From Levi Keidel's journal with additions from Ruth KC

Photos by Levi Keidel and John Heese (MCC PAX)

Preface: The 1960 Congo Evacuation Story in Context

Congo had been a Belgian colony since 1908, and was one of the first African countries to gain independence from the colonialists. The Congolese were excited about being free the thumb of the Belgians. Yet when independence came it was difficult for the Belgians to truly let go of control and leave the leadership to the Congolese people. Once Independence Day rolled around and it became evident that the Belgians weren’t letting go, there was an uprising to rid the country completely of the Belgians or any Europeans who may represent the Belgian rule. This foment soon spilled over to the missionary community, especially by those who weren’t part of the church.

The evacuation of missionaries from Congo in 1960 was difficult for all those involved. Missionaries were afraid for the safety of their families. Congolese friends, church members and leaders felt abandoned in many cases. Yet church leaders advised the missionaries to leave as they felt they couldn’t guarantee their safety. The events of 1960 strained the relationship between the missionaries and the Congolese church. Yet the church continued to grow and mature in the missionaries’ absence, and by the time missionaries returned the church had gained independence as well.

The Keidel family had lived at Banga from 1952-1955, and 1956-1960, residing in the same house that Levi had built in 1952. We were settled into the community, and had a keen sense of being at “home.” Levi was involved with the church leaders, in school and church planting and leadership development. Eudene, a nurse, had developed the Banga Dispensary, training nurses to provide quality medical care for the community. The Banga Church and Dispensary continue to thrive today.

Unbelievable Developments

As June 30th, 1960 Independence Day approached, rumors flew thick and heavy about events waiting to explode. Belgian colonialists had made careful plans to assure security; they were prepared to extend their control by flights from the Kananga aerodrome (200 miles distant); we were instructed to burn tires to make a smoke signal if necessary; they would send military assistance.

Eudene's flag was put up in the Banga school yard and saluted the morning of June 30, 1960. Independence Day celebrations on June 30 came and went without incident. Then, on July 9, Congolese soldiers mutinied against their Belgian officers for higher wages. Tribalism was dangerously fanning the fires of division.

Students at mission stations where schools took them far from home wanted to return: Nyanga students studying at an Industrial School 140 miles distant at Mutena wanted to go to Nyanga; Mutena students in the high school at Nyanga wanted to go to Mutena. Rumors of local people agitating “foreign” students at one station threatened repercussions against “foreign” students at the other. Tribal Chiefs at Nyanga and Mutena were called to the radio. Over the air, each assured the other that “alien” students were all safe and accounted for; they would meet at Tshikapa (between the two posts) to make the exchange of students under surveillance of the military. Missionary Elmer Dick hid Baluba people in his home, and dared Mutena instigators to pull the trigger of a gun against his stomach. Later that night he left with all “foreign” students to make the exchange. It was not a safe time for transporting “aliens” through villages of people whose tribal tempers were flared. Once Elmer lost control of his vehicle in loose sand while passing through a village, and turned it over onto its side. They got out, quietly righted the vehicle, and continued on their way.

This is but one example of the disintegration of law and order. Disturbances began moving in upon our mission area from the east and towards where we were stationed at Banga. The Harvey Barkmans were new missionaries at Banga; she was very pregnant. Before regular mid-day siesta, Harvey turned on the radio and heard an emergency announcement: the British and American Embassies could no longer assure the safety of their citizens, and ordered all of them to leave the country immediately. The possibility of evacuation seemed unimaginable to us out in the “bush”. The Charlesville missionaries (to our east) felt compelled to evacuate. When we decided we were going to evacuate the next day, Eudene stayed up all night packing our five suitcases, deciding what we might need and what could be stored in the barrels in the attic for a couple of weeks until we came back. Priscilla sensed the tension, and didn’t’ sleep all night. The next morning, the family waited on the front porch for the missionaries from Charlesville to come through, so we could evacuate together. Eudene told Priscilla to go inside and get some rest while we waited. But Priscilla was afraid they may leave her behind in all the frenzy, and stayed out on the porch to wait with the family.

Kamayala Station Evacuated

The missionaries from Charlesville came through Banga on their way west. Glenn Rocke and I sent our wives and children on to Nyanga with them. They took Barkman’s south into Angola. The missionary doctor at Mukedi reported a mounting anti-missionary spirit. He and his wife also went south across the border into Angola.

