December 2013.
Mukelenge, Cyril. 73 years old. 23 December 2013.
Mundele. 57 years old. 16 November 2013.
Ngay, Placide. 77 years old. 17 November 2013.
Ngo, Hortense. 63 years old. 22 November 2013.
Ngyum, Isidore. 73 years old. 21 and 23 November 2013.
Osam. 81 years old. 24 November 2013.

Gungu

Kakesa, Elie. 79 years old. 12 January 2014.

Kambembo, Sévérin. 68 years old. 14 January 2014.
Kumpani, Delphin. 75 years old. 12 January 2014.
Lozo, Philemon. 74 years old. 12 January 2014.
Mambole Mudikanga. 72 years old. 14 January 2014.
Mukidi Mbongo. 68 years old. 13 January 2014.
Mukwangu, Nestor. 79 years old. 12 January 2014.

Kwanga Carrefour

Anonymous. 60 years old. 20 October 2013.

Anonymous. 71 years old. 20 October 2013.
Anonymous. 64 years old. 27 October 2013.
Insim. 70 years old. Kwanga Carrefour. 20 October 2013.
Mpungu, Eugenie. 75 years old. Kwanga Carrefour. 20 October 2013.
Nkwimi, Emile. 58 years old. 18 October 2013.

Kwanga Nganzi

Kipoy. 78 years old. 20 October 2013.

 179

Lukamba

Mayo, Jean. 75 years old. 2 November 2013.

Ntumu. 71 years old. 2 November 2013.

Luano

Etono, Tony. 70 years old. 26 October 2013.

Phone calls

Andiang, Palmie. 77 years old. Kikwit-Idiofa. 8 August 2015.

Anonymous. 60 years old. Johannesburg-Kinshasa. 28 January 2016
Kiangu, Ernest. 60 years old. Johannesburg-Kinshasa. 28 January 2016.
Ngay, Placide. 82 years old. Kikwit-Idiofa. 8 August 2015,
Nzonzele, Evariste. 80 years old. Kikwit-Idiofa. 8 August 2015.
Osam. 83 years old. Kikwit-Idiofa. 8 August 2015.

Newspapers

Courrier d’Afrique.
La Solidarité.

Theses and dissertations

Akwety Kale, Anne-Marie. “Itinéraire politique d’une femme: Thérèse Pakasa. Du

P.S.A. au Palu (1959-1995).” Mémoire D.E.S., Université de Kinshasa, 2011.
Grice, Carter. “‘Happy are Those who Sing and Dance’: Mobutu, Franco, and the
Struggle for Zairian Identity.” Master thesis, Graduate School of Western
Caroline University, 2011.
Kalema, Emery. “Les Congrès de l’UGEC (1961-1968).” Mémoire de licence,
Université de Kinshasa, 2012.
McConnell, John A. “The British in Kenya (1952-1960): Analysis of a Successful
Counterinsurgency Campaign.” Master thesis, Defense Analysis, Naval
Posgraduate School, 2005.
Mironko, Charles. “Social and Political Mechanisms of Mass Murder: An Analysis of
Perpetrators in the Rwandan Genocide.” Ph.D. thesis, Yale University, 2004.
Monaville, Pedro A. G. “Decolonizing the University: Postal Politics, The Student
Movement, and Global 1968 in the Congo.” Ph.D. thesis, University of Michigan,
2013.
 180

Papers, articles, and books

Agamben, Giorgio. “The Camp as the Nomos of the Modern,” in Hent de Vries and
Samuel Weber (eds), Violence, Identity, and Self-Determination. Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1997, pp. 106-118.
Agamben, Giorgio. Remnants of Auschwitz: The Witness and the Archive, trans. Daniel
Heller Roazen. New York: Zone Books, 1999.
Alexander, Jocelyn and al. Violence and Memory: One Hundred Years in the “Dark
Forests” of Matabeleland. Oxford: James Currey, 2000.
Amiran, Eyal. Wandering and Home: Beckett’s Metaphysical Narrative. Pennsylvania:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993.
Anonymous. “Editorial.” Présence Universitaire, 11 (January 1963), pp. 3-10.
Anonymous. “L’Assajef tente une réconciliation entre les divers partis au Kwilu.”
Courrier d’Afrique 35, Thursday, 18 August 1964, no 190.
Anonymous. “Le Général Mobutu déclare: Les chefs de rébellion comme les Mulele, les
Bocheley, les Soumialot, les Gbenge doivent être jugés par la justice congolaise.”
Courrier d’Afrique 39, Thursday 3 October 1968, no 2102.
Anonymous. “Programme des manifestations pour la célébration du 29me anniversaire
de la mort de l’assassinat de Pierre Mulele.” La Solidarité, 4-7 October 1997, no
136.
Arendt, Hannah. The Burden of Our Time. London: Secker and Warburg, 1951.
Aaron-Schnapper, Dominique and Hanet, Danièle. “D’Hérodote au magnétophone:
sources orales et archives orales.” Annales. Economie, Sociétés, Civilisations 35,
1 (1980), pp. 183-199.
Ayimpam, Sylvie. Économie de la débrouille à Kinshasa. Informalité, commerce et
réseaux sociaux. Paris: Karthala, 2014.
Baker, Ernest. The Life and Explorations of Frederick Stanley Arnot: The Authorized
Biography of a Zealous Missionary, Intrepid Explorer, and Self-Denying
Benefactor amongst the Natives of Africa. London: Seeley, Service 1921.
Ball, Karyn. Disciplining the Holocaust. New York: State University of New York Press,
2009.
Barthes, Roland. The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies, trans. Richard Howard. New
York: Hill and Wang, 1979.
 181

