Philippa Schuyler, 28-years-old and scared, stood in the hallway of the apartment while the Congolese man explained his plans for Independence Day.
‘Me and my friends’, said the man, ‘we have made a list of all the European women in the neighbourhood we are going to rape.’1
It was late at night. Schuyler had only opened the door because she thought it might be Victor Vanderlinden, the Belgian owner of the apartment, come to check on her. The half-built block on avenue Joséphine Charlotte had no lights, no telephone, no working toilets. The alternative had been sharing a houseboat with five male journalists. Schuyler took the apartment. It seemed safer.
The Congolese man had a knife. He explained that Schuyler was not on his list because she had only just moved into Kalina suburb. And she was not European. The man looked her up and down. The classical pianist from New York liked knee-length dresses in floral patterns, tied back her long, wavy black hair and had skin the colour of milky coffee. He was going to rape her anyway. He had fallen in love with her. That was why he had come to the apartment on his own. He had been watching her for days. He was going to rape her without his friends to show his love.
‘Please leave,’ said Schuyler.2
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I am going to do! I will do!’
He did not move.
Philippa Schuyler grew up on Edgecombe Avenue, an upscale part of New York’s Harlem home to a constellation of famous African-Americans. Called ‘Sugar Hill’ by the locals, its smart rows of houses provided shelter from American bigotry for stars like jazz legend Duke Ellington and historian William Du Bois.
And bigotry was everywhere. Southern states used Jim Crow laws to segregate the races. Every town had ‘Whites Only’ drinking fountains and seats for blacks at the back of the bus. North of the Mason-Dixon Line, whites relied on property prices to corral African-Americans into ghettos.
‘Down South white folks don’t care how close I get as long as I don’t get too big,’ said comedian Dick Gregory. ‘Up North white folks don’t care how big I get as long as I don’t get too close.’3
Philippa Schuyler’s parents were one of the Hill’s rare mixed-race couples. George was a journalist and former soldier, handsome and sad-eyed, from a middle-class African-American home in Syracuse. He married Josephine Lewis Cogdell, a full-faced white blonde from a rich Texan family, the year after they met in the offices of New York newspaper The Messenger. The couple would later describe the marriage as a sociopolitical experiment, a smashing down of racial barriers that bred a superior child. But their relationship was more than a meeting of minds.
‘He is a marvellous lover and possesses the most gigantic anatomy,’ Josephine told an old boyfriend.4
Philippa was born in 1931 on the fourth floor of the Park Lincoln apartment building, overlooking the maple trees of Colonial Park. The Schuylers believed their baby was full of ‘hybrid vigor’.5 To prove it they gave her piano lessons every day, talked frankly about sex, read Proust aloud in French, fed her on raw vegetables and vetoed friends her own age.
Philippa Schuyler was playing Mozart by the time she was 4. Fame blossomed as a child prodigy pianist, first within the African-American community, then white America. She performed in concert halls, on the radio and in person for New York Mayor Fiorello La Guardia.
‘The Shirley Temple of American negroes’, said Look magazine.6
The transition from child prodigy to adult musician was hard. Professional invitations dried up. Equally damaging was her mother’s desire to keep her young forever. Schuyler never lost the look of an uncertain schoolgirl, pretty but awkward, smile always too wide, posture too self-conscious. She turned her back on the US and toured abroad, making a new home in Brussels, where she stood glamorously exotic among the wives and elephant-legged mothers-in-law nagging beak-nosed men to church every Sunday. A world away from Sugar Hill. Schuyler liked it.
In 1955, she played her first African tour, performing for Haile Selassie in Ethiopia, Kwame Nkrumah in Ghana and to the white establishment of the Belgian Congo. Schuyler admired newly independent Africa but the continent’s sexism shocked her. Female circumcision was common in Ethiopia and fathers married off their daughters without telling them. Ghana’s buses carried public information signs: ‘Never Trust a Woman.’7
Congolese women had an equally rough time. In the bush, many men found it a sign of weakness that whites allowed their wives to eat at the same table.
‘They wouldn’t even let us talk,’ said Beatrice Mohana, rare feminist and wife of a Katangese politician. ‘If we tried to express an opinion they would say “Shut up! You’re only a woman”!’8
Henriette Cardon-Sips, a darkly attractive 40-year-old Flamand whose husband Willy was chief engineer at the Elisabethville Simba brewery, claimed she heard worse than that when she sneaked into a Lumumba speech before the elections.
