ANGHILAU ASSOCIATION

In April 2016, one of us, siblings of Captain Rei Vilar, received an email from a stranger. It was from a doctoral student who was in Felupe lands collecting information in this region on health issues, specifically in a village in Cacheu with a woman’s name, Suzana, in northern Guinea-Bissau. 

During his four-month work period, Luís Costa, as this student was called, interviewed the people of this community. He didn’t know us nor had he ever heard of us or our brother Luís. However, while interviewing the population of Suzana, he repeatedly heard references to a certain Captain Rei Vilar, whom the Felupe people remembered with great devotion. 

Curious to find out who this Captain Rei Vilar was, Luís Costa searched the Internet. Through the blog “Camaradas da Guiné” (Comrades from Guinea), which we had joined, he managed to obtain the email of one of us. In his email, he mentioned the frequent references by the people of Suzana to Captain Rei Vilar and the fond memories the inhabitants of Suzana had of our brother, whom they considered a good man—this, 46 years after Luís was killed in combat during a military operation near the Senegal border. 

During his deployment Luís returned to the mainland only once. On that occasion, he brought home and to our table a man of Felupe ethnicity who was one of his guides for the cavalry company he commanded. His name was António Blata, and he was approximately the same age as our brother. We had already known about the Felupe people for 47 years because our brother Luís had spoken so much about them, with great enthusiasm, during his stay in the mainland. 

Luís had told us about their warrior traditions and the Felupe Struggle. He showed us many photos of Suzana and its inhabitants who, even though we had never met them, would remain forever etched in our memories. Lastly, he spoke to us about the Felupe greeting: “Kassumai”, a single word that conveys three wishes: “Freedom, Peace, and Happiness,” to which one replies “Kassumai Kep”, meaning “Forever.” 

The message we received from Luís Costa in April 2016 surprised us, and the question immediately arose: what should we do? The answer among the three of us was unanimous and spontaneous: let’s go to Suzana. If the Felupe people remember our brother with such affection, they deserve all our respect and a visit. They are our friends! Let’s go to Suzana! 

However, going to Suzana is not the same as going to Paris or Brussels. Suzana is a village lost in the heart of Africa, and the trip needed to be well organized. For this, long conversations with our only contact, Luís Costa, were necessary to properly prepare for our journey. Additionally, it would have been unwise to travel during the wet season, so it was better to wait for the dry season. 

Thus, in January 2017, we packed our bags and left to visit the Felupe people of Suzana and learn about the memories they kept of our brother Luís, Captain Rei Vilar. But Suzana has no shops, no restaurants, and certainly no hotels. Luís Costa suggested we contact the Catholic Mission for accommodation. That’s where we found refuge, in small huts annexed to the Mission where there was a trickle of water to wash ourselves—already a luxury—and mats where we could lay our sleeping bags. 

The plane took us from Lisbon to Bissau. 

In Bissau, we stayed three days in a hotel to organize our trip with our Felupe guide, Adriano Djamam, also recommended by Luís Costa, and to rent a sturdy van capable of taking us to Suzana. The first 120 km of the trip went relatively well, despite having to switch vans at the start of the journey. 

From Bissau to São Domingos, the nearest town to Suzana, the roads were relatively good. In contrast, the final 35 km from São Domingos to Suzana took more than 4 hours due to the almost impassable dirt road, full of holes, cracks, and no shoulder protection, which made the van’s progress difficult. 

But it was worth it, because upon arriving in Suzana, we were greeted by hundreds of children lining the road and the teachers from Suzana’s school. All the children, clean and impeccably dressed, sang and clapped their hands to welcome us. We hadn’t expected such a cordial and emotional reception. 

We spent five days in Suzana, where we met many people, including Father José Fumagalli, better known as Father Zé, who had been the parish priest of Suzana for decades. He had met our brother Luís and recounted, in detail, his actions in the village and the events of the day he died. 

Later, we embraced Blata’s children and met the Great Men Council. There, we heard many stories from the elders, confirming that, in addition to his military responsibilities, our brother genuinely cared about the lives of Suzana’s inhabitants. It was then confirmed that Luís had ordered the construction of Suzana’s first school. We also learned that children were gathered daily within a 5 km radius to attend school and ate meals prepared for the soldiers before being taken back to their villages. Because they ate from the soldiers’ soup, they were—and still are—nicknamed “soupitos.” 

On the first day, we visited the little school Luís had built. Despite being in a decrepit state, it was still functioning as a kindergarten. The furniture was scarce, consisting of long benches where children aged 4 to 6 could only sing, clap their hands, and swing their little legs back and forth. Beyond that, they could do nothing—not write, draw, or even learn letters or numbers. 

