Latest / The History of Belgium: A Small Country with a Giant Colonial Legacy — Fexingo History / The 1928 Ituri Forest Rubber Atrocities: Belgium's Hidden Holocaust
Transcript
- Lucas: So, we've covered a lot of ground in recent episodes — the Pende revolts, the rubber atrocities in the Aruwimi, even the Belgian concession in Tianjin. But there's one episode that still haunts me, and it's the 1928 Ituri Forest rubber atrocities. This was Belgium's hidden holocaust, as some historians call it. Luna: I've heard that phrase before. What made the Ituri different from the earlier rubber terror under Leopold? Lucas: Well, by 1928 the Congo was no longer Leopold's private fiefdom — it had been a Belgian colony for two decades. But the machinery of exploitation didn't disappear; it just changed hands. The Anglo-Belgian India Rubber Company, ABIR, was still operating in the Ituri, and they were still using forced labor to extract rubber. Only now, instead of Leopold's private army, it was the Force Publique enforcing the quotas. Luna: So the brutality continued even after the reforms? Lucas: Exactly. The Belgian government had promised to clean up the Congo after taking over in 1908. They passed a new Colonial Charter, they talked about 'native welfare.' But on the ground, the quotas kept coming. In the Ituri, the Lese and Mbuti people were forced to tap wild rubber deep in the forest. If they didn't meet their quota, the chicotte — that whip made of sun-dried hippo hide — was used. People died from infections, from exhaustion, from the beatings. Luna: Was there any oversight? Any journalists or missionaries reporting this? Lucas: There were. John Henry Harris, a British missionary who had worked with the Congo Reform Association earlier, came back to investigate in the late 1920s. He documented horrific scenes — villages burned, children taken hostage to force fathers to work, women raped. His reports caused a scandal in Brussels. But the colonial administration largely ignored them or blamed the victims. Luna: How did the local population resist? They couldn't just take it lying down. Lucas: They did resist, in small ways. Some fled deeper into the forest, beyond the reach of the Force Publique. Others sabotaged the rubber collection — letting the latex spoil or hiding their harvest. There were even a few armed uprisings, but they were crushed quickly. The Force Publique had modern rifles and machine guns; the Lese had spears and bows. It wasn't a fair fight. Luna: It sounds like the same pattern as the earlier atrocities, just with a different date on the calendar. Lucas: That's exactly the tragedy. The names change — Leopold II becomes Albert I, the Congo Free State becomes the Belgian Congo — but the rubber keeps flowing, and the blood keeps spilling. The Ituri forest was one of the last places where this system really operated at full force, partly because it was so remote. Even the colonial administrators in Stanleyville didn't always know what was happening in the interior. Luna: So when did it finally stop? Lucas: It didn't stop abruptly. The rubber boom itself collapsed in the 1930s because of the Great Depression and the rise of synthetic rubber. Suddenly, the quotas weren't worth enforcing. But the infrastructure of coercion remained — the Force Publique, the chicotte, the system of village chiefs who were held responsible for production. That legacy lasted right up to independence in 1960. Luna: And I suppose the Belgian government never really accounted for these atrocities? Lucas: They never did. There was no official apology for the Ituri rubber atrocities, no reparations. The Congo Reform Association dissolved after World War I, and public attention moved on. Even today, many Belgians don't know the details of what happened in the Ituri. It's a kind of collective amnesia. Luna: It's strange to think that these episodes are still so little known, even among people who care about history. Lucas: You know, that's part of why we do these episodes — to bring these stories back into the light. And honestly, it's listener support that makes it possible. A couple of dollars a month is genuinely what keeps these going — buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo, if you've gotten something out of them. Luna: Yeah, it's a small way to help keep this kind of history alive. Lucas: Absolutely. So, back to the Ituri — one of the most chilling details I came across was the use of the chicotte on pregnant women. The idea was to make an example of them, to terrorize the whole community. That level of cruelty is hard to fathom. Luna: That's horrifying. Were there any prosecutions for that? Lucas: Almost none. A few low-level agents were tried in Belgian courts, but they were usually acquitted or given light sentences. The high-ranking officials who set the quotas were never held accountable. And the company, ABIR, was eventually dissolved, but its shareholders weren't punished. Luna: It really is a story about impunity, isn't it? Lucas: Yes, and about how economic systems can override human decency. The rubber was valuable — it was used for tires, for insulation, for all sorts of industrial products. And the people who benefited from it never had to see the chicotte or the burned villages. They just saw the profits. Luna: So what should we take away from this, as modern listeners? Lucas: I think it's a reminder that colonialism wasn't just a political system — it was a deeply violent economic machine. And the scars it left are still visible today, in the poverty and instability of the region. The Ituri is still a place of conflict, in part because of the foundations laid in those years. Luna: Thanks for covering this, Lucas. It's not easy to hear, but it's important. Lucas: Thanks for being here to listen. Next time, we'll look at the 1930s mining boom in Katanga and how it transformed the colony — and the world.