Bataille, Georges. Writings on Laughter, Sacrifice, Nietzsche, Un-Knowing, trans.

Annette Michelson. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1986.
Baudrillard, Jean. Symbolic Exchange and Death, trans. Iain Hamilton. London: Sage,
1993.
Bedarida, François. “Une invitation à penser l’histoire: Paul Ricœur, la mémoire,
l’histoire et l’oubli.” Revue Historique 3, 619 (2003), pp. 731-739.
Bell, Duncan (ed.). Memory, Trauma and World Politics: Reflections on the Relationship
Between Past and Present. New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2006.
Belscloss, Michael. R. The Crisis Years: Kennedy and Khrushchev, 1960-1963. New
York: Harper Collins, 1991.
Bennet, Huw. Fighting the Mau-Mau: The British Army and Counter-Insurgency in the
Kenya Emergency. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013.
Bernault, Florence. “The Shadow of Rule: Colonial Power and Modern Punishment in
Africa,” in Frank Dokotter and Ian Brown, Cultures of Confinement: A History of
the Prison in Africa, Asia and Latin America. New York: Cornell University
Press, 2007, pp. 55-94.
Blanchot, Maurice. The Writing of Disaster, trans. Ann Smock. Lincoln: University of
Nebraska Press, 1995.
Bloch, Marc. “Critique historique et critique du témoignage.” Annales. Histoire, Sciences
Sociales 5, 1 (janvier-mars 1950), pp. 1-8.
Bonnet, Sabine Melchior. The Mirror: A History, trans. Katharine H. Jewett. New York-
London: Routledge, 2001.
Bonneuil, Noël. “The Mathematics of Time in History.” History and Theory 49, 4
(December 2010), pp. 28-46.
Borel, Philipe. “La politique belge à l’égard du Congo pendant la période des
insurrections (1963-1964),” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovich and al. (eds),
Rébellions-révolutions au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol. 2. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1987,
pp. 7-35.
Braeckman, Colette. Le dinosaure. Le Zaïre de Mobutu. Paris: Fayard, 1992.
Braidotti, Rosi. Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary
Feminist Theory. New York: Columbia University Press, 1994.
B.Z. “Traitements, grèves et politique d’austérité.” Etudes Congolaises, 5 (1962), pp. 1-
32.
 182

Cahen, Michel. Mozambique: analyse politique de conjuncture. Paris: Indigo

Publications, 1990.
Caplan, Jane and Wachsmann, Nikolaus (eds). Concentration Camps in Nazi Germany:
The New Histories. London: Routledge, 2010.
Caruth, Cathy (ed.). Trauma: Explorations in Memory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1995.
Caruth, Cathy. Unclaimed Experience: Trauma, Narrative, and History. Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996.
Catholic Commission for Justice. Gukurahundi in Zimbabwe: A Report on the
Disturbances in Matabeleland (1980-1988). Johannesburg: Jacana, 2007.
Chevandier, Christian. “Objet de recherche, méthodes et sources en histoire. ” Recherche
en soins infirmiers 2, 109 (2012), pp. 33-36.
Chomé, Jules. L’ascension de Mobutu: Du sergent Désiré Joseph Mobutu au général
Sese Seko. Paris: Maspero, 1979.
Clark, John F. “Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire as a Nondemocratic Presidential Leader,” in
Lyn Graybill and Kenneth W. Thompson (eds), Africa’s Second Wave of
Freedom: Development, Democracy, and Rights. Lanham: University Press of
America, 1998, pp. 81-101.
Cline, Sibil W. Renamo. Anti-Communist Insurgents in Mozambique: The Fight Goes on.
Washington, D.C.: United States Global Council, 1989.
Close, William T. and Malonga Miatudila. Beyond the Storm: Treating the Powerless
and the Powerful in Mobutu’s Congo/Zaire. Marbleton: Meadowlark Springs
Press, 2007.
Cohen, David William and Odhiambo, E.S. Atieno. The Risks of Knowlegde:
Investigations into the Death of the Hon. Minister John Robert Ouko in Kenya,
1990. Athens and Nairobi: Ohio University Press-East African Educational
Publishers LTD, 2004.
Cohen, Keren and Collens, Paula. “The Impact of Trauma Work on Trauma Workers: A
Metasynthesis on Vicarious Trauma and Vicarious Posttraumatic Growth.”
Psychological Trauma: Theory, Research, Practice, and Policy 5, 6 (2013), pp.
570-580.
Cole, Ernest. Theorizing the Disfigured Body: Mutilation, Amputation, and Disability in
Post-Conflict Sierra Leone. Trenton: Africa World Press, 2014.
 183

