{"id":217,"date":"2009-04-08T19:33:47","date_gmt":"2009-04-08T19:33:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.beliefnet.com\/redletters\/2009\/04\/chapter-1-scared.html"},"modified":"2009-04-08T19:33:47","modified_gmt":"2009-04-08T19:33:47","slug":"chapter-1-scared","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/2009\/04\/chapter-1-scared.html","title":{"rendered":"Chapter 1 – Scared"},"content":{"rendered":"
This chapter introduces the second character in the book, Stuart Daniels, a New York Times award winning photo journalist. Warning: it's quite different than the prologue.<\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Chapter One<\/p>\n

Democratic Republic of the Congo, Africa, 1998<\/em><\/p>\n

Ten years ago I was a dead man.<\/p>\n

It all began when Lou, my broker from Alpha Agency, said,<\/p>\n

\u201cStuart, how would you feel about heading to the Congo? Time <\/em>is<\/p>\n

putting together a crew and needs a hot photographer.\u201d<\/p>\n

He asked; I went. That\u2019s how I got paid then. It\u2019s how I get paid<\/p>\n

now.<\/p>\n

\n

My job was to cover a breaking story on a rebel uprising that would<\/p>\n

soon turn into genocide. Unfortunately, neither Lou nor any of us were<\/p>\n

privy to that valuable information at the time. We should have seen<\/p>\n

it coming. The frightening tribal patterns resembled the bloodbath<\/p>\n

between the Hutu and Tutsi in Rwanda in 1994. We knew what<\/p>\n

happened there had spilled over to the DRC\u2014but we ignored it.<\/p>\n

Our job was to focus on the story of the moment, whatever we<\/p>\n

might find. But this was more than a search for journalistic truth. It<\/p>\n

was an opportunity to win a round of a most dangerous game\u2014the<\/p>\n

chase for a prize-winning picture.<\/p>\n

\n

The plane landed in the capital city of Kinshasa. A man in combat<\/p>\n

fatigues stood near a large black government car. Six armed guards<\/p>\n

toting fully automatic rifles flanked him.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cThat must be the mayor and his six closest comrades,\u201d I said<\/p>\n

to our writer, Mike, as I swung my heavy neon orange bag over my<\/p>\n

shoulder. \u201cWelcome to a world where you are not in control.\u201d This<\/p>\n

was Mike\u2019s first international assignment. I swear his knees buckled.<\/p>\n

Our team consisted of me; Mike, shipped in from Holland (a lower<\/p>\n

executive from Time <\/em>who was looking for a thrill and trying to escape<\/p>\n

his adulterous wife for a few weeks); and Tommy, the grip, whose job<\/p>\n

it was to carry our gear.<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cWelcome to the Democratic Republic of Congo. I am Mayor<\/p>\n

Mobutu.\u201d We introduced ourselves, exchanging the traditional French<\/p>\n

niceties.<\/p>\n

\u201cBonjour, monsieur.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI must go and attend to some urgent matters, but there is a car<\/p>\n

waiting for you. These guards will take you out to Rutshuru, North<\/p>\n

Kivu.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

He pointed to a Land Cruiser near the airport building. The<\/p>\n

mayor\u2019s face carried the scars of a rough life. His right cheek looked<\/p>\n

as if someone tried to carve a Z into it. His left eye was slightly lazy,<\/p>\n

giving you the feeling he was looking over your shoulder, even when<\/p>\n

you were face-to-face.<\/p>\n

\n

He turned to me. \u201cYou know how dangerous it is here. You are<\/p>\n

taking your life into your own hands, and we will not be responsible.<\/p>\n

We keep telling reporters this, but you never listen.\u201d He started to<\/p>\n

walk away but turned one more time and wagged his finger at each<\/p>\n

one us as if we were children. \u201cPay attention to what these guards tell<\/p>\n

you, and do not put yourself in the middle of conflict.\u201d<\/p>\n

Nobody ever won a Pulitzer by standing at arm\u2019s length.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you for welcoming us, sir, and for your words,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe will keep them in mind.\u201d The guards nodded for us to follow,<\/p>\n

