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He smiles, strained, and rubs his eyes, “Madame. They are not ‘beliefs’ or ‘superstitions.’ They are truth.”

I catch something about ‘aspirin’ and ‘malaria’ in his French. His wide-open, direct stare tells me I’ve stepped on his Mai Mai toes. I’m not even waiting for a translation as he speaks. I’m nodding and mumbling, Yes . . . Right . . . Sure . . . as he describes herbal mixtures used to treat malaria and fever or to make soldiers bulletproof. “A Mai Mai believes that when he washes himself with that herbal water prepared by midwives, and does no evil like rape or steal, no bullet can catch him.”

Anxious to put him at ease, to get back on the same side, I enthusiastically offer, “It’s like traditional medicine. There’s so much interest in traditional medicine back in the States.”

He rubs his chin. His voice grows strident. “It is exactly like traditional medicine. They had no medicine. They were dirty. They could easily catch diseases. They needed to use herbs, that which you call ‘superstition’ or ‘beliefs.’ They had to do it to protect themselves.”

I scramble, trying to figure my way out of this apparently massive insult.

He adds, “What you call ‘belief ’ is like faith. What you accept can manifest itself.”

“Faith. That’s the best word for it,” I agree.

“Faith,” he chuckles.

“Great. Now we’re speaking the same language.”

“A true Mai Mai respects the ideology of the movement, the regulations, the hints, 100 percent. He cannot die. A false Mai Mai is one who sinned against the hints. Such a person can be injured. The one who is caught by a bullet cannot be a true Mai Mai. He must have done something—raping, looting, even made sex with his wife before battle; they cannot make sex. It is as if he has dirtied himself. He is excluded from the ranks of the true Mai Mai. It is just like true Christians and false Christians.”

“What is it the Mai Mai want?”

He spends ten minutes giving variations of the same answers, all beginning, “Mai Mai is a movement of resistance by local people . . .”

“Resistance to what? To whom?”

“Invaders.”

“Why are invaders so interested in Congo?”

“Listen, we have a saying. If you have a pretty lady in your compound, the men will circle around for the treasure. The natural resources of Congo attract outsiders.”

“When you talk about ‘outside groups’ or ‘invaders,’ are you talking about outside armed groups or people of other ethnic groups, like Banyamulenge Congolese Tutsis?” I ask.

“The Banyamulenge have been accepted by the structure, by the constitution,” he answers. “They have been given nationality. But they cooperate with invaders: Rwanda, Burundi, Uganda. They are bridges for invaders’ aggression on Congo. They are assimilated to their brothers. They are a path for invaders. We find them dangerous.”

“So what is your take on the brassage process?”

“The Mai Mai are not convinced, so we’ve sent a group to listen to the ideology they are being given. They are the ears. But there is another group waiting at the backside, who will guard people, who will join resistance against a given attack.”

My grandmother, a minister’s wife, had a saying: Nothing is so tiresome as being insincere. And so it is. I’m exhausted, shaky, too freaked out to challenge a word. I feel like a coward. Especially with the faces of women raped by Mai Mai circling in my head.

Worse, I feel dirty.

I manage to say something to keep him friendly. “Of course. You want peace in your country.”

“Yes, but peace at what cost?” He asks rhetorically, morphing into an amped-up, emphatic Citizen Congo, slamming his fist, gesturing wildly. “A true Mai Mai is someone who believes in a Congo for Congolese only! A true Mai Mai will never give up the fight!”

I smile.

He nods in approval. “You see, Lisa, you are a true Mai Mai!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Criteria

THIS CROWD IS out of control! As soon as we pull up outside the church compound, a mass of singing and dancing participants runs up the road to greet me. I am surrounded in the biggest group hug of my life and