by Dan Doyle
“Ambassador,” said Jim, “I may be completely naïve about this, but at the Rwanda game, it seemed that the Hutus were every bit as proud of Leonard as were the Tutsis.”
“You’re right, Jim. In fact, on the way over, Bill and I talked about that, as well as about the way these murders should be revealed to the public. At Bill’s suggestion, I’m going to encourage President Buyayo to hold a press conference with a number of Hutu and Tutsi present—all of whom will be asked to forcefully express their complete revulsion over the murders. And I’m also going to suggest to the president that he state what is fact—that Leonard and Consolaté Tangishaka . . .”
Cynthia Foster harbored great affection for Consolaté. She paused to gather herself.
“Sorry, gentlemen. As I was saying, we hope the president will remind everyone that the lives of Leonard and Consolaté were about the rejection of violence. We hope he will challenge people to follow their lead. We hope this terrible tragedy will unite the people in their denouncement of killing.”
As she spoke, the ambassador became so intense and moving that it almost appeared as if she were delivering the speech herself.
Jesse Abbot felt the full force of Cynthia Foster’s eloquence and acute emotion. His diplomatic instincts made him realize that his boss must play a prominent role in announcing the circumstances of the deaths.
Jim offered his own perspective. “You know, you’re right, Ambassador. That’s exactly what Leonard and Consolaté stood for. One evening during dinner at Mathias’s home, Leonard told us at length about his mother’s insistence that he shun all forms of violence—even words of incitement. . . . Speaking of Mathias, we must tell him.”
“I agree,” said the ambassador. “We’ll go there together. But first, let’s talk about the next twenty-four hours. There are certain people like Mathias, as well as all team members, who must be told personally. In fact, as a show of unity, the players and Mathias are among the group who should be present at President Buyayo’s announcement.
“Then there is the matter of the funeral or memorial service. The Marines said they considered trying to bring the bodies back to Bujumbura. However, a Tutsi warrior, evidently wounded trying to help Leonard and Consolaté, insisted that the bodies remain in Kayanza because Tutsi burial tradition calls for the bodies to be buried near the hut of residence.”
For a moment, a slight expression of hope crossed through Jim’s face. “So there has been no positive identification of their bodies?”
“Actually, there has,” the ambassador replied with a sad sigh. “The Marines took photos of the bodies, and I personally viewed them. I’m sorry, Jim, but there is no doubt about the identities.”
After a solemn lull, Jesse said, “Something just occurred to me—I thought all the adult warriors in that region were in Rwanda fighting?”
“So did we,” said the ambassador. “But both warriors supposedly returned for several days to check on their families and to offer protection to the other families in the region. . . . Anyway, it is the Tutsi tradition to bury their dead right away—and literally within yards of their hut. But despite this, after we sort things out with President Buyayo’s office, I plan to work with the president to send a group of Marines and Burundi National Defense Force officers to Kayanza, along with a doctor, to conduct an autopsy.”
The men nodded, agreeing that an autopsy was needed.
“Also, if Leonard and Consolaté are to be buried in Kayanza, then I think that we should arrange for a memorial Mass in Bujumbura as soon as possible. This will give all of us, including teammates and fans, the opportunity to pay our respects. Plus, a memorial Mass will hopefully prompt people to temper their anger. . . . Oh, and one other important matter: Until we find all the team members and gather them for President Buyayo’s announcement, we must keep this information from the general public.”
“We’ll do that,” said Abbot.
Cynthia moved a step closer to her husband. She put her hand on his shoulder and Bill put his arm around her waist. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Now,” she said, “I think we should all go to Mathias’s home.”
As the group moved slowly toward the door, Bill Foster felt a measure of relief, knowing that a minor but important step had just been taken amidst the catastrophe. When his wife had learned the devastating news, she had gently dismissed the Marines, returned to their bedroom, and wept uncontrollably, her body shaking in a fit of convulsive rage. Amid the guttural wails were the words: “It is my fault. I let him go home and look what happened.”