Kamayala was the last station on the road south; it was the place to gas up vehicles before the final leg of the journey into Angola. After the Mukedi missionaries passed through Kamayala, Mel Classen reported that about 100 Africans gathered at his door demanding all mission money and vehicles. They had written a letter of complaint to the local government official accusing the missionaries of planning to flee with Congolese property. The state official came to the station to investigate, and succeeded in quieting them, but warned the missionaries to leave while the situation was still under control. Angry Congolese shouted, “If you flee, you’ll be shot!” About 9:00 p.m. missionaries packed and left for the Angolan border. From the dark roadside bush a gun blasted at each of the three cars in passing, but no one was injured.

Gathering of Missionaries at Kandala

Meanwhile, back at Banga, Glenn and I felt that we could hide in a nearby ravine if things went from bad to worse. It was a poor decision. After everybody else had left, Philip Mwadilu, the Congolese Mennonite pastor, came and explained that we did not know enough about living off of leaves and berries in the forest to survive. It would be difficult for the Africans to protect us from abuse by mutinying soldiers; they would have to disclose our location because they would need to feed us. We rang the church bell calling people to church. We explained the situation to them. With excruciating pain, Glenn and I bade them farewell and proceeded to Nyanga for the night.

On our last day at Banga I had spent much of my time listening to my amateur shortwave radio, trying to keep my finger on the pulse of what was going on elsewhere in Congo. That day the band was very busy with ham radios exchanging information. The next day when I listened from Nyanga the band was empty. This was alarming! It suggested that all the missionaries and Europeans were fleeing.

Later that day we decided that all missionaries should relocate to Kandala as a common “jumping-off” place should mass evacuation become necessary. Kandala was a Mennonite station at a junction from where the sole road went south for 250 miles through Kamayala and to Angola. By 4 p.m. July 11, all missionaries from Charlesville, Banga, and Nyanga (about 40 adults and children) had relocated across the Loange River (where a slow decrepit ferry was a weak link to evacuation), and on to Kandala.

That night all the children were put to bed in one big room, while the parents were gathered together in the living room deliberating about our next move. I, Ruth, a four-year-old, lay in bed in a big room of the Bertsche's house looking at the row of mosquito nets across the dimly lit bedroom, all the children sound asleep except for me. I sensed the tension in the house. My parents and all my missionary aunts and uncles were sitting in the living room discussing what to do next. I started crying and calling for my mother. Aunt Gladys Graber came into the room, picked me up from under the mosquito net, and rocked me in a rocking chair at the foot of the bed as she sang a comforting lullaby. By that time I was wide awake and happy, enjoying the attention of my best friend’s mother!

Critical Message

The Mennonite missionaries spent excruciating hours that night of dialogue, praying, weeping, and trying to determine what to do. At such times, why doesn’t God just write it in the sky so we can know? I broadcasted a few calls to Field Chairman Allan Wiebe whom we knew had already evacuated south, with all the Tshikapa missionaries. Thankfully, he did reply: “Get out if at all possible!” Someone asked the question in Low German (in case there were unwanted listeners), “What about bringing our hunting guns in case we need them?” Art Janz, also with the Tshikapa missionaries, replied emphatically in Low German, “Leave them!” I picked up a signal from the American Ambassador in Salisbury, Northern Rhodesia. He informed me that amateur radio men had been distress-calling Kananga aerodrome all day without response. This meant the local government had collapsed and the airport was in the hands of mutinying troops. I learned a bit later that that city of 80,000 was surrounded by these troops. Thus all opportunities to leave Kananga, by land and air, was cut off!

Evacuation Plans Stymied

By 2:00 p.m. the next day the missionaries gathered at Kandala decided that our security would be more assured if we relocated just across the Angolan border until the situation clarified, expecting to be gone for two weeks or so. The missionaries and MCC PAX men began loading food preserves from Jim and Jenny Bertsche’s attic into a big truck, hoping it would be enough to sustain the entire missionary family for a couple of weeks of camping in Angola.

Jenny tells the story that as she was supervising the packing of all their backup food from her attic, daughter Sandra came upstairs and became upset that they may be taking all the Christmas presents they had in storage. Then Jim came upstairs and expressed his concern about leaving Kandala and abandoning the church. Jenny knew it was best for her children to leave. 

Pete Buller and I decided we would pack ourselves, wives, and seven children, and baggage into the Banga Chevrolet Carryall. We left at 3:15 pm.

Shortly I could tell by the way the steering wheel handled that something was wrong with the front suspension. I stopped and got out to investigate. The front left spring pin had sheared, allowing the knurled end of the spring to rest up against the frame. Clearly, we could never make it 250 miles south into Angola that way. What were our options? Only one: return to Kandala hoping to double up with people leaving in other vehicles. We arrived back at the station at sundown. We brought a little-used short-cut back, and thereby missed the other vehicles heading south. 

