the king effect

The U.S.A.

2011-12-18T10:14:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,
          Thank you so much for following my posts and the ever-changing situation in the D.R.C. I'm currently in the United States for the holidays and will be remaining here for at least a few months. I hope to be back in Congo in February for a few weeks and again for a longer trip later in the year.
          I was approached by a publishing agent about writing a book, so I will be working on that while in the United States. I will also continue raising awareness and funding through speaking events. If you or an organization/University/group that you know is interested in the conflicts in Congo and would be interested in having me as a speaker, please e-mail me at amy.ernst114@gmail.com.
          Again, thank you for all of your support and please keep your eyes open for my possible book. I will be continuing the blog each time I return to Congo so if you follow The King Effect or are subscribed and you are still interested in COPERMA, Congo, Dusan, Mayi-Mayi, etc., don't erase the blog yet!

                                               Happy Holidays,
                                                          Amy Ernst

Gender Inequality

2011-12-07T08:23:00.000-08:00

   -How’s Butembo? The nurse-prisoner asks in the dark room and I smile at him. We’re in Zaire now, you know.
    -Yes, I know. Butembo is good. The elections went pretty smoothly, now we’re just waiting for the results.
    -We’ve been listening to the on-going count, says the Kapita in a scratchy voice.
          Thankfully, the Kapita is either hungover or just not in the mood to drink today. He’s sober, rational, even helpful, and doesn’t breach my personal space bubble or make completely unfounded declarations of love.
    -Tshisikedi is getting a lot of the vote, he continues. The radio is saying that he may have 54% of the vote.
          It’s interesting the prisoners are following the elections even though they couldn’t participate. But no information on the elections is trustworthy. Even the information periodically released by CENI, the organization that executed and controls the vote, isn’t to be fully trusted. After Maman Marie finished counting the votes as a volunteer, there were more unused ballots leftover than ballots that had been cast. Her group requested to destroy the unused ballots in order to prevent fraud, but CENI refused. “It’s like we didn’t even vote,” Maman Marie remarked in the COPERMA office. “There’s so much fraud.” Her disappointment, alongside the sullen faces of the rest of the team surprised me. I thought they realized that would happen from the very beginning. I guess they were holding on to hope that evaporated in the face of those to-be-determined ballots. “Those will all be filled out for Kabila,” Maman Marie said sadly.
    -We brought more oral rehydration salts, I say to the Kapita changing the subject.
    -Thank, says the prison nurse a tall skinny man with a soft face and softer voice.
          The Nurse clasps his hands together and bows a little in gratitude.
    -We had run out, he says. The cholera is very bad right now.
          The round faced prisoner who is apparently a priest walks into the room and sits across from me next to the nurse. The Kapita gets up from his bed and walks out of the room to help set up the television for another movie Urbain, Hangie and I brought. Urbain and Hangie have disappeared, leaving me alone in the room with the prison secretary, priest, nurse, and a younger man I don’t know.
    -I was told you’re a priest, I say to the man with the rosary around his neck.
    -I’m the Catholic representative in the prison, he says.
          His voice isn’t scratchy or deflated like most of the prisoners. I’ve realized the strength of their voices depends on the number of vices they engage in. The Kapita drinks, smokes, and does a lot of yelling so his voice sounds as if it drains all of his energy just to get out a simple sentence. It’s like he’s trying to blow up a balloon with every word.
    -May I ask why you’re in here? I ask.
    -For the case of rape, he says as if I’ve just asked what gender he is.
    -Always rape, adds the nurse who is also accused of rape.
    -What happened?
    -I worked as a police officer, he says. I judged people who were accused of a crime but it was rejected. After they were free they sent people to threaten me. Then they accused me of rape.
