We Lit No Candle, Yet the Night Burned: A Sacred Mourning for Congo’s Lost Sons and Daughters

By Emmanuel Mihiingo Kaija

Evangelist And Missionary Grounded In Bible Studies, Theology, Church Ministry And Interdisciplinary Studies.

Emkaijawrites@gmail.com

I. The Silent Earth Speaks: Komanda’s Bloodied Testimony

Beneath the merciless equatorial sun that burns with an unrelenting heat, the hills of Komanda have become a silent witness to a night torn open by violence so brutal it threatens to consume memory itself. Forty-two lives, each a sacred universe filled with hopes, dreams, prayers, and whispered promises, were swallowed by a land now steeped in blood and mourning. The machetes of the Allied Democratic Forces did not merely cut flesh; they carved deep scars into the soul of a community and a nation already bowed under the weight of endless suffering. This massacre is not an isolated echo but a verse in a long, mournful song of grief, chronicled in the lands of Eastern Congo, where violence becomes a language and silence a form of complicity. The Church, called by God to be the sanctuary of hope and compassion, finds itself fractured—its body broken by geopolitical fault lines, and its voice muffled by the deafening indifference of the world. The ancient Lingala proverb stands as both warning and lament: “Mokolo moko elobi, kasi mokili ezali kotosa”—a day may speak, yet the world chooses silence, wrapped in the comfort of willful ignorance. Yet, as the prophet Amos declared, “Hear this, you who trample the needy and do away with the poor of the land, saying, ‘When will the New Moon be over that we may sell grain, and the Sabbath be ended that we may market wheat?’” (Amos 8:4-5). The silence is not absence but a crushing weight—the very embodiment of what Johan Galtung named “structural violence,” a slow, systemic death wrought by greed, neglect, and dehumanizing systems that reduce people to statistics. In 2024, over five million Congolese were displaced internally, with 60% uprooted from the provinces gripped by war—Ituri, North Kivu among them—creating a labyrinth of powerlessness and pain where the machinery of state and international actors obscure human suffering beneath layers of bureaucracy and diplomatic language. The Church, the State, and global institutions become, in their silence and neglect, unwilling conspirators in this erasure, complicit in burying the humanity of those lost under the rubble of forgotten names.

II. The Fractured Psyche of a Nation: Trauma Beyond the Visible

The massacre cleaves deeper than flesh and bone; it fractures the very psyche of a nation wearied by sorrow. The wounds inflicted upon mothers who cradle empty arms, whisper Psalms in the dark, and walk haunted by the absence of their children speak to what Judith Herman calls “complex trauma”—a chronic, layered suffering that resists simple closure. In the quiet corners of shattered villages, families endure what Pauline Boss names “ambiguous loss,” where the fate of loved ones is unknown, and grief hangs suspended, an unhealed wound left open to the abyss. The dark forests of Congo swallow missing children, their silent fates a piercing testament to lost innocence; over 20,000 children have vanished from conflict zones in recent years, becoming ghosts in the collective memory. Transgenerational trauma weaves itself like a silent curse, passing pain from one generation to the next—not in spoken words, but in restless nights, in fractured trust, and broken communal bonds. Miroslav Volf’s haunting words on “social soul sickness” resonate deeply here, describing a spiritual collapse where despair seeps into the marrow of community, and hope flickers as a fragile, flickering candle against encroaching darkness. Without healing that bridges the psychological, social, and spiritual, the abyss will birth cycles of violence and alienation, consuming the future and robbing the land of its children’s laughter. The psalmist cries, “My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” (Psalm 6:3). Healing must be communal, a liturgy of lament and hope, a sacred embrace of the wounded soul.

III. The Philosophy of Violence and the Ethics of Memory

To confront the relentless, mundane evil woven into the fabric of daily existence is to face a darkness so insidious it often goes unseen. Hannah Arendt’s insight into the “banality of evil” pierces this reality, where ordinary bureaucracies, consumer habits, and global economies become silent accomplices in sustaining violence. The cobalt in the batteries that power our lives, the coltan in smartphones connecting us to the world, are tainted with the blood of exploited hands—too often children’s hands. The Congolese proverb teaches: “Moto moko te azali na nzela, kasi maboko mingi ezali na ndako moko”—no one walks alone, but many hands dwell in the same house of exploitation. More than 70% of global cobalt supplies flow from the DRC, much of it extracted under conditions that enslave children and poison the earth. In this shared complicity lies a profound ethical reckoning, demanding radical responsibility. Paul Ricoeur reminds us that memory is an active confrontation, a struggle to bring the past into the present with truth and courage. To bury the dead without names is to silence justice itself, to participate in the ongoing erasure of suffering and truth. The prophet Isaiah’s call echoes: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow” (Isaiah 1:17). The fight for memory is the fight for justice—resisting the world’s temptation to forget, deny, or minimize the pain beneath our convenience.