Kandala had only a one ton pickup. This would mean pressing Pete Buller’s black VW bug into service. It had been abandoned because of intermittent ignition problems. I explained the situation to Station Chairman and Pastor Khelendende Pierre, and asked him if their chauffeur could take those of us who couldn’t get into the bug, to catch up with the other missionaries. He said they needed the chauffeur and pickup to haul building supplies to build their church; but the chauffeur could take us until we caught up with the others and then bring the pickup back.

Somber Planning

The Belgian Colonial Administrator from Kikwit arrived and asked if we would sell him the battery in our carryall. He needed it to use in his car to go back to Kikwit and keep things under control. We sold it to him. We and the chauffeur loaded our baggage, a barrel of gasoline, and a spare tire in the pickup. I and the three boys (Buller’s eldest son, James, and our two, Paul and Perry) climbed into the cab; Pete followed with the women, girls, and their baby boy in the bug. Our chauffeur proved to be more skilled at handling the sputtering ignition problems of Pete’s bug than we were.

I recall the passing hours of that long trip south. One time, when we were trying to restart the stalled bug, a truck with a dozen or so youth were driving north and stopped along the roadside adjacent to us. They muttered together as if trying to reach some decision and then continued on their way.

I recall a full moon hanging low in the eastern sky to my left. I put $100 into the right-hand pocket of my coat; the military were mutinying for higher wages, right? I would try this bribe. If that didn’t work, and they needed to see my blood, I would offer them the little finger of my left hand; if that didn’t satisfy them, I prayed that whatever they did would be behind a hut somewhere so my wife and children wouldn’t have to witness it. I remember once walking back to the bug to see how Eudene and the others were getting along. Priscilla asked me, “Daddy, are we going to be all right?” I answered, “We’ll just have to wait and see what Jesus has in mind for us.”

Among the cars zooming south past us was that of the Kikwit Belgian Administrator, using the carryall battery we had sold him. I saw in the red tail lights disappearing ahead of me an omen of the chaos descending behind us.

Providential Appointment

At length our headlights fell upon a soldier holding his bayoneted gun across the road to stop us.  I checked my watch: 2:15 a.m., and we had arrived a Kamayala.  The chauffeur pulled alongside him while I rolled down my window to begin my spiel. The two of them engaged in conversation in a language I could not understand. Then the soldier said to me in Tshiluba to go to the government office in the middle of town and pick up a permit which would allow us to proceed. As we picked up speed the chauffeur told me that he’d become acquainted with this particular soldier in his numerous trips to Kamayala to haul cement for the church building. Serendipity! Or was it Providential appointment? We proceeded to the center of town; I scanned for the office where I could get the permit. Seeing no lights anywhere, I told the chauffeur, “Give it the gun!" He did. I eyed the bug in the rearview mirror; Pete came through. South of town we stopped, had a prayer of thanksgiving, refueled the vehicles, and continued on our way.

We arrived at the Angolan border crossing about 5:30 a.m. Soldiers were relaxed and seated around a bonfire. I got out, went and joined them in relaxed chatting. I requested that they allow us to pass. They said their chief had been bothered all night by people wanting to leave; that we should allow him to rest until about 7:00 a.m. At 7:00 the soldiers awakened him. By tactful kidding, we prodded him to his duties. Forty-five minutes later he was parrying with our jokes and completed our formalities.

He good-humoredly posed for a snapshot, and as he lifted the gate pole for us to cross, cried out, “Come back soon! We need you!”

Happy Rendezvous in Angola

We travelled across a few miles of no-man’s land and suddenly came upon our missionary refugees camped at a stream along the roadside; they’d been waiting for us, and were about ready to come back into the country to hunt for us. The chauffeur dropped us off and returned with the truck. We were given a rusty Chevy carryall without any rear seats, whose floor transmission stick would not stay in gear.

We took baths in the cold stream, and boiled water on a campfire for tea to quench our thirst.

The men set up the ham radio out on the road by the river to let the CIM office in Elkhart know of our safe arrival in Angola.

We drove to a Portuguese government post. People there had kindly cooked vegetable soup and were feeding many refugees as they came through. They put us up for the night. One of the missionary children seriously observed, “These Porkacheese people are sure nice!”

The next morning they told us that we would drive all day until about 7:00 p.m. when we should look for the white-washed buildings of a Catholic mission off to our right.

By that time, we were part of a caravan of perhaps 20 vehicles, including Belgian evacuees. The road was covered with about five inches of talcum-powder dust; when I stepped in it, the fine dust came through the sole of my shoes and covered my toes.  During that trip Perry, then six years old, lying on the carryall floor, became ill and vomiting; the fine dust from the road covered his face, giving him the pallor of death

Belgians and Stephen Foster

We saw no sign of civilization that day except for a rare cowherd.