          The other side of impunity, if he’s telling the truth. Urbain appears in the doorway and motions for me to join him in the prison courtyard. While I sat in the Kapita’s cell, the prisoners set up various benches and buckets in front of the television screen and are once again starting to fill the seats. The film for the day is The Greatest Silence: Rape in the Congo, a film by Lisa F. Jackson which won a Sundance Film Festival award in 2008. It’s the first time we’re truly breaching the subject of sexual violence. I walk through the prisoners, sending them to the Secretary as each one begs me for cigarettes. I tried handing them out myself but it created a chaotic avalanche of eager, outstretched arms. As always, the prisoners direct me to an empty bench directly in front of the television, reserved for Hangie, Urbain, and me. Little Lauren, the three year old girl imprisoned with her mother breaks through the crowd of prisoners and starts laughing when she sees me. She hops up to me and plants herself on my lap. She doesn’t seem afraid of anyone.
          The Greatest Silence shows women in Bukavu who have been raped by rebels, governmental soldiers, and civilians. Jackson then travels into a rural area where she speaks with governmental soldiers and former Mayi-Mayi who admit to having raped women. There are subtitles in Swahili, but Urbain stands next to the television and explains what’s going on, for those who are illiterate or too far from the screen to read the translations. As the film continues, more and more of the prisoners start paying attention until about 90% of the yard is filled with men staring intently at the screen. A Bukavu police officer takes Jackson to meet a four year old girl who was raped.
    -What? Exclaims a boy who looks about 16 years old. They raped a kid that young? How could I rape someone like this?
          He motions to Lauren, who’s still sitting on my lap. Even though he’s expressing anger, I wrap my arms more tightly around the little girl and shift her farther away from him. The boy has headphones in his ears and bobs his head to an private beat, but he’s clearly paying attention.
    -Raping a little girl like that is not okay. But raping an adult is okay, he says.
          My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline as I watch him, but I don’t say anything. I want to get their honest reactions, I didn’t come to start a prison wide argument. The images on the screen move to the soldiers, who hold up their fingers to represent the number of women they’ve raped.
    -This soldier is saying he raped seven women in a day, Urbain mistranslates.
          The soldier is showing the total number of women he’s raped, not the number he raped in a day. But before I get a chance to correct Urbain, a tall, pimply young man to my right speaks out.
    -I could rape 12 women in a day, he exclaims proudly.
          Some of the other prisoners laugh. I stare at the awkward young man, sending him as much hatred and disgust as possible. I notice his eyes flick towards my direction to see if I’m impressed and he shifts his body around when he’s met by a gaze that’s clearly spitting on him. Despite my instinct to make him feel like ignorant filth, I try to relax my eyes. This is the wrong approach and I know it.
          Research psychology studies show that one of the primary mechanisms behind sexual violence is masculine insecurity. Rape isn’t simply about power or anger; it’s also a manifestation of insecurity and a lack of confidence. In communities where boys are raised to adhere to strict and often unrealistic gender identity roles, the inability to measure up to “being a man” in the eyes of society is considered a primary mechanism behind rape. A “masculinity threat,” something that makes an individual feel as if he’s not manly enough in his social setting or personal gender identity role, can motivate an individual to attempt to regain a perceived level of masculinity through sexual violence. Levels of rape in the United States perpetrated by men in aggressive, typically masculine sports and college fraternities, for example, are thought to be particularly high due to the rigidity of the masculine identity role and the pressure to measure up to it.
          Thus, making a man feel worse about himself can push him farther away from a secure and unthreatened mentality. I guess, in a way, this is my entire reason for being in the prison. Even I have to fight the urge to step on him, ostracize him, grind his frightening mindset into the ground. It’s what societies typically do across the world, and while holding someone responsible for a crime is vital in any society, with sexual violence it’s counterproductive if the goal is to decrease, prevent, maybe one day stop perpetration of rape. I’m not saying pity a man sick enough to force someone into sex, but if we only see hatred and anger, we’ll never find ways to fix the problem. The problem isn’t post-traumatic stress disorder, traumatic fistula, or any of the many negative effects rape can have on an individual. The problem is the act of rape itself. “Rape is a man’s problem but it has become a woman’s issue,” said one of my rape crisis counseling and advocacy trainers in Chicago, IL.
          When the film finishes, I stand up and address the entire crowd.
    -I’d be interested in speaking with some of you individually about this film, I say and Urbain translates into Swahili. For example, this man said he’d rape 12 women not just seven.
