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Carlson's sacrifice and that of others is enduring in Congolese minds. "We killed them," laments Lusi, "but they kept on coming." Missionary persistence has been rewarded. Today, 72 percent of the population confesses historic Christian faith: 50 percent Catholic and 22 percent a blend of mainline Protestantism and evangelical Pentecostalism. Another 20 percent mix indigenous beliefs with Christianity.

DRC's political history has been violent for decades. Patrice Lumumba, the country's first post-colonial leader, was killed in 1961. Mobutu Sese Seko seized power in 1965 and ruled with an iron fist until 1997. Laurent Kabila then assumed power, but soon found himself battling former allies in a Rwanda- and Uganda-backed insurrection. Angola, Chad, Namibia, Sudan, and Zimbabwe sent in troops and saved Kabila's government. But in January 2001, a personal guard assassinated Kabila. His son, Joseph, took over, negotiated peace, and has promised national elections this year.

Despite relative international peace, DRC is still a killing field. About 1,200 people die daily from conflict-related causes. Civilians are at greater risk of violent death than soldiers.

"Our soldiers are bandits," says Louis Tshishibanci, a Bukavu churchgoer. Rival militias are as bad or worse. They rape, kill, steal, and destroy.

Pierre Machiels is the World Vision (WV) program director in Goma. The American-born Belgian, who is married to an Indian, sports Hawaiian shirts and faded blue jeans. He was recruited from Hawaii and assigned to famine- and drought-stricken Chad and Niger before moving to DRC. He loves the people ("They are very warm"), the rich soil ("There has never been a famine here"), and the luxuriant jungle ("This is paradise").

But he also knows it is a paradise lost. There is hunger ("This country is filthy rich, but people are starving"), disease ("Many are preventable and curable"), and violence ("Women are raped, children abandoned, pygmies annihilated").

For the most part, the world remains unaware of this. Much suffering takes place deep in Congo's interior—"the heart of darkness," as Joseph Conrad called it in his 1902 novella.

"Ordinary people suffer," says Machiels. It's most evident in remote areas. "Go to Nyabiondo." And we go.

Going to Nyabiondo—65 miles from Goma into militia-controlled territories—requires quite a checklist. First check with UN forces. Is there any fighting in the area?

If hostilities are reported, don't go. If it's okay, then check your vehicle's fitness and fill up on gas. "It is dangerous out there," warns a war-worn Congolese general.

The hazards are many. The single rugged lane meanders into forlorn hills and edges around blind spots. The Land Cruiser bumps, jumps, jerks, and grunts. On a muddy stretch, it sways and slides.

The official Congolese army controls the road up to the outskirts. Once outside Goma, warring factions control different stretches. Barriers indicate territories. A man in military fatigues materializes from a hideout, surveys the vehicle with blood-shot, sleep-deprived eyes, and waves it through. Government troops dare not come here. Only UN peacekeepers can.

The trip to Nyabiondo has mournful moments. "About 240 children were killed in that school," says a guide. The pitiful-looking structure is haunting. Everyone stares in silence and anguish.

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July 2006, Vol. 50, No. 7