That evening we located the Catholic mission as predicted. A priest and abbey found themselves with about 60 unexpected guests.

With us were PAX men with Mennonite Central Committee (MCC)—conscientious objectors working in Congo in lieu of military service in Vietnam. They had a plentiful supply of canned corned beef they’d received from MCC.  The mission had papaya the size of volleyballs.  The missionaries allowed the Belgians to eat first. When they finished eating, they went through a large open doorway into an adjoining room and sat in a circle on the floor, as we began to eat in the dining area, where they had been. They placed a lighted candle in the center of their circle. Someone produced a guitar. They linked arms and began singing the American folk song, “Oh Suzanna.” As they continued through their repertoire of Stephen Foster songs, I began to cry. Later I asked how they new these songs. “American GI’s taught them to us when they were in Europe during the war.”

Our women were given sleeping room in the priests’ quarters. One of the single lady missionaries, about the priest’s age, quipped, “This is the first time I ever slept in a priest’s bed!”

After supper I went with our sons, Perry and Paul, to sleep on the floor in the rear end of the carryall. During the night a sentry came and woke us up; there were lions roaring; we needed to get inside. I had to take a quick pee in the bush. Paul recalls holding the lantern outside, trembling while listening to the lions roar while his dad was doing his business before they both went inside the church! We joined the other male refugees inside a classroom, barred the doors with school desks, and slept on the floor.

The next morning, Glenn Rocke found enough oatmeal to cook in a huge iron pot to feed the lot of us. When it was time to eat, the children didn’t answer our call. Upon hunting, we found them totally occupied with taking down sparrows’ nests in the priest’s garage.

Decisions at Kesuwa, Angola

Our next day’s objective was a Methodist mission station called Kesuwa. This being summer vacation, school was not in session; so curtains were strung up to offer a measure of privacy, and we refugees were put up in the class buildings, and stayed there for four days. Such living conditions certainly limit the nature of family conversations…some kids making remarks that parents would prefer left unsaid.

It was during this time at Kesuwa that it became evident that the missionaries from Congo would not be allowed to stay in Angola, and would have to leave Africa all together. The Portuguese colonial authorities in Angola were afraid that, with the large missionary presence leaving Congo and sitting in Angola, the Angolans would catch onto the idea of independence as well and might rise up against the colonial authorities in Angola, as had happened in Congo. So the missionaries were asked by the authorities to leave Angola.

Train to Luanda

We drove to Malanga, which was a rail head. A day’s journey by train ended at the capitol city of Loanda on the coast. Some missionaries were sent by train, with their families, while the vehicles were driven to Loanda, and parked at a Methodist mission compound, to be retrieved several months later by three of the men who returned.

American Air Force planes were flying UN troops into Congo to restore order; the US Ambassador was calling the unloaded planes on south to Loanda to pick up the missionary refugees, according to the planes’ daily capacities. Missionaries at the Methodist mission in Loanda fed us pork and beans, and shuttled us to the airport.

Young homesick Air Force men tossed our children around like their own. We left about 10:30 that night on a four-motor Ulysses Hercules turbojet cutting northwest across the open wake towards Accra, Ghana. Upon boarding we were warned to bring our blankets to use against the cold, as we would be flying 20,000 feed, and to pick up ear plugs to use against the noise in the vacant hold of the plane.

I, Ruth, recall how huge and cavernous the inside of the plane was. Dad had brought his wool navy blanket, which was warm but oh so scratchy, so I had no interest in sleeping. Because this was a military transport plane there were no seats except those along the sides of the plane. During the flight I occupied myself by crawling around on the floor on the hard canvas between the missionaries and Belgians who were cramped together on the floor holding their knees to their chests. Some were vacantly staring into space, some seemed purturbed by my restlessness. I had no idea where we were going, but this was my first airplane ride so to me it was a great adventure!

Some of the Belgians, not having had time to pick up extra clothing before they left, climbed around the heating pipes along the ceiling of the fuselage trying to keep warm.

At 1:30 a.m. a soldier responsible for us began communication over his microphone with the pilot. He shined a spotlight out the window; then began opening the ditch gear packed in the wall of the fuselage. I thought, “Oh no, God! After all we’ve been through, are you going to let us go down into the Atlantic?”  Later I learned that an engine had died, and the balance of the trip was made on three engines.

Our first chance out of Accra was on a slow C-1320 boxcar transport with four 36-cylander piston motors. Departure time was 10:30 the next night. As we loaded, the atmosphere was stress-filled. We seated ourselves either on woven-web strap benches along the fuselage walls, or on the floor.