As the man behind the woman, Bill would do as he had always done; he would extend his unconditional love to his partner. And in this case, as much as ever before, he would keep watch over Cynthia, who, to him, was a hero—a person who had always defied the odds—a person who had always defined courage and leadership.
This tragedy will present Cynthia with the most severe test of her life. This to someone whom I have seen pass test after daunting test and never turn back ... never give quarter to what should be.
It was just before 3 AM when the four anguished and exhausted comrades arrived at Mathias’s home. As they approached his door, Cynthia said to the three men, “He will surely see in our faces that tragedy has struck. So I will tell him as soon as he greets us. . . . I will not make him wait.”
Needing to control her own emotions, she was gentle and direct when Mathias opened the door. “Mathias, I am so very sorry to bring terrible news. Leonard and Consolaté have been killed. We don’t have all of the details yet, but the deaths have been confirmed.”
Stunned, Mathias stared at her for a moment, motioned for the four to enter, and then turned away. Jim stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. Mathias put a hand over his mouth and groaned deeply. It was almost a growl. His face was eerily impassive, but his words sounded forced from his throat.
“When my wife and son died, I thought I could never again feel such grief. But this boy . . . this boy—he was a son. I don’t know how it will be to live without him.”
Everyone remained silent. Mathias closed his eyes, bent his head back, breathed deeply, and let out a long sigh. He then faced his visitors. “I am grateful that all of you came to tell me. Please . . . please do sit down.”
Intuitively, the old man knew that he must choke back his grief and project a strong, stable demeanor in the hours and days to come. He spoke slowly, as though he were translating.
“This terrible situation could go one of two ways: Either the murders will cause an outbreak of violence by Tutsi and Hutus or, if we handle it carefully and we are lucky, perhaps people from both sides will finally see how this violence is poisoning our lives. . . . Ambassador, I will work in the Tutsi community to try to prevent a violent reaction. In my opinion, our next step should be to visit Terrence Ndayisiba, for he can help in the Hutu community.”
The relationship between Mathias and Terrence, the founding fathers of Burundian basketball, spanned more than three decades and was as devoted as it was enduring. Terrence reacted as Mathias knew he would, his sorrow exceeded only by his commitment to rally his fellow Hutus in outrage over the senseless act.
“I know where every Hutu player lives, and I will go with all of you to tell each one,” he said.
With the aid of a four-man Marine detail, Ambassador Foster and the men spent the next hours making their middle of the night and early morning duty visits—first to team members in Bujumbura and then, at first light, to the players in the country.
Every athlete reacted with the same shock and sadness, and all agreed to Ambassador Foster’s two requests: “Please keep the murders completely quiet and please come to my home at noon.”
It was 10:45 when the group finally returned to the capital city. Ambassador Foster immediately called President Buyoya to relate the tragic news. The president agreed to her suggestion of a formal announcement with both Tutsi and Hutu present. The announcement would take place at 2:00 that afterno
on at the president’s office.
By noon, every player had arrived. Joining the team were several prominent Hutu and Tutsi citizens, each of whom had been hand-picked by Mathias and Terrence to attend the announcement. After a light lunch of sandwiches and soft drinks, Ambassador Foster called the group together.
“Our Deputy Chief of Mission, Jesse Abbot, is now calling the media to inform them of the press conference. We have asked all of you to be present at the announcement to show a united front. All of you who knew Leonard are aware that he was opposed to the civil war that has torn this country apart. What you might not know is that it was his dear mother, Consolaté, who had such a profound influence on Leonard’s view of the violence.”
Raising her voice an octave, the ambassador continued, “Leonard and Consolaté Tangishaka would want their deaths to serve as a forceful reminder to everyone in Burundi that the violence is a disease that will not heal until all of us come together as one to stop it. We want all of you—every one of you—to express those feelings at the press conference.”