and we made a solemn line into the Land Cruiser.<\/p>\n

\n

It was the rainy season, and on cue an afternoon storm whipped<\/p>\n

and lashed across the landscape like an angry mob. As we drove<\/p>\n

in silence, the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. We<\/p>\n

arrived at the village that would serve as our headquarters. Amid the<\/p>\n

familiar routines of a small community that seemed oblivious to the<\/p>\n

dangers surrounding them, people who were displaced by violence<\/p>\n

congregated in huddles hoping for safety.<\/p>\n

\n

I snapped off pictures of the scene. Once the children noticed my<\/p>\n

camera, school was over. They surrounded me like ants on a Popsicle.<\/p>\n

I had come prepared. I handed out candy as fast as I could, then got<\/p>\n

back to the business of capturing images of this unsettling normalcy.<\/p>\n

The sun hid behind the trees, and darkness enveloped the<\/p>\n

thatched huts and makeshift refugee camp, swallowing them whole.<\/p>\n

Our armed guards escorted us into a separate compound meant to<\/p>\n

keep us safe from any danger lurking in the nearby jungles.<\/p>\n

\n

We took a seat on concrete blocks to enjoy a traditional African<\/p>\n

meal of corn and beans, and we laughed about the monkeys we had<\/p>\n

seen on the road hurling bananas at our Land Cruiser. It was funnier<\/p>\n

than it ought to have been.<\/p>\n

\n

And then it happened.<\/p>\n

\n

The crisp pop of bullets battered our eardrums. The sounds<\/p>\n

ripped through the jungle night and into the village. Then the screams<\/p>\n

began. S
\ncreams that boiled the blood inside my ears.<\/p>\n

I dropped, crawled on my belly to the window and slid up along<\/p>\n

the front wall, craning my neck so I could see outside. A guard<\/p>\n

across the room mirrored my actions at another window. Everyone<\/p>\n

else was flat against the ground. As I peered through the rusty barred<\/p>\n

window, flashes of light pounded bright fists against the sky, the<\/p>\n

road, and the trees.<\/p>\n

\n

Buildings exploded with fire, and a woman cried out in terror.<\/p>\n

Shadows flickered, black phantoms haunting the night. I made out<\/p>\n

five or six soldiers beating a woman with their boots and the butts<\/p>\n

of their guns.<\/p>\n

\n

She quit screaming, quit moving, and then they ripped the<\/p>\n

clothes from her broken body. They began raping her. She came to<\/p>\n

and started to scream again, pleading for help, and they hit her until<\/p>\n

her screams choked on her blood. She couldn\u2019t have been more than sixteen.<\/p>\n

I turned my head.<\/p>\n

\n

The horror of this night was no act of God. No earthquake or<\/p>\n

tsunami. This was the act of men. Evil men. Demons in the guise of<\/p>\n

men.<\/p>\n

\n

The uncertainty of what might happen next hovered at the edge<\/p>\n

of an inhaled breath.<\/p>\n

\n

The armed guards screamed for us to lay prostrate on the dirt<\/p>\n

floor as bullets flew through the walls and widows, scattering plaster<\/p>\n

and glass. I wiped away salty sweat burning my eyes. But the sweat<\/p>\n

was thicker than it should have been. I tasted it.<\/p>\n

\n

Blood.<\/p>\n

\n

Fear strangled the air. Shallow breaths and rapid heartbeats echoed<\/p>\n

throughout the tiny room. I thought about my last conversation<\/p>\n

with Whitney. My last conversation.<\/p>\n

\n

Was it my last?<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Mike\u2019s hand slid up next to me. His whisper turned my head.<\/p>\n

\u201cAsk not for whom the bell tolls, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mike shoved his glasses back onto his oversized, pockmarked<\/p>\n

nose. \u201cThis happened to one of my closest friends in Northern<\/p>\n

Uganda. The rebel militia mutilated everyone and everything in<\/p>\n

sight. No one made it out alive. No one. These monsters believe in a<\/p>\n

kind
\nof Old Testament extermination of anything that moves.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