‘You’ve got to kill all the white men but keep the white women,’ was how she remembered Lumumba’s words. ‘You can have all their houses and all their cars. When the men are dead you can marry the white women.’9
MNC supporters derided Cardon-Sips as a racist with a rape fantasy. Belgians were less sure. Across the Congo, sharp natives were making good money conning dumber compatriots; for 1,500 francs, the mark would get a certificate that allegedly gave them rights to a European’s house and either the wife or daughter, whoever was prettier. In Léopoldville, a tailor casually remarked to his white employer that he had spent his life savings buying her and her sewing machine from a man who lived in his village.
Following the tour, Schuyler’s views moved further to the right, following her father, whose natural scepticism had hardened into far-right conservatism. Both joined America’s anti-communist John Birch Society.
Philippa performed in Japan, Korea, Taiwan. She wrote occasional journalism and had affairs with unsuitable Belgian men. She played for the Dowager Queen Elisabeth of Belgium, a performance that persuaded the Congolese to book her for their Independence Day celebrations. By the time Philippa Schuyler touched down in Elisabethville on 7 June 1960 and boarded an internal flight to Léopoldville, she was a well-travelled 29-year-old right-wing musician and journalist, troubled by her identity and career, fond of tarot cards and men who treated her badly.
You could fly over the Congo for hours and see nothing man-made except an occasional dirt track and a few huts. The population averaged six people per square kilometre. Sometimes the only sign of life from the air were old boats ploughing through the hyacinth lilies on the River Congo. These Victorian relics, painted the colour of rust to hide their age, looked like a ferry mated with a Ferris wheel, smaller boats roped to them like remora on a shark.
Railway lines took cargo were the rivers did not flow. They said that one Chinese worker died for every sleeper and a white engineer for every kilometre of track. No one counted the dead Congolese. Sometimes the connection between river and rail was a port, sometimes only needle-nosed canoes bobbing in the water hinted at a station behind the trees. Passengers disembarked from the riverboat, scrambled up a bank, waded through elephant grass and found a steam train waiting on the tracks, all panelled wood, brass fittings and white-uniformed attendants.
The railways and rivers vanished on the approach to Ndjili airport. Then it was a bumpy touchdown and surly officials in the terminal. Lumumba had asked Belgian administrators, army officers, bureaucrats, engineers and other professionals to remain in the Congo until locals could be trained to take over. The Congolese resented working for their old masters. In Léopoldville, the dockers were on strike and public transport sporadic. Domestic staff did the bare minimum as they counted the days until independence.
A civil servant called Victor Vanderlinden was waiting at the airport with the choice of a houseboat or an unfinished apartment block.
The man in Schuyler’s hallway would not leave. He pulled a fetish covered in animal hide from his pocket and waved the knife. He wanted her blood to feed the fetish. Schuyler ran for the door. He grabbed her arm. She pulled away and ran into the street, shouting for help. The man ran off in another direction.
Schuyler returned that evening to sleep on a bare mattress in the bedroom. She woke when the man tried to break in through a window. She screamed, nearby dogs barked and the man ran away. She moved out to stay with Belgian friends.
On the afternoon of 30 June, a shaken Schuyler put on a purple silk evening gown and waited for the official car. After three hours, she made her own way to the Palais and arrived at 10 p.m. Pavilions had been set up in the gardens. Congolese politicians drank under a cloud of dagga smoke. Guitar players, samba bands and cha-cha acts drifted on and off the stage. Schuyler was pointed towards a battered upright piano on a pontoon floating in a swimming pool. A brief announcement on the microphone introduced Schuyler’s programme of Chopin, Gershwin and Schubert. The badly tuned piano bobbed about and her arm ached where the man had grabbed her. A fountain sprayed her with water. Two Congolese men leant on the piano and argued with each other.
In the early hours of the morning, a drunk politician drove Philippa Schuyler home.
The parties continued all weekend. Music, dancing, drinking. A depressed Schuyler spent time with white friends, seeing bad omens in everything. The tired, angry faces of Force Publique soldiers policing the celebrations. The biting mosquitoes flourishing now that the Belgian pilots who sprayed DDT over the city had gone back to Europe.