With tears streaming down his cheeks, Michel Obadele, the Hutu point guard, said, “We will, Madam Ambassador. We will.” The others nodded intently. And while their support caused Ambassador Foster to smile in gratitude, she knew that a murderous reaction was still a very real possibility.
I must hold steady ... and lead, said the unremitting, internal voice that guided her every stride.
44
With Ambassador Foster standing by his side, Burundian President Peter Buyoya said solemnly, “Ladies and gentleman of the media, I have tragic news. Leonard Tangishaka, our brilliant young basketball player, and his beloved mother, Consolaté, have been killed in their home in Kayanza.”
Standing in the front row, Finbar Finnegan felt like he’d been punched in the chest, and his throat tightened. When Finnegan had retrieved the message from Jesse Abbot about the press conference, he tried to contact Abbot at the Embassy. Unable to reach him, Finbar went straight to President Buyoya’s office, arriving just after noon in the hope of getting an early tip. He found that the president’s top advisors were all sequestered and lower-level aides weren’t talking. The announcement was surely one of consequence.
Over the next hour and forty-five minutes, as more journalists arrived, rumors circulated through the hallway. The most prominent of the scuttlebutt was that Ambassador Foster was being reassigned. But when the president’s office doors opened at 2:00, Finnegan took note of the morbid faces at the front of the room and also realized that Leonard Tangishaka was not among them. His eyes fell upon Jim Keating.
Finbar had last seen Jim at the post-game reception, when the coach had walked on air. Yet even before Buyoya began his announcement, Jim’s forlorn expression forecast an unwelcome message.
When the president finished his statement, there was an instant of strained hush. A reporter from Reuters broke the silence. “What details are available?”
“We know very little,” responded Buyoya. “What we do know is that the US Marines were told that Leonard and Consolaté were attacked by a band of guerrillas.”
“Hutu guerrillas?” shouted a reporter from the rear of the room.
“We are not even certain of that. But as we get more details, we will, of course, make them available to you,” a pledge Finnegan knew might likely be broken.
President Buyoya turned the microphone over to Ambassador Foster, who read a prepared statement:
“The tragic deaths of Leonard and Consolaté Tangishaka must be treated in the manner that Leonard and Consolaté would have wished. We must all react to these deaths by saying, loudly—with one voice—that the violence must cease. We must say this to our friends, and ask them—even tell them—to deliver this message to their friends.
“Consolaté and Leonard Tangishaka rejected the violence that has overwhelmed this country. All of us who stand before you today—Burundian and American, Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa—will honor their memories by rejecting the vio-lence. We ask all citizens of this country to join us in this denouncement.”
Jesse Abbot handed the statement, signed by the Burundian basketball team and other invited guests, to the media. President Buyoya then announced that a memorial Mass would be held the following day at noon. He concluded the press conference by again imploring the media to “bring this message of nonviolence to the public.”
As the group at the podium exited through the rear door, Finbar Finnegan slumped on a wooden chair, covered his face with his hands, and thought about Leonard Tangishaka. Proud of being the first journalist to discover Leonard, Finbar had developed great affection for the boy.
“He’s so innocent . . . unsullied by that offensive sense of entitlement so many star athletes display,” Finbar had said to bureau chief Sid Hawkins just after the Rwanda game.
Finnegan realized that he must compose himself and call Hawkins. He had introduced Leonard Tangishaka to the world but a few weeks earlier. Now he must convey the message of the young man’s death.
Then he must seek out the facts.
With the Nimbona Court serving as backdrop, Finbar Finnegan delivered his report to The World. He spoke of the shock and sadness that had overtaken Bujumbura, and he addressed the wishful ideal of those who had been close to the deceased: “Their earnest hope is that the deaths of Leonard and Consolaté Tangishaka will somehow temper the violence.”