Connerton, Paul. The Spirit of Mourning: History, Memory, and the Body. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2011.
CRISP (ed.). Congo 1965. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967.
Das, Saitya Bra. “(Dis)Figures of Death: Taking the Side of Derrida, Taking the Side of
Death.” Derrida Today 3, 1 (2010), pp. 1-20.
Dayton, Bruce W. and Kriesberg, Louis (eds). Moving from Violence to Sustainable
Peace. London: Routledge, 2009.
De Boeck, Filip. “Domesticating Diamonds and Dollars: Identity, Expenditure and
Sharing in Southwestern Zaire (1984–1997).” Development and Change 29, 4
(1998), pp. 777-810.
De Boeck, Filip. “Garimpeiro Worlds: Digging, Dying & ‘Hunting’ for Diamonds in
Angola.” Review of African Political Economy 28, 90 (2002), pp. 549-562.
De Boeck, Filip. “Postcolonialism, Power, and Identity: Local and Global Perspectives
from Zaire,” in Richard Werbner and Terrence Ranger (eds), Postcolonial
Identity in Africa. London: Zed Books, 1996, pp. 75-106.
De Boeck, Filip and Plissart, Marie-Françoise. Kinshasa: Tales of the Invisible City.
Antwerp: Ludion, 2006.
De Certeau, Michel. The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley. New York: Columbia
University Press, 1988.
Deleuze, Gilles. Foucault. Paris: Minuit, 1986.
Deleuze, Gilles and Guattari, Félix. Nomadology: The War Machine, trans. Brian
Massumi. New York: Semiotext(e), 1986.
Derrida, Jacques. The Gift of Death, trans. David Wills. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1995.
Derrida, Jacques. Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning and the
New International, trans. Peggy Kamuf. New York: Routledge, 1994.
Derrida, Jacques. “A Time for Farewells: Heidegger (read by) Hegel (read by)
Malabou,” preface to Catherine Malabou, The Future of Hegel: Plasticity,
Temporality, and Dialectics, trans. Lisabeth During. New York: Routledge, 2004,
pp. vii-xlvii.
Derrida, Jacques. The Work of Mourning, trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001.
Descartes, René. A Discourse on Method, trans. John Veitch. London: Dent, 1912.
 184

De Villers, Gauthier and al. (ed). Manières de vivre: Economie de la débrouille dans les
villes du Congo/Zaïre. Tervuren: Institut Africain, CEDAF, 2002.
Devlin, Larry. Chief of Station, Congo: Fighting the Cold War in a Hot Zone. New York:
Public Affairs, 2007.
De Witte, Ludo. The Assassination of Lumumba. London: Verso, 2002.
Dibwe dia Mwembu. “La peine du fouet au Congo Belge.” Les Cahiers de Tunisie 36,
135-136 (1986), pp. 127-153.
Ducroix, Françoise Frontisi and Vernant, Jean-Pierre. Dans l’œil du miroir. Paris:
Editions Odile Jacob, 1997.
Dumont, Georges H. Histoire de la Belgique. Paris: Edition du Club France loisirs, 1977.
Fassin, Didier. When Bodies Remember: Experiences and Politics of AIDS in South
Africa, trans. Amy Jacobs and Gabrielle Varo. Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2007.
Fassin, Eric. “La question rom,” in Eric Fassin and al., Roms & riverains: Une politique
municipale de la race. Paris: La Fabrique, 2014.
Fassin, Eric and al., Roms & riverains: Une politique municipale de la race. Paris: La
Fabrique, 2014.
Feinstein, Anthony and al. “Witnessing Images of Extreme Violence: A Psychological
Study of Journalists in the Newsroom.” Journal of the Royal Society of Medicine
Opens 5, 8 (2014), pp. 1-7.
Floyd, Juliet and Shieh, Sanford (eds). Future Pasts: The Analytic Tradition in
Twentieth-Century Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001.
Foucault, Michel. Le corps utopique suivi de les hétérotopies, présentation de Daniel
Defert. Paris: Nouvelles Editions Lignes, 2009.
Foucault, Michel. Le Courage de la vérité: le gouvernement de soi et des autres II.
Cours au Collège de France, 1983-1984, ed. Frédéric Gros. Paris: Gallimard-
Seuil, 2008.
Foucault, Michel. Surveiller et punir: naissance de la prison. Paris: Gallimard, 1975.
Foucault, Michel. The Will to Knowledge: History of Sexuality, trans. Robert Hurley,
vol.1. London: Penguin Books, 1998.
Fox, Renée C., de Craemer, Willy and Ribeaucourt, Jean-Marie. “La deuxième
indépendance. Etude d’un cas: la rébellion au Kwilu.” Etudes Congolaises 8, 1
(1965), pp. 1-35.
 185