IV. Gendered Violence and the Theology of Suffering

In the scorched earth of Irumu and beyond, women’s bodies have become battlegrounds where the sacred is profaned and theological language struggles to name the depth of suffering. Sexual violence, weaponized as a tool of terror, violates the body created in the image of God, shattering the divine imprint and echoing the Psalmist’s anguish, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Psalm 73:26). Mercy Amba Oduyoye’s profound insight, that African women “theologize with scars on their backs and songs in their throats,” insists that these wounds are not only marks of pain but also of prophetic witness, voices of resilience amidst brokenness. The World Health Organization’s grim reports reveal that over half the women in eastern DRC conflict zones suffer sexual violence, their suffering compounded by social stigma and neglect. The Congolese wisdom: “Mwana ya mwasi ezali nde likolo ya bandu”—the child of a woman is the head of the people—demands a Church that sees women’s bodies as holy ground, a sacred space of life, resistance, and divine possibility. The Church is called beyond silence, into prophetic solidarity, to become a sanctuary of justice and healing where lament turns toward hope, and brokenness is held tenderly by grace.

V. Child Soldiers and Lost Innocence: The Sociology of War Childhood

The dense forests of Ituri, once cradles of life and community, have transformed into classrooms of death where the language taught is violence and survival by terror. Over 30,000 children conscripted forcibly into militias since 2019 bear witness to a war economy that devours innocence and spits out trauma. Their identities fragmented, their childhoods stolen, they carry moral injuries as profound as physical wounds—violations of conscience that echo Jeremiah’s lament, “Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?” (Jeremiah 8:22). The destruction of social bonds, the obliteration of rites of passage, and the daily navigation of brutality leave a generation adrift. Healing must be comprehensive, weaving psychological care with social restoration and theological lament that refuses to sanitize or erase the pain. Only then can the children, broken yet resilient, begin to reclaim their stolen futures and rebuild their shattered identities with dignity.

VI. Political Science and the Global Web of Violence

The Komanda massacre is not an aberration but a symptom of a fractured state, riddled with corruption, entangled in global capitalist webs that transform mineral wealth into instruments of death. The United Nations Group of Experts exposes the brutal truth—mining profits fuel militias, turning consumer demand into local bloodshed. The state’s incapacity or unwillingness to protect its people is a form of “state violence,” rendering death invisible through neglect, fear, or complicity. Achille Mbembe’s concept of “necropolitics” reveals a grim calculus: the power to decide who lives, who dies, who is mourned, and who is forgotten. The international community’s episodic attention and strategic silence compound the tragedy, requiring a fundamental political awakening grounded in justice, transparency, and reparative policy. As Proverbs warn, “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute” (Proverbs 31:8). This crisis demands collective responsibility transcending borders—a continental and global reckoning with complicity and the call to justice.

VII. A Continental Cry: The Role of Witness and Memory

To artists: wield your brushes and voices as weapons of truth; paint Komanda’s blood in colors that defy erasure, inscribe the names the world tries to forget. To psychologists: cradle fractured spirits with tenderness, nurturing healing that stretches beyond trauma’s grip into communal restoration. To philosophers: pose the difficult questions; resist the allure of facile absolution and challenge systems that normalize cruelty. To theologians: hold the tension between lament and hope, embodying a faith that refuses anesthesia and demands justice. To sociologists and political scientists: expose the structures of power that sustain violence; agitate for reform that uproots systemic injustice. To journalists: illuminate the darkness with your words, wielding truth as a beacon piercing silence. To all humanity: refuse the luxury of forgetting. Let August 27th stand not just as a date, but as a sacred Continental Day of Mourning, Memory, and Action, where the earth’s groan meets the people’s cry in a liturgy of justice and hope.

VIII. Final Benediction: When Stones Cry Out and Rivers Remember

In Bunia, a pastor discovered a tattered Bible beside a child’s lifeless hand. Raising it high, he proclaimed, “If we remain silent, the soil will preach.” And the earth does preach—every grave becomes a sermon, every orphan’s cry a sacred hymn, every violated woman a prophet calling for justice. The Word declares, “If these [children] were silent, the stones would shout” (Luke 19:40). May those with ears listen deeply; may those with hearts break and rebuild; may those with power act boldly; and may those who write craft truths that endure. Before the stones cry louder than dared, let us remember—let us bear witness—let us live justly.