          I motion towards the pimply young man and still have to work to keep extreme disdain out of my voice.
    -I want to know if you think that is okay. Rape can destroy the spirit of a person. It breaks down the strength of humanity and is currently breaking down the strength of this country.
          Everyone stares at me and listens. A few men, mostly older ones, nod their heads in agreement. I feel like I’m standing in front of a wall that needs to be moved, but I know just pushing on it won’t work. My body is aching to reach out and shove it with all my might; just move it, but I know it’s not that simple.
          The next day Hangie, Urbain, and I return. The Kapita gives us permission to discuss the film with a few of the prisoners and even allows us to sit in the small prison dispensary for privacy. We don’t have full privacy, however, as the Kapita himself stands in with us, along with the soft-spoken nurse and The Vesuvian. The Vesuvian is a tall, terrifying, and sickly looking prisoner. Every time I see him I have to resist the urge to move away from him, but he has done nothing threatening towards me or the COPERMA team thus far. Now, I see that he’s one of the Kapita’s acting officers. Honestly, if I were a prison chief I’d want The Vesuvian on my team as well.
          Before we start talking about the film, I ask the Kapita if I can speak with Alphonse and Thomas, the yoda-like men who look like they’ve been living for centuries. The two elderly men are quickly located and they both hobble shakily into the dispensary and sit next to Urbain on the only cot in the room.
    -Were you given a bed? I ask.
    -Yes, they are now provided food and they each have a bed, Urbain translates as Alphones rattles off a slur of words in Kinande.
          Neither of the men are wearing sandals still, but Urbain says it’s because even though they’re no longer “slaves” in the prison, they have to be able to purchase shoes. The prison doesn’t just hand them out.
    -Can they explain more about the conflict of land? I ask.
          I have a friend working in Human Rights for the United Nations in Butembo. Part of her job is investigating potential cases of unlawful imprisonment. A conflict of land could easily mean that someone wanted Alphonse and Thomas’ land and simply accused them of stealing the land, even if it truly belonged to the old men. It’s easy to use the judicial system as a weapon in a country like Congo. Again Alphonse picks up the dialogue and speaks rapidly for several minutes.
    -Their older brother passed away recently, explains Urbain when Alphonse finishes. They didn’t have the means to buy a coffin or transport the body in a car so they carried the body on their heads to the place where they would bury it. They are true chiefs in their village and the land belonged to them. When they reached the place for the burial, a younger man was there and he said, you can’t bury him here this is my land. The police commander came and took the body and threw it to the ground. They’re the true chiefs but this other person wanted to become the chief. He’s the one who had them arrested.
    -So the new guy stole their land? I ask, planning on bringing this report to my friend so she can look into it further.
    -Here among the Nande people, Urbain explains, if you plant a tree on a piece of land it is a symbol that you own the land. When the police captain came, he asked the old men, ‘was it you who planted these trees?’ They said no it wasn’t us, because the other man planted it on their land. They saw that the man was trying to make them look like chiefs who are weak so they took vengeance to take back their rights and burned down the houses in the village.
    -What? I exclaim looking at the frail old men. These two burned down houses?
    -Yes, they burned three houses.
          I can’t stop myself from laughing. The men are completely shocked that they are in prison, and although village chiefs often follow different rules there’s definitely a known limit to their power. Even though I’m laughing, Alphonse and Thomas are both looking at me with big, innocent smiles. I clearly need to pay more attention to my personal bias and stereotyping. I just assumed such frail little men had to be falsely imprisoned.
    -They’re not in here over a land conflict, I say still laughing. They’re here for burning down people’s homes!
          Urbain catches my laughter and nods his head in disbelief. I don’t think I was the only one who made the false assumption. I thank the two little men and they both hobble back out into the main prison area.
    -Can we talk to the boy who was sitting next to you, Hangie? The one with the scraggly beard who was making comments when the four year old girl was on the screen?
          Hangie describes the boy to the nurse, who immediately bows out of the dispensary and returns with the boy. Since both the Kapita and The Vesuvian are standing in the room, I can see fear immediately fill the boy’s face. He glances nervously between the muzungu and the two prison authorities, clearly thinking he’s in trouble.