Gaston, Sean. The Impossible Mourning of Jacques Derrida. London: Continuum, 2006.
Gerard-Libois, Jules and Van Lierde, Jean (eds). Congo 1964. Bruxelles: CRISP-INEP,
1965.
Gleijeses, Piero. Conflicting Missions: Havana, Washington, and Africa, 1959–1976.
Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2002.
Gondola, Charles Didier. The History of the Congo. Westport, CO: Greenwood Press,
2002.
Graf, Jürgen and Mattogno, Carlo. Concentration Camp Stutthof and its Function in
National Socialist Jewish Policy. Chicago: Theses and Dissertations Press, 2003.
Gupta, Pamila. “Departures of Decolonization: Interstitial Spaces, Ordinary Affect, and
Landscapes of Victimhood in Southern Africa,” in Steffen Jensen and Henrik
Ronsbo, Histories of Victimhood. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,
2014, pp. 198-217.
Harper, Tim N. The End of Empire and the Making of Malaya. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1999.
Hartman, Saidiya V. Scenes of Subjection: Terror, Slavery, and Self-Making in
Nineteenth-Century America. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997.
Heidegger, Martin. Being and Time, trans. John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson.
London: SCM Press, 1962.
Herman, F. “La situation économique et financière de la République du Congo depuis
l’indépendance.” Etudes Congolaises, 1 (March1961), pp. 13-19.
Herman, F. “La situation économique et financière de la République du Congo durant le
premier trimestre de 1961.” Etudes Congolaise, 2 (May-June 1961), pp. 15-25.
Hochschild, Adam. King Leopold’s Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in
Colonial Africa. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1998.
Hodgkin, Katharina and Radstone, Susannah (eds). Contested Pasts: The Politics of
Memory. London: Routledge, 2003.
Hoggett, Paul and Thompson, Simon (eds). Politics and the Emotions: The Affective turn
in Contemporary Political Studies. London: Continuum, 2012.
Honsek. “Faustin Munene, l’héritier spirituel de Pierre Mulele.” La Solidarité, 4-7
October 1997, no 136.
Hoy, David Couzens. The Time of Our Lives: A Critical History of Temporality.
Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2009.
 186

Hunt, Nancy Rose. “An Acoustic Register: Rape and Repetition in Congo,” in Ann
Laura Stoler (ed.), Imperial Debris: On Ruins and Ruination. Durham: Duke
University Press, 2013, pp. 39-66.
Hunt, Nancy Rose. “Espace, temporalité et rêverie: écrire l’histoire des futurs au Congo
Belge.” Politique africaine 3, 135 (October 2014), pp. 115-136.
Hunt, Nancy Rose. A Nervous State: Violence, Remedies, and Reverie in Colonial
Congo. Durham: Duke University Press, 2016.
Ingreja, Victor. “Frelimo’s Political Ruling through Violence and Memory in
Postcolonial Mozambique.” Journal of Southern African Studies 36, 4 (December
2010), pp. 781-799.
Jain, S. L. “Cancer Butch.” Cultural Anthropology 22, 4 (2007), pp. 501-538.
Jervelino, Domenico. Paul Ricœur: Une herméneutique de la condition humaine. Paris:
Ellipse, 2002.
Jewsiewicki, Bogumil. “Corps interdits: la représentation christique de Lumumba
comme rédempteur du peuple zairois.” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 36, 141-142
(1996), pp. 221-262.
Jewsiewicki, Bogumil. “Pour une histoire comparée des révoltes populaires au Congo,”
in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al., Rébellions-révolution au Zaïre, vol.2.
Paris: L’Harmattan, 1987, pp. 130-153.
Jewsiewicki, Bogumil and White, Bob W. “Mourning and the Imagination of Political
Time in Africa: Introduction.” African Studies Review 48, 2 (2005), pp. 1-9.
Johnston, Adrian and Malabou, Catherine. Self and Emotional Life: Philosophy,
Psychoanalysis, and Neuroscience. New York: Columbia University Press, 2013.
Jordheim, Helge. “Against Periodization: Koselleck’s Theory of Multiple
Temporalities.” History and Theory 51, 2 (May 2012), pp. 151-171.
Joseph, Richard. Le mouvement nationaliste au Cameroun: les origines sociales de
l’UPC, trans. Danielle Michel-Chich. Paris: Karthala, 1986.
Kalonji Ditunga Mulopwe, Albert. Congo 1960. La sécession du Sud-Kasaï : La vérité
du Mulopwe. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2005.
Kamitatu, Cléophas. La grande mystification du Congo-Kinshasa ou les crimes de
Mobutu. Paris: Maspero, 1971.
Kamitatu-Massamba, Cléophas. Kilombo ou le prix à payer pour rebâtir la R-D Congo.
Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007.
 187