‘Congo’s independence will be tragic,’ Schuyler thought. ‘All the whites and many of the educated blacks know this already … But all seem powerless to stop the coming holocaust … How can good come of all this? … The Congo will collapse like a house of cards after June 30 …’10
On Friday, Bayakas and Bakongos fought each other in Léopoldville a few blocks from joyous street parties. The radio announced renewed violence between Baluba and Lulua in Kasaï province. Later that day, celebrations in Coquilhatville, Equateur province went sour. Locals demonstrated about the economy and demanded provincial self-rule. The new government sent in Force Publique troops, who opened fire and killed ten people.
On 2 July, there were riots in Orientale province. In Léopoldville, music kept playing and people kept drinking. International guests departed, leaving only United Nations observer Ralph Bunce, a light-skinned African-American with kind eyes and a cigarette habit, famous for brokering the ceasefire between Israel and the Arabs in 1949. Lumumba made a radio broadcast encouraging young Belgians to come out to the Congo and make careers. He assured investors their money was safe.
‘Belgium should be the first country to take the Congo’s outstretched hand of friendship,’ Lumumba said.11
The partying wound down on Sunday. The country had work the next day.
On Monday 4 July, normal life began in the independent Congo. Parliament’s first act was to raise its members’ salary from 100,000 francs a year to half a million. Lumumba was one of the few to object. Politicians squeezed lemon juice into the wound by promising all government employees, apart from the army, a pay rise. They had not forgiven the Force Publique for Belgian repression.
Soldiers mutinied at Camp Hardy, an army base on the road between Léopoldville and Matadi port. They beat white officers and penned them up with their wives in a corner of the camp. Clear-eyed observers had seen trouble approaching for a while. Army units had exhausted themselves supervising the election. On Independence Day, most of the Force Publique’s 24,000 soldiers were confined to barracks while the Congo celebrated. The decision to retain 1,000 Belgian officers, a third of their wages paid by Brussels, had not helped. Their replacement by Congolese would be a long process. By independence only a handful of Africans had been promoted to ‘master sergeant’ rank and twenty officer cadets sent to a Brussels military academy.
‘Everybody knows that we, the army rank and file, are treated like slaves,’ a soldier had written to Emancipation newspaper back in April 1960. ‘We are punished arbitrarily because we are macaques. We may read no newspapers published by black civilians. There is no human contact between our officers and ourselves, but rather a relationship of domination that turns us into racially inferior slaves.’12
After the elections, disenchantment spread to include the new government. Lumumba told his soldiers they would not get promotions until they were properly trained.
‘Prime Minister Lumumba has said that in spite of independence, no second-class soldier will become a general,’ wrote another soldier to Emancipation. ‘How hurtful it is to tell the people such things. Mr Lumumba considers us unable to do the jobs of our own officers, but with what rank, may we ask, did any general in the Force Publique begin his military career?’13
Lieutenant General Janssens, head of the Force Publique, seemed unconcerned, even though the Force Publique had mutinied four times in the last sixty-five years, most recently in 1944. Like his soldiers, he had taken no leave for months while policing the handover of power. He was too tired to think straight. He attended a Fourth of July party thrown by Americans in Léopoldville.
‘The Force Publique? It is my creation,’ he told guests. ‘It is absolutely loyal.’14
News of the Camp Hardy mutiny pulled nerves tight in Léopoldville. Lorryloads of soldiers raced around the streets. Philippa Schuyler heard rumours of rape by mutineers. Western journalists in Léopoldville were reluctant to investigate, fearing it would play into the hands of the right wing back home.
‘The implications were extremely ugly and would not be popular with many of our customers,’ thought Reuters correspondent Sandy Gall, a tall Scottish 32-year-old with experience of hotspots like Suez and Hungary.15
On 5 July, there were reports of violence from other parts of the Congo. A Belgian woman was raped sixteen times by soldiers at Kisantu. Two women were raped at Banza-Boma. Other reports came in from Madimba and Matadi. Later that day, Lieutenant General Janssens tried to calm the capital’s garrison at Camp Léopold II.
‘Independence is good for civilians,’ he said. ‘For the military there is only discipline. Before 30 June you had white officers. After 30 June you will still have white officers.’16
Lumumba gave a radio speech to the nation making it clear he would not promote Congolese NCOs to officer positions without proper training.