\u201cThanks for the encouraging words.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI always knew I\u2019d die young.\u201d<\/p>\n

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a string of wooden<\/p>\n

rosary beads. \u201cThese were my mother\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not Catholic.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNeither was I. Until now.\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShut up!\u201d one of the guards hissed.<\/p>\n

\n

Rivers of sweat baptized our faces, our necks, our chests.<\/p>\n

Death, real and suffocating, pressed in, driven by the wailing of<\/p>\n

dying babies, the yelps of slaughtered animals, the screams of women<\/p>\n

being beaten and raped. My heart raced in rapid-fire panic.<\/p>\n

\n

I peered through a hole between a cinder block and a broken<\/p>\n

windowsill. Rebel troops swarmed like locusts, devouring every<\/p>\n

living thing in their path.<\/p>\n

\n

Mike elbowed me in the thigh. \u201cRemember that story about<\/p>\n

an African militia group that raped a bunch of Americans? Men,<\/p>\n

women, children\u2014they weren\u2019t choosy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to be quiet,\u201d whispered a guard. He got to one knee,<\/p>\n

steadying his gun. \u201cNow shut up, or I\u2019ll kill you myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n

A rebel commander yelled something just outside the door.<\/p>\n

Another shot, and the guard who had just spoken fell dead right on<\/p>\n

top of me. His blood flowed over my neck and right arm, staining<\/p>\n

my band of brothers ring crimson. The screaming intensified, people<\/p>\n

ran, yelled, and died.<\/p>\n

\n

I scooted against the wall, huddled next to Mike as shots<\/p>\n

continued to shriek overhead. Plaster exploded and covered us. We<\/p>\n

tried to make ourselves invisible, curling into the fetal position,<\/p>\n

wrapping our arms over our heads.<\/p>\n

\n

A bullet whined by my ear, missing by centimeters. I crawled<\/p>\n

facedown to the other side of the room, trying to get out of the line<\/p>\n

of fire.<\/p>\n

\n

Then a sudden, deafening silence.<\/p>\n

Nobody moved for what seemed like hours. Fear paralyzed me,<\/p>\n

and the silence thickened, punctuated by an occasional moan or a<\/p>\n

sob. We waited and waited, wondering when it would be safe to<\/p>\n

stand, wondering if it would ever be safe.<\/p>\n

\n

Finally, I gazed out the window, my eyes searching for rebel<\/p>\n

soldiers in the yellow-orange gloom of smoke. No figures or<\/p>\n

movement.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going out,\u201d I whispered to Mike.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t respond<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, listen. Let\u2019s go, man.\u201d<\/p>\n

I elbowed him in the ribs.<\/p>\n

\u201cMike!\u201d I grabbed his jacket to turn him toward me. There was<\/p>\n

a pinpoint crimson stain on the front of his light blue shirt. His eyes<\/p>\n

stared through me.<\/p>\n

\n

I was frozen for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then I<\/p>\n