Kanza, Thomas R. Conflict in the Congo: The Rise and Fall of Lumumba. New York:
Penguin, 1972.
Kershaw, Ian. Hitler, the Germans, and the Final Solution. New Haven: Yale University
Press, 2008.
Kestergat, Jean. Du Congo de Lumumba au Zaïre de Mobutu. Bruxelles: Paul Legrain,
1986.
Kiangu, Sindani. Le Kwilu à l’épreuve du pluralisme identitaire (1948-1968). Paris:
L’Harmattan, 2009.
Kiangu, Sindani. “Pierre Mulele, martyr ou traitre? Les langages de la mémoire,” in
Michèle Baussant, La mémoire, l’histoire et l’oubli. Québec: Les Presses de
l’Université Laval, 2006, pp. 131-142.
Kiekike, E. “Réhabilitation de la mémoire de Pierre Mulele.” La Solidarité, 4-7 October
1997, no 136.
Kopytoff, Igor. Ancestors as Elders in Africa. New York: Bobbs-Merill, 1971.
Koselleck, Reinhart. Future Past: On the Semantics of the Historical Time, trans. Keith
Tribe. New York: Columbia University Press, 2004.
LaCapra, Dominick. History and Criticism. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press,
1985.
Ladwig, Walter C. “Managing Counterinsurgency: Lessons from Malaya.” Military
Review 87, 3 (2007), pp. 56-66.
Leão, Anna. Different Opportunities, Different Outcomes: Civil War and Rebel Groups
in Angola and Mozambique. Bonn: Deutsches Institut für Entwicklungspolitik,
2007.
Leblond, Fabienne Castaignos. Traumatismes historiques et dialogue intergénérationnel:
Un difficile exercice de mémoire. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2001.
Leclerq, Hugues. “La situation financière et monétaire au Congo.” Présence
Universitaire, 11 (April 1962), pp. 30-32.
Levi, Primo. The Voice of Memory: Primo Levi. Interviews, 1961-1987. Edited by
Belpoliti, Marco and Gordon, Robert. New York: New Press, 2001.
Leys, Ruth. “The Turn to Affect: A Critique.” Critical Inquiry 37, 3 (Spring 2011), pp.
437-472.
 188

Loffman, Reuben. “Book Rreview: Mulele et la révolution populaire au Kwilu

(République Démocratique du Congo).” African Affairs 108, 431 (2009) 431, pp.
332-333.
Luckhurst, Roger. The Trauma Question. London: Routledge, 2008.
Malabou, Catherine. Le Change Heidegger: Du fantastique en philosophie. Paris:
Editions Léo Scheer, 2004.
Malabou, Catherine. The Future of Hegel: Plasticity, Temporality, and Dialectic, trans.
Lisabeth During. New York: Routledge, 2005
Malabou, Catherine. Ontology of the Accident: An Essay on Destructive Plasticity, trans.
Carolyn Shread. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2012.
Malabou, Catherine. The Wounded: From Neurosis to Brain Damage, trans. Steven
Miller. New York: Fordham University Press, 2012.
Marchetti, Victor and Marks, John D. The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence. London: J.
Cape, 1974.
Martens, Ludo. Abo: Une femme du Congo. Paris: L’Harmattan, 1995.
Martens, Ludo. Pierre Mulele ou la seconde vie de Lumumba. Bruxelles: Epo, 1985.
Martinon, Jean-Paul. On Futurity: Malabou, Nancy and Derrida. New York: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2007.
Massumi, Brian. “The Autonomy of Affect.” Cultural Critique, 31 (Autumn 1995), pp.
83-109.
Mbembe, Achille. Critique de la raison nègre. Paris: La Découverte, 2013.
Mbembe, Achille. “Essai sur le politique en tant que forme de dépense.” Cahiers
d’Etudes Africaines 44, 173-174 (2004), pp. 151-192.
Mbembe, Achille. La naissance du maquis dans le Sud-Cameroun (1920-1960): Histoire
des usages de la raison en colonie. Paris: Karthala, 1996.
Mbembe, Achille. On the Postcolony. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001.
Mbembe, Achille. “Variations on the Beautiful in Congolese Worlds of Sound,” in Sarah
Nuttal (ed.), Beautiful/Ugly: African and Diaspora Aesthetics. Durham: Duke
University Press, 2006, pp. 60-93.
Mélice, Anne. “La désobéissance civiles des Kimbanguistes et la violence coloniale au
Congo Belge (1921-1959).” Les temps modernes 2, 658-659 (2010), pp. 218-250.
 189