That evening, soldiers at Camp Léopold II held a meeting to discuss their grievances, particularly a slogan Janssens chalked on a blackboard during his talk: ‘Before Independence = After Independence’. They took hostage officers who tried to disperse them. Soldiers from Thysville, near Camp Hardy, refused to intervene. Military police eventually broke up the trouble.
The Force Publique had a radio network that linked bases across the country. Rumours crackled through the air like electricity. Nerves stretched tighter. On 6 July, soldiers in Inkisi attacked local Belgians. Twenty women were raped there over the next two days.
A delegation of soldiers in Léopoldville met Lumumba and demanded pay rises, promotions and the departure of white officers. Lumumba refused. Another group tried to force their way into the parliament building. A newspaper man asked who they were protesting against.
‘Belgian officers and some of our rulers,’ came the reply.17
Kasa-Vubu and Lumumba flew to Camp Hardy, site of the original disturbances, to calm the mutineers. Then trouble broke out in Thysville and nearby towns. Civilians joined in. What was left of the party atmosphere curdled. Drunk Africans beat whites on the street.
On Thursday 7 July, Lumumba gave a press conference in the capital to deny any rape or looting had occurred. The same day the first trainload of Europeans pulled into Léopoldville from Thysville. The passengers were beaten men, crying children, women bleeding down their thighs.
Down south, Katanga remained calm but provincial president Moïse Tshombe surprised many Congolese by asking Belgium and Rhodesia to send peacekeeping troops. Soldiers were uneasy in their barracks and he feared a mutiny. Brussels and Salisbury refused.
On Friday, Lumumba dismissed Janssens as head of the Force Publique. The prime minister appointed his uncle Victor Lundula, a tired-looking medical practitioner and former sergeant major who shared Albert Kalonji’s taste for Hitler moustaches. Lundula turned the Force Publique into the Armée Nationale Congolais (Congolese National Army – ANC) and appointed Joseph Désiré Mobutu, skinny and dark, as his chief of staff. Another former sergeant major, Mobutu was rarely seen without sunglasses and a bow tie. A journalist by day, he moonlighted as secretary to Lumumba. His favourite book was Machiavelli’s The Prince.
Lundula and Mobutu tried to hold the ANC together by promoting all soldiers a rank and removing Belgians from their positions, with the promise that troops could vote on keeping them as advisors.
At the Catholic Institute in Léopoldville, Sandy Gall interviewed a roomful of nuns, all refugees who had arrived by train from Matadi. Rosary beads clicked. A nun told him that many sisters had been assaulted by drunk Force Publique mutineers.
‘That’s a very serious allegation,’ said Gall. ‘How can you be sure?’18
‘Because I saw it’, the nun said. ‘And I was raped myself.’
‘You were actually raped yourself?’
‘Yes. I was raped … several times. They even raped a 70-year-old sister, Sister Agatha. She’s sitting over there.’
An old woman in a habit, staring blankly at the wall.
The removal of Belgian officers unstitched the ANC’s last threads of discipline. Soldiers from Camp Léopold II mutinied in Léopoldville. They attacked Lumumba’s house, then Kasa-Vubu’s, smashing glass and throwing stones.
‘We are fed up with Lumumba,’ said one soldier at a roadblock. ‘We are going to do him in.’19
Frustrations over money, rank and years of bigotry burst onto the streets. Drunk or drugged solders ordered whites to kiss their feet. Those who did were kicked in the head; those who refused were beaten to the pavement with rifle butts.
Newsreels filmed riots, broken glass, a soldier throwing his rifle at a man’s back like a spear, other soldiers kicking in the doors of the Hôtel Stanley on the hunt for Flamands. Lumumba flew around the country trying to ride the tiger with speeches that pinned the mutinies on a Brussels conspiracy to retake the Congo. The horrified Belgian public thought he was blaming the victims.
Civilians led by policemen rioted again in Matadi. At least twenty women were raped there. More refugees arrived in Léopoldville by train. Soldiers mutinied in Sanda, lower Congo. Philippa Schuyler ran round Léopoldville on reporter duty, the memory of the man in her apartment still fresh but determined to get a story. She asked one man why he joined in the riots.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Everybody was doing it so I thought I should do it, too. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, but with all the others acting violent, it kind of seemed the thing to do.’20
A curfew was announced for seven in the evening. No one was left to enforce it.