    -I was wondering if you’d be interested in talking to me about the film, I say motioning for the boy to sit down on the cot.
          The boy glances nervously at the Kapita again, but when the Kapita shrugs the boy is convinced and plops down next to Urbain.
    -First of all, what are you in here for? I ask.
    -Ammunition of war, the boy responds in French.
    -What exactly does that mean?
          The boy’s French is clearly limited so he switches into Kinande and Swahili.
    -He was police, translates Urbain. He was drunk and he shot bullets in the air and while he was drunk he lost ammunition like grenades.
    -How old are you? I ask, thinking he can’t be older than 20.
          The boy looks up at the ceiling for a few minutes in thought.
    -I was born in 1986, he says finally.
    -Okay, so you’re most likely 25, I say mostly to myself. What did you think about the film from yesterday?
    -The film was educational, he responds. The cases are different. Rape of a four year old, that’s true rape. But other rapes, of a woman with 19 or more years are not really rape.
    -What do you think the word rape means? I ask.
    -It’s when you use force to have sex with a woman, he says and looks around at everyone as if to verify that I’ve asked him a very dumb question.
    -But using force with someone who is older than 19 years old is not rape? I ask. If a man goes to a woman and asks to sleep with her and she says no, she refuses, and he forces her. If she is 49 years old, for example, do you consider that to be real rape?
          The boy falters for a moment.
    -We men, he says forcefully, many are here for cases of rape. But a woman of 30 years who sleeps with a boy of 16, that’s rape why don’t they bring the woman to prison?
    -That’s true, I say nodding my head. I agree that a woman who sleeps with a minor should also be arrested as a man would. But when talking about males forcing females, if a soldier for example, has a gun and forces a woman who is 35 years old to have sex with him, is that rape? What do you think of that?
    -It’s normal because if she refuses he’ll kill her, he says starting to look slightly unsure of himself.
          I don’t understand his response, which means he probably didn’t understand my question.
    -In your opinion is that acceptable? I ask.
    -If it’s the wife of the house, he responds, one can support it. If the wife says no and the husband wants her, one can support him taking his wife by force.
    -Do you think there are negative effects for a woman after she is raped?
    -There’s diminishment, confusion, he says haltingly. The man can get an illness because of it if she’s sick.
          I can see the boy’s face light up as if I’m a teacher looking for a right answer and he’s finally stumbled across it. He starts proudly listing off sexually transmitted infections from the film we showed previously.
    -But does the woman experience negative effects that aren’t physical even, after a rape? I try again.
          The boy is clearly confused by the question and fumbles around.
    -If it’s a prostitute and you give her money and then she says no, she needs to give the money back.
           He says this with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.
    -Yes, I agree, I sigh. That’s a business deal that’s a very different thing. What do you think would make a man force a woman, not in terms of paying her for sex but forcing her when she refuses?
   -There are two things, he responds. The person has two objectives. First is to destroy and second he knows he’s alone and he’s going to do what he wants.
          More confusion. I try to flesh out the question more clearly.
    -The first thing, the boy says when it seems he’s understood what I’m asking. Is to put something in the heart and brain. If the woman is in a man’s head and when he thinks of her he thinks, she’s beautiful, that’s what can push a man to rape. Students will leave with a woman on the motorcycle and go into the bush with the intention of sleeping with her. He has it already in his head but she doesn’t know. But also, if someone makes a woman pregnant in the neighborhood and he’s a minor and can’t marry her, she’ll say she was raped even when she wasn’t and he will be brought to the prison.
    -Yes, I know that’s a big problem as well, I say.
          The boy doesn’t seem uncomfortable by the subject or intimidated by myself or the Kapita who moves in and out of the dispensary, so it seems he simply hasn’t thought much about the topic. I ask if we can speak to the pimply boy who bragged about being able to rape 12 women in one day, but he’s already passed out in a drunken stupor. The nurse finds someone else who was interested in the film and interested in talking to me.