Mélice, Anne. “Kimbangu,” in Prem Poddar and al. (eds.), A Historical Companion to
Postcolonial Literatures in Continental Europe and its Empires. Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press, 2008, pp. 33-35.
Menjivar, Cecilia and Rodriguez, Nestor (eds). When States Kill: Latin America, the
U.S., and Technologies of Terror. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005.
Meredith, Martin. Our Votes, our Guns: Robert Mugabe and the Tragedy of Zimbabwe.
New York: Public Affairs, 2003.
Mironko, Charles. “Ibitero: Means and Motive in the Rwandan Genocide.” African
Safety Promotion 4, 2 (2006), pp. 59-77.
Mockaitis, Thomas R. British Counterinsurgency: 1919-60. London: Macmillan Press,
1990.
Mocker, Anthony. The New Mercenaries: The History of the Hired Soldier from the
Congo to the Seychelles. Minnesota: Paragon House, 1987.
Monguya Mbenge, Daniel. Histoire secrète du Zaïre: l’autopsie de la barbarie au
service du monde. Bruxelles: Editions de l’espérance, 1977.
Monnier, Laurent. “La province de Bandundu,” in B. Verhaegen and al. (eds), Congo
1966. Bruxelles: CRISP-INEP, 1967, pp. 295-337.
Msindo, Enocent. Ethnicity in Zimbabwe: Transformations in Kalanga and Ndebele
Societies, 1860-1990s. New York: University of Rochester Press, 2012.
Mudimbe, V.-Y. On African Fault Lines: Meditations on Alterity Politics.
Pietermaritzburg: University of KwaZulu-Natal Press, 2013.
Muhle, Maria. “Biopolitique et pouvoir souverain.” Lignes 3, 9 (2002), pp. 178-193.
Mukwakani, Z. “Réflexions sur le mouvement des salaires au Congo depuis 1960.”
Congo-Afrique, 36 (June-July 1969), pp. 350-355.
Munyani, M.-M. “La déportation et le séjour des kimbanguistes dans le Kasai-Lukenie
(1921-1960).” Zaïre-Afrique, 119 (November 1977), pp. 555-573.
Mutamba Makombo, Jean-Marie. “L’Union Générale des Etudiants Congolais et la lutte
pour la démocratie (1961-1969),” in Sabakinu Kivilu, Elites et démocratie en
République Démocratique du Congo. Kinshasa: PUK, 2000, pp. 83-89.
Mutamba Makombo Kitatshima, Jean-Marie. Du Congo Belge au Congo indépendant
(1940-1960). Kinshasa, IFEP, 1998.
Nancy, Jean-Luc. Being Singular Plural, trans. Robert D. Richardson and Anne E.
O’Byrne. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000.
 190

Nancy, Jean-Luc. The Ground of the Image, trans. Jeff Fort. New York: Fordham
University Press, 2005.
Ndaywel è Nziem, Isidore. “Du Congo des rebellions au Zaïre des pillages.” Cahiers
d’Etudes Africaines 38, 150-152 (1998), pp. 417-439.
Ndaywel è Nziem, Isidore. Histoire générale du Congo. De l’héritage ancien à la
République Démocratique du Congo. Bruxelles: Duculot, 1998.
Ndaywel è Nziem, Isidore. Nouvelle histoire du Congo: des origines à la République
Démocratique. Paris: Le Cri, 2010.
Ndaywel è Nziem, Isidore (ed.). L’université dans le devenir de l’Afrique: Un demi-
siècle de présence au Congo-Zaïre. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007.
Ndaywel è Nziem, Isidore. “L’université et les rebellions mulélistes: lectures d’un vécu,”
in Isidore Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.), L’université dans le devenir de l’Afrique: Un
demi-siècle de présence au Congo-Zaïre. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007, pp. 77-95.
Ndaywel è Nziem, Isidore. “La vie quotidienne à Lovanium (1963-1969),” in Isidore
Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.), Les années Lovanium: La première université
francophone d’Afrique subsaharienne, vol. 2. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2010, pp. 43-
75.
N’Dom, Constant. “La mobilisation des masses,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and
al. (eds), Rébellions-révolutions au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol. 1. Paris:
L’Harmattan, 1987 pp. 211-216.
N’Dom Nda Ombel, Constant. Pierre Mulele assassiné, la révolution étranglée.
Bruxelles: CEP, 1984.
Newbury, Catherine. “Réflexions sur les racines rurales et la révolution: Rwanda et
Congo oriental,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-
révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.2. Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 95-105.
Newman, Elana and al. “Trauma Exposure and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Among
Photojournalists.” Visual Communication Quarterly 10, 1 (2003), pp. 4-13.
Ngandu Nkashama, Pius. Les magiciens du repentir: Les confessions du frère Dominique
(Sakombi Inongo). Paris: L’Harmattan, 1995.
Nicolaï, Henri. Le Kwilu. Bruxelles: Cemubac, 1963.
Nkuba, M.-L. “Aventures et mésaventures de la bourgeoisie nationale.” Présence
Universitaire, 15 (March-April 1964), pp.33-48.
 191

