One date I will never forget is 21 December, 2023. News of a massacre in Nzakoundou sent shockwaves through our ranks, and the next day we were deployed. As per the report, 23 civilians and one FACA soldier were killed, with several others injured. However, no report could truly capture the horror that lay before us. The village was eerily silent, its homes abandoned in terror. Doors hung open, revealing empty rooms that once held life. Only the dead remained, and a few wounded too weak to flee. The smell of death filled the air. Fear had driven the living away, leaving behind a ghost town. We began burying the dead, but the real challenge was where and how to identify them. With no one to verify, I took photos for later identification. A year later, those photos resurfaced, bringing back the haunting memory. War never lets go.
I write this to ensure the world remembers, to remind people of the fragility of life. In war-torn lands, suffering is real and relentless. These lives, lost and unclaimed, must not be reduced to numbers. Their pain and final moments should not be forgotten.
Challenges on the ground
Our mission was clear—stabilize the region and restore security. But in Nzakoundou, peacekeeping was not just about maintaining order; it was about survival. Food, water, and medical supplies were scarce. It was 424 kilometers away from the headquarters and the road was non-plyable due to broken bridges. Helicopter resupply missions were irregular, forcing us to measure every meal, every sip of water. Some days, we simply went without. The most agonizing part was communication with our families. There was no mobile tower, leaving us completely cut off. The only way to reach home was through headquarters—they would receive our messages and relay them back to our loved ones.
But I avoided it. What could I say? That we were rationing food, living under constant threat, and bracing for danger every night? That survival was uncertain? I knew any message, no matter how carefully framed, would only bring them sleepless nights. So, I chose silence. I simply told them, I’ll be out of network for a few days. In Nzakoundou, danger was constant, lurking beyond the perimeter. One night, several motorcycles encircled the village, their headlights slicing through the darkness, sending an unspoken warning. Another night, continuous gunfire shattered the silence, forcing us into defensive positions, weapons ready, nerves frayed. We slept in shifts, knowing the line between vigilance and disaster was razor-thin. Each day tested our limits—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
The people who changed everything
Yet, amidst the uncertainty, it was the people of Nzakoundou who left the deepest mark. None more than Alge—a 13-year-old boy who had lost everything. His entire family was massacred, his home reduced to ashes. Yet every morning, he would appear, sitting under a mango tree near our camp, watching us work as if it were a performance, a distraction from his own reality. He always wore a monkey cap, never taking it off. I later learned why—the armed elements had cut off both his ears. A brutal, senseless act of cruelty. And yet, despite it all, Alge never stopped smiling. His laughter, defiant in the face of tragedy, echoed through the ruins of his village. He helped wherever he could, carrying water, assisting the elderly, doing whatever small acts of kindness his young hands could manage.
He was the first villager to return, stepping into the silence where others dared not go. I have undergone military training, learned the art of survival, of confidence, of resilience. But the courage I saw in that boy—stripped of everything, yet unbroken—was beyond all limits. Alge was not just surviving. He was teaching us what it truly meant to be brave.
Then there was Dr. Jatala—a man who could have left, who could have built a life of comfort elsewhere, but instead chose to stay. A physician with a degree from abroad, he remained in his war-ravaged village, running a makeshift clinic with almost no medical supplies, treating thousands with little more than his own determination. One day, he came to our camp, desperately seeking medicine. His patients were suffering, and he would not abandon them.
Before handing over the supplies, I asked him a simple question: “What did you eat this morning?” He just smiled. That smile held a truth more painful than words—he hadn’t eaten in two days. Yet hunger hadn’t stopped him. He had come running, alone, not for himself, but for his people. If angels were real, I might have seen one in Nzakoundou. His name was Jatala. When a helicopter finally arrived with aid from International NGOs, he stood there, waiting. Not to take food for himself, not to claim relief—he was there for his patients. His selflessness was humbling, a stark reminder that peacekeeping isn’t just about security. It’s about humanity. And in the darkest corners of war, people like Jatala shine the brightest.
Slowly, trust began to take root between us and the villagers. The breakthrough came in the form of a football match. What was once just a dusty helipad became a field of laughter, where boots and bare feet kicked up clouds of red earth. For a brief moment, there was no war, no fear—just the pure, unfiltered joy of a game. It was fleeting, but at that moment, we were not soldiers and villagers. We were just people, sharing something beyond the chaos around us. And sometimes, that is where peace truly begins.
What peacekeeping truly means
Nzakoundou was not just a mission; it was a lesson in humanity. It taught me that peace is fragile, that trust must be earned, and that sometimes, the greatest battles are not fought with weapons but with compassion and resilience.
As I reflect, I do so with the knowledge that somewhere, another team is facing similar challenges. And to them, I say this: you are more than just soldiers under a UN flag. You are symbols of hope in places where hope is hard to find. And that, more than anything, is what peacekeeping is all about.