           Musa is 17 and seems equally as confident as the first boy. Musa says he’s a mototaxi driver. One day he drove a girl home and when she got home her family discovered that she was pregnant. He didn’t make her pregnant, he never slept with her, she simply needed someone to blame the pregnancy on and she said it was Musa the taxi driver. When the police came with the girl, she couldn’t even pick out his face. They didn’t trap him raping but the accusation is rape, because of her parents. He doesn’t know her but he must have driven her and mentioned his name.
    -Did you agree to sleep with her? Urbain asks.
    -You can’t accept a woman you don’t even know, he responds angrily.
    -Okay, I say wanting to move the conversation away from his culpability or lack of. What did you think about the film you watched yesterday?
    -There’s a difference from the rapes here and that of the film, he says as he calms down. The film was of the adults raping. To take someone by force, but today in Butembo, if you don’t pay the woman she’ll say you raped her because you didn’t pay her money.
          I nod in agreement. Even Slender, the tall female prisoner I spoke with previously, said outright that if a man didn’t pay her she would go to the police and accuse him of raping her.
    -Do you think there are effects for the woman after a rape? I ask.
          Musa turns effects around just as the first boy did, and says that a man can get an STI. I’m glad at least the information about STIs stuck with them and maybe self-preservation will at least make a man think twice before perpetrationg rape. But neither of them realizes how devastating rape can be for someone who survives it. The way they tell it, it’s like the woman doesn’t even exist.
    -What about for the woman? I press. Do you think there can be non-physical problems?
          He doesn’t even need to reflect and jumps immediately into a response in Kinande. I wait patiently for him to finish and am excited when Urbain begins to translate the impassioned response.
    -He says that if you sleep with a woman and you tell her you’ll pay her, but then you don’t pay her she’ll take your clothes and won’t let you leave the place until you pay her. And she’ll put your clothes in water so you have to go home naked.
          I drop my pen in exasperation but can’t help but chuckle.
    -Did that happen to him?
    -Yes.
    -That’s an excellent strategy, I say with genuine respect for the woman who did it. If you tell a woman you’re going to pay her for sex you should pay her! I say. It’s a business deal.
    -But if you have no money, Hangie starts to says but stops when I shoot him a death glare.
    -If you have no money then don’t tell her you’re going to pay her in the first place. Find a willing girlfriend or wait until you can afford to buy it. What do you think can cause a man to force a woman to have sex, I say turning back to Musa. I don’t mean paying for sex I mean rape.
    -Getting drunk, Musa responds. That can make someone able to rape. If you have a preference for someone, you think about them a lot. The way she dresses.
          The last remark catches me off guard. It’s one of the most common arguments in the United States, and in my opinion, so painfully ignorant it makes me ashamed to be human. A woman should be able to walk around naked and men should still show decency and self-control. When men use the “the way she dresses” argument, I find it almost funny because of how transparently they’re insulting their own gender. They’re laying it all out on the table themselves; men who are able to rape often do so to feel powerful, manly, strong, but even their own explanations use male weakness as the excuse. I’m sure people I’ve heard say this think they’re putting the blame on the female, turning her into a slut who deserved it, but you don’t have to be much smarter than a cockroach to see that they’re really relating themselves to children with no discipline, awareness of morality, or self-control. I know it will be impossible to convey this opinion to Musa, though.
    -Do you think rape is a big problem? I ask.
    -To rape an adult is not a problem. To rape a child it’s a problem.
    -If someone raped your mother, would you be angry? I ask carefully.
          In The Greatest Silence, Jackson asks this same question and the men all indicate that they would be furious, but they still don’t see the contradiction between their rapes and the reason they would seek revenge if a family member was violated. It’s as if they simply can’t make the connection between people they know, and anyone else as all being part of humanity, able to experience suffering and pain.
    -If someone rapes my mother, he says and pauses. I would be upset. I would seek revenge.
    -So, it’s okay for someone to rape an adult but not your mother? I ask calmly, keeping all judgment out of my voice.
          Musa looks perplexed for a moment.
    -If you find a Maman in the bush and force her, it’s normal rape, he says. But if you force her in the house it’s not rape.
          At this last statement, Urbain starts laughing uncontrollably. I kick him inconspicuously in the shin, but he can’t control the laughter and the damage has been done. Musa looks around the room, now clearly uncomfortable and then stands up and says something.