Nordstrom, Carolyn. A Different Kind of War Story. Philadelphia: University of

Pennsylvania Press, 1997.
Nsanze, Augustin. “Le deuil du passé est-il possible?” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 44,
173-174 (2004), pp. 420-425.
Nzongola-Ntalaja, Georges. The Congo, from Leopold to Kabila: A People’s History.
London: Zed Books, 2002.
Obotela Rachidi, Noël. “L’Université face à une jeunesse en quête de modèle,” in Isidore
Ndaywel è Nziem (ed.), L’université dans le devenir de l’Afrique: Un demi-siècle
de présence au Congo-Zaïre. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2007, pp. 253-261.
O’Bweng-Okwess, Kizobo. Introduction à la pensée de Pierre Mulele. Lubumbashi:
Presses Universitaires de Lubumbashi, 1999.
Omasombo Tshonda, Jean. “Lumumba, drame sans fin et deuil inachevé de la
colonisation.” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 44, 173-174 (2004), pp. 221-261.
Osumaka Likaka. Naming Colonialism: History and Collective Memory in the Congo,
1870-1960. Wisconsin: Wisconsin University Press, 2009.
Owens, Patricia. Economy of Force: Counterinsurgency and the Rise of the Social.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015.
Papoulias, Constantina and Callard, Felicity. “Biology’s Gift: Interrogating the Turn to
Affect.” Body and Society 16, 1 (2010), pp. 29-56.
Pean, Pierre. L’argent noir. Paris: Fayard, 1988.
Peemans, Jean-Philippe. Le Congo-Zaïre au gré du XXe siècle. Etat, économie et société.
Paris: L’Harmattan, 1997.
Plasman, P.-L. “Le gouvernement bicéphale de l’Etat indépendant du Congo et le red
rubber,” in P. Van Schuylenberg and al. (eds.), L’Afrique belge aux XIXe et XXe
siècles. Nouvelles recherches et perspectives en histoire colonial. Bruxelles:
Peter Lang, 2014, pp. 131-144.
Portelli, Alessandro. The Death of Luigi Trastulli and other Stories. Albany: State
University of New York Press, 1991.
Pritchard, E.E. Evans. “Zande Warfare.” Athropos 52, 1-2 (1957), p. 261.
Prunier, Gérard. From Genocide to Continental War: The Congolese Conflict and the
Crisis of Contemporary Africa. London: Hurst, 2009.
Reyntjens, Filip. The Great African War: Congo and Regional Politics, 1996-2006.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.
 192

Ricœur, Paul. La mémoire, l’histoire, l’oubli. Paris: Seuil, 2000.

Ricœur, Paul. “Narrative Identity.” Philosophy Today 35, 1 (Spring 1991), pp. 73-81.
Ricœur, Paul. “Narrative Time.” Critical Inquiry 7, 1 (Autumn 1980), pp. 169-190.
Ricœur, Paul. Temps et récit. Paris: Seuil, 1983.
Ricœur, Paul. Temps et récit: la configuration du temps dans le récit de fiction. Paris:
Seuil, 1984.
Ricœur, Paul. Temps et récit: le temps raconté. Paris: Seuil, 1985.
Ross, Bruce M. Remembering the Personal Past: Description of Autobiographical
Memory. New York: Oxford University Press, 1991.
Roth, Paul A. “The Pasts.” History and Theory 51, 3 (October 2012), pp. 313-339.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology,
trans. Hazel E. Barnes. Secaucus: Philosophical Library, 1956.
Scarry, Elaine. The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World. New York:
Oxford University Press, 1985.
Schmidt, Heike I. Colonialism and Violence in Zimbabwe: A History of Suffering.
Oxford: James Currey, 2013.
Simpson, Mark. Political Decompression and Historical Revisionism in Mozambique.
Johannesburg: South African Institute of International Affairs, 1992.
Sontag, Susan. On Photography. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1979.
Sontag, Susan. Regarding the Pain of Others. London: Penguin, 2004.
Stannard, Unna. A Few Kind Words about Hate: The Dark Side of Family Life and the
Bible. San Francisco: Germainbooks, 2006.
Starobinski, Jean. The Living Eye, trans. Arthur Goldhammer. Massachusetts: Harvard
University Press, 1989.
Stewart, Gary. Breakout: Profiles in African Rhythm. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1992.
Stewart, Kathleen. Ordinary Affects. Durham: Duke University Press, 2007.
Stubbs, Richard. Hearts and Minds in Guerrilla Warfare: The Malayan Emergency
1948-1960. Singapore: Oxford University Press, 1989.
Thassinda Uba Thassinda, H. Zaïre: les princes de l’invisible. L’Afrique noire bâillonnée
par le parti unique. Paris: Editions, 1992.
Thompson, R. Defeating Communist Insurgency: The Lessons of Malaya and Vietnam.
New York: F. A. Praeger, 1966.
 193