Mothers cradled their young in their arms. Edna Gerber reported that Baby Joanna was sick for the entire trip, and had to be fed her bottle with special solution to keep her hydrated and calm throughout the trip. To the rear left on an emergency cot was a single lady missionary who should have been retired from the field prior to this time; she had a heart condition. We taxied to the end of the runway where brakes were locked and each motor in turn was revved up to blow any carbon from the plugs. Then brakes were released for the take-off, and tires were hammering the tarmac as the motors roared for lift-off. But the plane never lifted off. Suddenly motors were cut. A big Hawaiian sergeant who was responsible for the refugees quipped, “I told them they should never have put those Russian spark plugs in there!” Back to the leeward end of the runway for a second try, and we made it.

Solitary Assignment

The Sahara Desert stretched out below us…an unending red landscape. We crossed it at what seemed a creeping pace. To help us pass the time, the pilot invited us men to bring the boys up front to see the cockpit. On the navigator’s radar scope I saw a blip, and inquired about it. “That’s an outpost manned by a Frenchman to provide radio guidance across the desert.” I had great empathy for a person with such an assignment.

I, Ruth, watched jealously as my six-year-old brother, Perry, was carried on the shoulders of an American soldier who stepped carefully through the crowd sitting on the floor of the plane, and taken up to the cockpit to see the stars. After a good while, Perry came back bragging about all he could see from the cockpit, and all the many gadgets he saw; how the pilot had taken him onto his lap and let him “drive” the plane…I asked Mom why I couldn’t go into the cockpit too, and she said, “Oh, that’s just for the boys!”

The pilot radioed ahead to the US Air Force Base in Tunis, Tunisia for them to prepare chow for his load of refugees. Upon arrival, American military ladies dressed in grey uniform took infants from the mothers, changed diapers, and served however they could to make things easier for the refugees. We had been surviving on C-Rations; now we had a meal of mashed potatoes, gravy, steak, vegetables, and ice cream for dessert.

Then we were flown across the Mediterranean to an air base in southern France, arriving around 3:00 a.m. Before we were given beds, we were required to powder ourselves and our children with lice powder, and to shower. After a few hours’ sleep we had a delicious breakfast of bacon and eggs. From there busses loaded us and hauled us to Paris. Our particular bus was last in the caravan, and just south of the city, threw a rod, draining its crankcase oil onto the pavement. We arrived into the hands of the American Ambassador at bed time. August is the peak tourist season. He scrounged around for hotels to find enough beds for everyone. Eudene and the girls slept on one floor, I and the boys slept on the floor below them.

We had been instructed to be in front of the hotel on the curb at 12:30 p.m. the next day. Somehow the bus driver got instructions mixed up and waited an hour for us at a different hotel.  When we finally reached the airport, we were ordered to “Put your things on the belt and run.”

A Pan American plane was waiting with its engines running at the edge of the field. I kissed our personal effects goodbye: three pieces of baggage, my violin, my pith helmet, and our picnic jug. There was just no way those things could make it across the airfield and onto that plane.

We took off for what would prove to be an 11-hour piston-engine flight across the Atlantic. (One wonders how those pistons can pound until something has to break.) Greenland passed us on our right. A group of Jewish businessmen on the plane heard about the presence of the missionary refugees out of Congo. They took up a collection for us. We appointed one of our missionaries as “treasurer” who stood up front, gave a “Thank you” speech, and divided it among us. Each family got about $26. (I had about $17 in cash when we’d left Banga.)  When we arrived in New York, I watched each of our pieces of baggage come onto the belt in turn: three pieces of luggage, my violin, my pith helmet, and the picnic jug!

Eudene recalls the many media reporters inside the terminal in New York. They were eager to interview the missionaries, fresh in from this turmoil in the Congo, which was all over the international news. She was too tired, hungry and dirty, with so many hours of travel with four small children, dressed in her long missionary dress, and had no tolerance for this as well. She kept moving through the reporters and ignored them as best she could. Years later I, Ruth, met a man who had worked in the Africa Bureau of the Voice of America in 1960, and was the one to first read off the ticker about the missionaries evacuating from the Congo. He was happy to meet someone who had experienced this story from the other side.

We phoned Betty Moyer, Eudene’s cousin who lived outside of Philadelphia. This was the first our family had heard from us since the news of the turmoil in Congo. Her husband Mark came and picked us up from the airport. We stayed at their house for a few days to recover energy…and for our children to have a great time playing with their seven second cousins.

Then we took the train to Warsaw, IN…and finally reunited with our family in Flanagan, Illinois, after this long and arduous journey!