While again airing footage of the boy’s extraordinary play against Rwanda, Finnegan said, “Surely one game—one brief but brilliant debut and closing act—does not credential Leonard Tangishaka as a superstar. But there are those, like his coach, Jim Keating—undeniably a basketball scholar—who feel that Leonard would have reached the very heavens of his sport.”
Finnegan concluded with quiet intensity: “To those who were privileged to have known this remarkable prodigy, as humble as he was gifted, he was the athlete dying young of A. E. Housman’s verse: ‘Like the wind through woods . . . Through him the gale of life blew high.’ Finbar Finnegan reporting from Bujumbura, Burundi.”
The report was viewed by millions, most reacting with the normal sadness that accompanies the death of an adolescent with such promise. But in the west wing of a plush estate many miles and borders from Bujumbura, a small group of men smugly watched the account. When Finnegan was done, the leader of the group switched off the large-screen TV and proposed a toast.
A massive crowd gathered at St. Peter’s Church in Bujumbura to pay their final respects and celebrate the lives of Leonard and Consolaté Tangishaka. Anticipating the large turnout, Jesse Abbot had set up loudspeakers for those forced to stand outside.
At a breakfast meeting, Ambassador Foster and President Buyoya agreed that a formal investigation into the deaths of Leonard and Consolaté must be carried out. Only two hours after the Mass, a group of seventeen men boarded five Marine jeeps and began their mission to Kayanza.
At Ambassador Foster’s suggestion, President Buyoya sent his personal physician, Dr. Natare Nicombero, to perform the autopsy. He also assigned five of his top Burundi National Defense Force officers to the team of investigators. Six US Marines, including Sergeant Rush and Privates John White and Chris McKeon—the two men who had reported the deaths to Ambassador Foster—also made the journey. The doctor and eleven military men were joined by Mathias Bizimana, Terrence Ndayisiba, Bill Foster, Jim Keating, and Finbar Finnegan.
At the breakfast meeting, when Jesse Abbot proposed that Finnegan accompany the group, Ambassador Foster reacted with concern: “As much as I like Finbar, I’m not sure that a member of the media should be allowed such access.”
But Abbot’s persistence included the clincher: “This is a guy who’ll know exactly what questions to ask—and exactly where to look for the answers. Plus, better that he goes with our protection than being in harm’s way. Any security that CNN would hire would be questionable at best.”
While the shock of the killings had brought about a momentary calm in Bujumbura, those making
the trip were aware that, out in the country, few warriors even knew about the deaths, so remote were they from media reports or even word of mouth. And in many cases, those who had been informed were so steeped in their hatred of the other tribe that the tragedy would have no impact on their thinking . . . or actions.
In the lead jeep, Finnegan drew a comparison to the Troubles of Northern Ireland.
Refusing to use the name “Northern Ireland,” coined by the Brits decades earlier, Finnegan said, “In the north of Ireland, the problem with maintaining non-violence is that even if the Irish Republican Army is a willing party in a ceasefire, there are many splinter groups within that organization. Any one of them—even a small band of two or three people—can decide to bomb a pub or shoot a soldier, knowing full well that such an act will derail the peace process.”
He continued, “In Burundi, and you gentlemen in the Marine Corps would know this better than I, it appears that there is an almost infinite number of splinter groups within each tribe. In fact, with the Hutu insurgents, there is virtually no central authority. So, while I believe the murders of Leonard and Consolaté will actually calm things down in Bujumbura for a period of time, there is always the danger of a few causing great harm to many.”
“ Translated, that means we’d best be careful,” said Rush.
“Exactly.”
When the five jeeps approached Kayanza, the women and children who sighted the convoy through the deep brush scurried into their huts.
“We noticed the same thing last week,” said Private White. “With the men all off at war, the mothers and kids are afraid.”
Rush shook his head slowly. “It’s so different than it was several months ago. I mean, when we first came here—and the men, even Charlé, were around—the children were so curious and friendly when they saw us, especially those of us with white faces.”