Traugott, Mark. “The Economic Origins of the Kwilu Rebellion.” Comparatives Studies
in Society and History 21, 3 (July 1979), pp. 459-479.
Trefon, Theodore (ed). Reinventing Order in the Congo: How People Respond to State
Failure in Kinshasa. London: Zed Books, 2004.
Van Der Steen, Daniel. “L’attitude de la presse occidentale en 1964,” in Catherine
Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965),
vol.2. Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 62-70.
Vangroenweghe, Daniel. Du sang sur les lianes. Léopold II et son Congo. Bruxelles:
Didier Hâtier, 1986.
Vansina, Jan. De la tradition orale: essai de méthode historique. Tervuren: Musée
Royale de l’Afrique Centrale, 1961.
Vellut, Jean-Luc (ed.). Simon Kimbangu, 1921: de la prédication à la déportation. Les
sources, vol. 1. Bruxelles: Académie royale des sciences d’Outre-Mer, 2005.
Venn, Couze. “Post-Lacanian Affective Economy, Being-in-the-World, and the Critique
of the Present: Lessons from Bracha Lichtenberg Ettinger.” Theory, Culture &
Society 21, 1 (2004), pp. 149-158.
Verhaegen, Benoît. Rebellions au Congo, vol. 1. Bruxelles: CRISP-INEP, 1966.
Verhaegen, Benoît. “Le rôle de l’ethnie et de l’individu dans la rébellion du Kwilu et
dans son échec,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-
révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.1. Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 147-167.
Verhaegen, Benoît, J. Omasombo, E. Simons and F. Verhaegen. Mulele et la révolution
populaire au Kwilu (République Démocratique du Congo). Bruxelles: MRAC,
2006.
Villafaña, Frank R. Cold War in the Congo: The Confrontation of Cuban Military
Forces, 1960-1967. New Jersey: Transaction Publishers, 2007.
Vines, Alex. Renamo: From Terrorism to Democracy in Mozambique? York: University
of York, 1996.
Weeks, John H. Among Congo Cannibals. London: Seeley, Service, 1913.
Weiss, Herbert. Political Protest in the Congo: The Parti Solidaire Africain during the
Independence Struggle. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1967.
Weiss, Herbert F. Congo 1964: Political Documents of a Developing Nation. Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1966.
 194

Weissman, Stephen R. American Foreign Policy in the Congo, 1960-1964. London:

Cornell University Press, 1974.
Welch, Claude E. (Jr.). “Ideological Foundations of Revolution in Kwilu.” African
Studies Review 18, 2 (1975), pp. 116-128.
Werbner, Richard (ed.). Memory and the Postcolony: African Anthropology and the
Critique of Power. London: Zed Books, 1998.
White, Luise and al. African Words, African Voices: Critical Practices in Oral History.
Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001.
Willame, Jean-Claude. L’automne d’un despotisme: Pouvoir, argent, obéissance dans le
Zaïre des années quatre-vingt, Paris: Karthala, 1992.
Willame, Jean-Claude. Patrice Lumumba: La crise congolaise revisistée. Paris: Karthala,
1990.
Wright, Marcia. “Pour que l’évolution se poursuive: projets et politiques des Etats-Unis
au Congo, 1963,” in Catherine Coquery-Vidrovitch and al. (eds), Rébellion-
révolution au Zaïre (1963-1965), vol.2. Paris: L’Harmattan, pp. 36-61.
Wünschmann, Kim. Before Auschwitz: Jewish Prisoners in the Prewar Concentration
Camps. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2015.
Yerodia Ndombasi, Abdoulaye. “Sur quel[le] mort suis-je vivant ?”Allocution du
Camarade Yerodia Abdoulaye Ndombasi à l’occasion de la commération de la
mort de Pierre Mulele. Kinshasa, 2001.
Young, Crawford W. “Post-Independence Politics in the Congo.” Transition, 23 (1966),
pp. 34-41.
Žižek, Slavoj. Looking Awry: An Introduction to Jacques Lacan through Popular
Culture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992.
Žižek, Slavoj. The Parallax View. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2006.

Websites

Anonymous. “Commémoration du 35ème anniversaire de la mort de Pierre Mulele.” 14

October 2003. http://www.f-ce.com/cgi-bin/news/pg-
newspro.cgi?id_news=1175. Accessed on 17 March 2016.
Anonymous. “Pierre Mulele, héros et martyr d’Afrika.” Servir Le Peuple: le blog des
Nouveaux Partisans. http://servirlepeuple.over-blog.com/article-pierre-mulele-
heros-et-martyr-d-afrika-41243941.html. Accessed on 16 March 2016.
 195

Arnichand, Jean-François. “Eric Fassin: Les Roms servent de boucs émissaires,”

http://www.lamarseillaise.fr/bouches-du-rhone/societe/32182-titre-par-defaut.
Accessed on 27 April 2016.
M’Boukou, Serge. “Mobutu, roi du Zaïre. Essai de socio-anthropologie politique à partir
d’une figure dictatorial,” in Le Portique [En ligne], 5-2007 | Recherches, mis en
lignes le 06 décembre 2007. Accessed on 11 February 2016.
URL:http://leportique.revues.org/1379.
Verreycken, Simon. “Exilé dans son propre pays. Autour de la colonie agricole
d’Ekafera, 1945–1960,” Parenthèses, (17 August 2015),
http://parenthese.hypotheses.org/929 Accessed on 1 May 2016.
Wikipedia, “Kwilu province,” CC BY-SA 3.0 license.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kwilu_Province. Accessed on 15 September 2016.