pulled my camera out of my bag. I picked up Mike\u2019s gear and slung<\/p>\n

it around my neck.<\/p>\n

\n

Outside, the air burned of flesh. Some shadows moved in the<\/p>\n

distance, but the streets were barren. A few jerking and twitching<\/p>\n

heaps lined the road and quivered beside the buildings.<\/p>\n

Oh, God. Oh, God.<\/p>\n

\n

I walked toward the flames. Everything was silent except for<\/p>\n

a sour ringing in my ears. Something compelled me to enter the<\/p>\n

destruction, to get closer.<\/p>\n

\n

Severed body parts lay before me in a display of such horror I<\/p>\n

began to heave. A young pregnant mother crumpled over, lying dead<\/p>\n

next to a burning haystack. She barely looked human. One leg lay at<\/p>\n

a right angle, an arm hung loosely from her shoulder, held there by a<\/p>\n

single, stringy tendon. Her stomach had been sliced wide open, the<\/p>\n

wormlike contents spilled in front of her, still moving.<\/p>\n

\n

There was nothing I could do to help her. Nothing. <\/p>\n

I lifted the camera to my left eye. Snap. Snap. Snap. The lens<\/p>\n

clicked open and closed.<\/p>\n

\n

I stepped closer to capture the look on her face. Steam rose from<\/p>\n

her insides. More pictures. Through the blood and mucus by her<\/p>\n

midsection I made out a face, a tiny face with eyes closed.<\/p>\n

Voices rose over the roofs. Something was happening at the end<\/p>\n

of the village. Without thought, I raced through the corpses and<\/p>\n

debris toward the commotion.<\/p>\n

\n

The rebel troops had gathered the bodies of all the men they had<\/p>\n

slain. They were stacking them together in the shape of a pyramid.<\/p>\n

As each body was thrown on top of the others, the rebels jeered,<\/p>\n

spit on the dead, and drank from a whiskey bottle, reveling in their<\/p>\n

triumph. They shot their guns into the air. Fire flashed around the<\/p>\n

perimeter. It was a scene from hell.<\/p>\n

\n

A man climbed on the roof above the bodies, unzipped his pants,<\/p>\n

and urinated all over the dead. The men slapped each other on the<\/p>\n

back and laughed.<\/p>\n

\n

Another rebel poured some liquid over the bodies.<\/p>\n

I adjusted the camera settings and snapped a series of shots as<\/p>\n

fast as my fingers could click. The fire ignited, a pyramid pyre, and I<\/p>\n

continued to shoot. I snapped pictures of the dead\u2014men I had seen<\/p>\n

earlier that day caring for their families\u2014as their faces melted like<\/p>\n

candle wax. I snapped pictures of the rebels\u2019 ugly glee. And I felt like<\/p>\n

retching again.<\/p>\n

\n

I turned and walked, faster and faster, until I was running.<\/p>\n

Each step I took pounded the question: Why? Why? Why?<\/p>\n

I raced to the edge of the compound and saw Tommy hanging<\/p>\n

out the window of our car, frantically motioning me to come. We<\/p>\n

sped off, the remaining guard driving like a bat out of hell, for it<\/p>\n

was indeed hell we were escaping. As I turned to look out the back<\/p>\n

window, I saw Mike\u2019s body crumpled in the seat behind me. Like a<\/p>\n

rotted rubber band, something inside me snapped. My whole body<\/p>\n

shook. Sobs came without tears. I could muster only one coherent<\/p>\n

thought: If we get out of here alive, at least we can send Mike back<\/p>\n

to his family.<\/p>\n

\n

Back to his cheating wife.<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This chapter introduces the second character in the book, Stuart Daniels, a New York Times award winning photo journalist. Warning: it's quite different than the prologue. Chapter One Democratic Republic of the Congo, Africa, 1998 Ten years ago I was a dead man. 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A tireless advocate for fatherless children, Davis has spent most of his adult life calling U.S. believers to become the hands and feet of Jesus Christ to the 143 million orphans living around the world. Through those connections, thousands of orphans now have the bright and hopeful future--one that is filled with opportunities and the love of the one true Father. Davis speaks hundreds of times each year at churches and conferences, mobilizing the church to action on behalf of the poor. He is the author of four books. His most recent novel, SCARED is a fictionalized account of his first-hand experiencing living and working with orphans in Swaziland, Africa. Davis' blog is the premier resource for the latest developments in Christian orphan ministry. Davis also currently teaches courses as adjunct professor at George Fox University in Newberg, OR. When not traveling the globe, Davis resides in the mountains of Colorado in the small community of Palmer Lake. He and his wife Emily have seven children, including two adopted daughters from Russia.","url":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/author\/tdavis"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/217","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/87"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=217"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/217\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=217"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=217"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.beliefnet.com\/columnists\/redletters\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=217"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}