Whites began to flee. Some crossed the river to Brazzaville until the ferry was suspended. Others escaped to Angola, Kenya, Uganda. In Katanga, panicking whites fled south to Rhodesia, where a young Mufulira policeman called John Trevelyn found them beds and listened to their stories. Hundreds of civilians stacked battered suitcases in Léopoldville airport’s departure lounge, waiting for flights. Lost children’s toys went soggy in a thin lake of piss that spread across the terminal floor from overflowing toilets.
Belgian airline Sabena rerouted its fleet to Léopoldville and began airlifting out refugees. Soon only 2,500 Belgians would be left from Léopoldville’s 18,000-strong white population; 300 from Stanleyville’s 5,000; just 200 from Luluabourg’s 6,000.21
‘I liked the Congolese,’ a man from Orientale province told a journalist at the airport. ‘I naively thought they liked us as well. My wife was raped more than thirty times. She has been insane for three days. What more is there to say?’22
As the passengers disembarked at Brussels they were met by Belgian police. ‘Where have you come from? Were you subject to ill treatment?’23 Ground crews carried out hysterical women strapped to stretchers. Short-trousered children held hands on the rain-soaked runway apron. Inside the terminal, rows of clerks handed out emergency funds. Lovanium university lecturer Jan Vansina did not need money but the clerk told him he could not leave the airport without it. The cash was a loan from the Belgian government and would have to be repaid. Civilian volunteers waited outside the terminal with their cars, offering to drive refugees to hotels or relatives.
Sabena’s airlift halted on the evening of 8 July, when ANC troops occupied the airport at Léopoldville. For days, Belgian Prime Minister Eyskens had been urging Lumumba to allow Belgian military intervention. Some of the mutineers thought they could scare off Brussels by keeping whites hostage on the ground. They miscalculated.
The occupation of Ndjili airport sent Belgian public opinion boiling over; they wanted their people rescued. Eyskens’s government ordered in paracommandos to back up the 2,500 troops who had remained in the Congo. Two companies set off from Belgium, others from Ruanda-Urundi. Lumumba, flying across the country stamping out mutinies, saw the intervention as colonialism.
‘You are here illegally,’ he told a Belgian officer, ‘and we have no need of your protection.’24
The intervention had the thinnest glaze of legality. The day before independence, Brussels and Léopoldville had signed a treaty of friendship that gave Belgium sovereignty over the Kamina and Kitona airbases, and the right to intervene militarily should the new government require assistance in maintaining law and order. The treaty had never been ratified.
‘A Belgian and fascist plot against independence,’ said Anicet Kashamura, Congolese Minister for Information, on the radio.25
The Léopoldville government claimed to have the mutinies under control. On 9 July, Lumumba and Kasa-Vubu persuaded mutineers in Matadi to release a group of white hostages. The next day, Belgian gunboats and marines landed at the port. A firefight killed twenty African soldiers.
‘These military interventions by Belgium in the Congo are really and in all honesty only for the purpose of saving lives,’ said Eyskens.26
Troops at Camp Hardy mutinied again when they heard about the attack. Two girls, 11 and 12 years old, were among those raped. Soldiers mutinied in the Kasaï capital of Luluabourg. Hundreds of Belgians barricaded themselves in the Immokasaï, a concrete block of flats in the centre of town, while mutineers shot out the windows. The trapped whites painted ‘SOS’ on the roof in red paint. On 10 July, Belgian paracommandos floated down to rescue them, arriving just as the ANC set up mortars.
The next day, Léopoldville mutineers shot at wounded Belgian soldiers returning from the battle. In revenge, the Belgians occupied Ndjili airport. A firefight left the terminal restaurant a mess of broken glass and blood. In the departure lounge, a BBC reporter led his camera crew through a crowd of cowering white civilians, looking for interviewees.
‘Anyone here been raped and speaks English?’27
Elsewhere, in Léopoldville, Philippa Schuyler talked with women who had fled to the capital by train. A young social worker from Thysville still carried the shredded bra and panties she was wearing when three soldiers raped her.