All of this deeply moved us and motivated us to help these children with what is fundamental to humanity: Education! These children will one day be the men and women of this small country, one of the poorest in the world, and they need help. 

At the end of our stay, we spontaneously decided to launch a sponsorship project in collaboration with the Catholic Mission to improve the education of these children. The Felupe people of Suzana, having asked for our help, needed it desperately in a country where so much is lacking. Thus, the Kassumai Project was born.

I also went to accompany my brother when he boarded the Niassa, a ship of the Colonial Navigation Company. 

It was in July 1969, and this time the Niassa was not heading to Mozambique but to Guinea. I remember my mother’s anguish as she watched her eldest son leave for the war. Luís was a Cavalry Captain and was going to command a company in northern Guinea, in a village 10 km far from Senegal with a strange name, a woman’s name: Suzana. Luís was 28 years old. He was already married and had two young children: Tiago and João Luís. 

The atmosphere combined the apparent joviality of the young soldiers who were departing and the sadness of the families who were there to say goodbye. I tried to comfort my mother by saying that Luís was prepared for the war. After all, it was his job. And he was a young Captain, but very aware of his responsibilities and well-prepared, very well-prepared. As the ship drifted toward the horizon, we followed it from Alcântara to Cascais in the car of our friend Filipe Matos, who had kindly offered to accompany us. Upon reaching Oeiras, we could still see the Niassa, not far from the coast. 

Near the São Julião da Barra Fortress, Maria do Carmo, my mother, asked our friend Filipe to park the car. She got out and climbed over the rocks of the São Julião Fortress to get a little closer to the Niassa. The ship was there, in front of our eyes, but already heading out to the ocean. Maria do Carmo continued walking along the rocks, trying to get a little closer to her dear son who was leaving for war… until the ship disappeared over the horizon. I saw my mother, tears streaming down her face, return to the car. 

But Luís came back.

He returned in December. He brought with him his dog, a German shepherd named Askur. With him also came a Black man, his Felupe guide, from the Felupe ethnicity that populates Suzana. His name was António Blata, but we, the brothers, immediately started calling him Mulatto. He, too, had young children back in Guinea. We liked him very much, and he liked us. My younger brothers took him to the circus at Coliseu in Lisbon, and he was really amazed. The whole family came to our house to see Luisinho. That’s how we called him. And so came my grandparents, my uncles, my cousins, and many friends. And my grandmother, full of unease, said to him: 

“Luisinho, be careful, be very careful, you know we all want you to come back in good health.” 

And he replied to my grandmother: 

“I may come back feet first, but I will always return with honour!...” 

That phrase still lives in my mind: 

“I may come back feet first, but I will always return with honour!” 

Luís would return to Guinea a few days later, this time by plane. Considering the pain of his first departure, we begged our mother not to go to the airport because we didn’t want to see her suffering again as Luís left. But she wanted to go and insisted… but eventually gave in… though she cried bitterly as she watched us leaving for the airport. And Luís left. I remember him waving to us as he left through the boarding gate. And that was the last time I saw my brother. 

On February 18, 1970, early the following year, before I left for Instituto Superior Técnico (Technical University) to give my first university lectures, I had to tutor Micá, a young girl who hated mathematics. For her, numbers were always a huge complication, and numerical expressions, even more so, were a terrible puzzle. Powers and exponents were, for her, incomprehensible. I tutored this girl three times a week with little visible progress. And there I was, once again, with all my patience and focus, helping Micá with arithmetic when someone knocked on the door of the room where I was teaching. It was unusual for me to be interrupted. I went to open the door, and it was my father with Vítor, a family friend. I immediately saw that something important and serious had happened. My father clung to me and said, “Luisinho has been wounded in combat.” With my father holding onto me, I looked at our friend Vítor, who gave me a nod, and at that moment, just with that signal, I understood that he was not “wounded”… but dead! And without further delay, my father said: “Go tell your mother, I cannot do it!” 

My mother was bedridden with a spinal problem. She had been in bed for several days. When I entered the room, she immediately noticed something was wrong and asked me: “What’s happened?” I hugged her, crying. I sobbed as she stroked my hair and kept asking what was wrong. “What’s wrong, my son?” And I murmured: “Luisinho was wounded in combat…” My mother didn’t cry, and she never cried again in her life because her tears had dried in her eyes forever…

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This is a content page where you can freely add any content such as text, images, links, etc. You can edit all of this text and replace it with what you want to write. Use the advanced editor to design this content page. 

Edit your content page from the Pages tab by clicking the edit button.

You can edit all of this text and replace it with what you want to write. Use the advanced editor to design this content page. Edit your content page from the Pages tab by clicking the edit button.

This is a content page where you can freely add any content such as text, images, links, etc.