Latest / The History of Belgium: A Small Country with a Giant Colonial Legacy — Fexingo History / The 1896 Arab War Prisoners: Congo's Forgotten Captives
Transcript
- Lucas: Luna, we've talked a lot about the Force Publique — the colonial army — but there's a group of men who served in it under very different circumstances, men who were actually prisoners of war. I'm thinking of the Arab War prisoners from the 1890s. Luna: Prisoners conscripted into the army? That sounds brutal. Lucas: Exactly. So in the early 1890s, the Congo Free State waged a war against the Arab-Swahili slave traders who controlled much of the eastern Congo. The main campaign was led by a Belgian officer named Francis Dhanis. Between 1892 and 1894, his forces captured key towns like Nyangwe and Kasongo, which were major slave-trading hubs. Lucas: After the fighting, the Free State found itself with thousands of prisoners — mostly Manyema and Swahili-speaking men from the east, plus some from Zanzibar. Instead of letting them go or sending them home, the colonial authorities decided to put them to work. Luna: So they became laborers for the very empire that had just defeated them. Lucas: Right. In 1896, the administration officially created what they called the Corps des Travailleurs Arabes — the Arab Workers Corps. These men were used as porters, carrying supplies and equipment across the treacherous terrain of the eastern Congo. They also worked on building roads and railways. They were paid a pittance, if anything, and lived under military discipline. Luna: Wait — 'Arab' seems like a misnomer. Were they actually Arab? Lucas: Good question. Most were not Arab in the sense of coming from the Arabian Peninsula. They were from the Manyema region, around what is now eastern DR Congo, or from the Swahili coast. But the colonial administration lumped all Muslims and Swahili-speakers under the label 'Arab.' It was a broad, racialized category. Lucas: One of the more fascinating figures to emerge from this group is a man named Bwana Mwema. He was a Manyema prisoner who later became a sergeant in the Force Publique. Missionaries wrote about him — he was known for his intelligence and leadership. But his story also highlights the contradictions of colonial rule: a former 'enemy' who became a tool of the very system that had enslaved him. Luna: Did any of these prisoners ever return home? Lucas: Very few. The Free State had no intention of repatriating them. They were seen as a cheap labor source. And over time, the Corps des Travailleurs Arabes evolved into a regular unit of the Force Publique. Some men served for decades. Others died of disease or exhaustion. Their families, if they had any in the east, were left behind. Lucas: There's also a linguistic legacy. The Swahili that these prisoners spoke became a lingua franca for the colonial army and administration in the eastern Congo. It's still widely spoken there today. So in a way, the forced migration of these prisoners helped spread Swahili across the region. Luna: That's a really layered story — war, forced labor, language, identity. And it's not something you hear about often. Lucas: It's one of those chapters that gets overshadowed by the bigger narratives of the Arab Campaign or the rubber atrocities. But for the men who lived it, it was their daily reality. And I think it tells us a lot about how the Free State viewed human life — as a resource to be used. Luna: If you're listening and these deep dives into colonial history resonate with you, we have a small ask. This show is ad-free and listener-supported, and it's because of people like you that we can keep exploring these forgotten stories. Lucas: Yeah, if you've been stepping into history with us episode by episode, and you'd like to help us keep going, you can find us at buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. That's it — no pressure, just a way to support the show if it's brought you value. Luna: And we'll get right back to the story. So Lucas, you mentioned the missionaries — what did they actually say about these prisoners? Lucas: Missionaries like the White Fathers wrote extensively about the Corps. Some were horrified by the conditions. Others saw an opportunity to evangelize. There's a report from 1898 describing how prisoners were made to march from Kasongo to Stanleyville, carrying loads of ivory and rubber. Many died on the trail. Lucas: But there's also a record of a prisoner named Ali bin Salim, who had been a trader before the war. He became a clerk for the colonial administration, translating between Swahili and French. So there were these rare cases of upward mobility within the system — but always within the constraints of colonial power. Luna: Ali bin Salim — that's a Zanzibari name, right? Lucas: Exactly. He was from Zanzibar, captured during the campaign. His story shows the diversity of the prisoner population. It wasn't just Manyema; there were men from the coast, from the Great Lakes region, even some from as far as Oman. They were all thrown together. Lucas: The Corps des Travailleurs Arabes was officially disbanded in 1908, when the Free State was annexed by Belgium. But by then, many of the prisoners had been absorbed into the regular Force Publique. Their descendants are still in the region today, though the memory of that specific group has faded. Luna: It's remarkable how much of colonial history is hidden in plain sight. These men were essentially the architects of the infrastructure that enabled Belgian rule, and yet we barely know their names. Lucas: That's why I wanted to tell this story. It's not just about the cruelty of the system — though it was cruel — but about the resilience of the people caught in it. They built roads, carried supplies, and in doing so, shaped the Congo we know today. Lucas: If you want to read more, there's a great book by historian Jan Vansina — 'Being Colonized' — that touches on the Manyema experience. And the archives in Brussels have some surviving payroll records from the Corps, with names and ranks. So the evidence is there, waiting for more researchers. Luna: I think that's a perfect note to end on — a call to dig deeper. Thanks, Lucas. Lucas: Thanks, Luna. Until next time.