‘As I was a social worker, there to teach the Congolese women sewing, cooking, social adjustment, and so on, I lived alone,’ the woman said:
and it was easy for the soldiers to break in. I tried to hide in the wardrobe, but they pulled me out, spitting on me, and beat me all over. I grabbed a sewing basket and hit one soldier on the head with it, but he wrenched it out of my grasp. I jabbed him with a pair of scissors but it didn’t do any good. My legs were bleeding. I fell on the floor, and they kicked me. I tried to get up but the floor was slippery with blood, and I fell in it. I crawled away, and tried to run into the W.C. and bolt the door, but I wasn’t fast enough and they came in after me …28
Schuyler collected more stories: the woman raped twelve times in front of her children, the pregnant woman raped at gunpoint, the woman force-fed her own pubic hair before a soldier wrapped sandpaper around his finger and shoved it into her vagina. Belgian women thought themselves lucky if they had just been stripped naked in public and forced to eat dirt.
Schuyler estimated that 600 women were raped in the riots. Belgium put the figure at 300. Rape is always an under-reported crime. At least fifty Europeans had been murdered; forty-two people alone died near the Angolan border. Hundreds more were still missing when Schuyler flew out from Léopoldville to Accra, then on to Brussels. The Congo’s independence had become a horror story.
At the height of the mutinies, Moïse Tshombe made a radio broadcast from Elisabethville in Katanga. For some, his announcement showed him to be a puppet of the Belgians, bought for a suitcase stuffed with francs. For others, his words resurrected a murderous tyrant, a Katangese emperor who ate the hearts of his enemies and spiked their skulls on wooden poles. Tshombe was about to become the most hated man in the Congo.
Information on Philippa Schuyler comes from Kathryn Talalay’s biography, Composition in Black and White: The Tragic Saga of Harlem’s Biracial Prodigy (Oxford University Press, 1995), and Schuyler’s own Who Killed the Congo? (Devin-Adair, 1962). ‘La crise congolaise de juillet 1960 et le sexe de la décolonisation’ by Pedro Monaville (Sextant magazine, no. 25, 2008) gives an overview of the post-independence rapes and murders. Schuyler’s Who Killed the Congo? and Sandy Gall’s Don’t Worry about the Money Now (New English Library, 1983) describe interviews with victims.
1 Schuyler, Who Killed the Congo?, p. 10.
2 Schuyler, Who Killed the Congo?, p. 11.
3 Gregory, Dick, ‘And I Ain’t Just Whistling Dixie’, Ebony (August 1971), p. 149.
4 Talalay, Composition in Black and White, p. 24.
5 Talalay, Composition in Black and White, p. 13.
6 Talalay, Composition in Black and White, p. 79.
7 Talalay, Composition in Black and White, p. 162.
8 Schuyler, Who Killed the Congo?, p. 170.
9 O’Donoghue, The Irish Army in the Congo, p. 98.
10 Schuyler, Who Killed the Congo?, p. 5.
11 Scott, Tumbled House, p. 46.
12 Willame, Jean-Claude, Patrimonialism and Political Change in the Congo (Stanford University Press, 1972), p. 64.
13 Willame, Patrimonialism and Political Change in the Congo, p. 63.
14 Legum, Congo Disaster, p. 111.
15 Gall, Don’t Worry about the Money Now, p. 118.
16 Fontaine, André, History of the Cold War (Vintage, 1970), p. 368.
17 Legum, Congo Disaster, p. 109.
18 Gall, Don’t Worry about the Money Now, p. 117.
19 Mummendey, Dietrich, Beyond the Reach of Reason: The Congo Story 1960–1965 (Sora Mummendey, 1997), p. 7.
20 Schuyler, Who Killed the Congo?, p. 16.
21 Legum, Congo Disaster, p. 125.
22 Davister, Pierre, ‘Au pays de l’horreur’, Pourquoi Pas?, 22 July 1960, p. 9.
23 Vansina, Living with Africa, p. 86.
24 Fontaine, History of the Cold War, p. 370.
25 Mummendey, Beyond the Reach of Reason, p. 7.
26 ‘Who Killed Lumumba? A transcript of BBC Correspondent aired on the 21st October 2000 written and presented by David Akerman’, (http://www.raceandhistory.com/
27 Behr, Edward, Anyone Here Been Raped and Speaks English? (Viking Press, 1978), p. 136.
28 Schuyler, Who Killed the Congo?, p. 188.