    -He says he doesn’t want to talk about the film anymore, Hangie translates as I glare at Urbain.
          After we leave the prison, I’m elated that the men were honest, and even more convinced that supporting and educating men is vital to gender equality and protection of women. NGOs that support and educate women are endless, but there are two (primary) sides to gender and supporting only one can only go so far. The question that remains, however, is how do you decrease the rigidity of masculine identity roles and increase respect and empathy for women from the male perspective? We haven’t even achieved it in the United States, where gender equality has traveled a lot farther than it has in a third world, war torn country like Congo.

A Congolese Democracy

2011-11-27T04:12:00.000-08:00

         COPERMA has long since focused on the psychosocial aspects of helping survivors of sexual violence and all victims of the war, but Maman Marie has been dreaming of opening a Centre d’Ecoute—listening center—for counseling services in the villages and her dream has finally come true. With Congolese psychologists Jean-Paul and Papa Lemba working as volunteers as often as they can, COPERMA is now opening a very basic, but consistent counseling center in Kavingu.
          Jean-Paul, Maman Marie, a new driver, and I all get into the rickety COPERMA truck, with a generator in the trunk, a few liters of fuel, and a mini-DVD player. As we bounce out of Butembo, they all begin chattering away in Kinande and I settle in to watch the country side pass by. Today is surprisingly warm and bright, the usual fog that paints the brilliant greens and browns a faint grey has fled. The fog makes this country ethereal, but without it the colors are crisp and just as inspiring.
          I hear the word election in French and tune into the conversation. I don’t know what aspect of the elections they’re talking about but I insert myself anyway.
    -Do you think they’ll postpone the elections? I ask the car in general.
          The media indicates that voting supplies from Belgium won’t make it to Congo by the 28th, but the word on the street is that the elections will definitely happen on Monday.
    -We don’t really know, Maman Marie responds from the front seat.
    -The problem is, says Jean-Paul sitting next to me, that they found ballots that were already filled out for Kabila.
    -You’d think he’d at least be subtle about it, I say.
    -That’s why I’ve decided not to vote for him, Maman Marie adds, it’s not good.
    -They also said, continues Jean-Paul, that there are around 500 voting centers in Kinshasa but that only 300 actually exist and the others will produce votes that weren’t made.
          There are so many rumors flying around about the elections nobody really knows what’s going on or what will happen, but the Congolese people I’ve spoken to seem engaged and contemplative about the elections, despite the general belief that Kabila’s tagline—Na Rais 100% sure—will be the case no matter who they vote for.
    -The other problem, says Jean-Paul, is that people want to vote in a way that won’t escalate into another full civil war, regardless of who’s politics they actually support.
    -What do you think about Mbusa Nyamwisi? I ask.
          Two nights prior, Mbusa brought his campaign to Butembo. Mbusa Nyamwisi is the Nande candidate, thus his welcome in Butembo was larger and warmer than that of Kabila or Tshisikedi. The main intersection in Butembo began filling with people in the morning. Candidates for delegate stood on a large wooden podium spouting their hopes and dreams for the country all day. Towards the evening, amateur acrobats attempted to entertain the crowd. When Mbusa finally arrived, around 6 p.m. thousands of people filled the streets and younger men climbed onto the rooftops and anything sturdy enough to support the weight of a man. I stood among the crowd, staring expectantly with the rest for hours at the empty podium, as if Mbusa was going to apparate without warning. A large billboard with Mbusa’s fat cat, slightly imposing image was posted on a roof behind the podium. When Nyamwisi caravan arrived, the crowd craned its neck in unison, searching for the man who was a former rebel with the RCD—Rassemblement Cnogolais pour la Democratie—a group that originally fought Laurent-Desire Kabila’s regime. As an RCD leader, Nyamwisi started a “children’s army,” with a median age of thirteen (Africa’s World War: Congo, the Rwandan Genocide, and the Making of a Continental Catastrophe, Gerard Prunier). Now he’s running for President and/or deputy. No. 8 & No. 80.
          After hours of waiting, a massive man climbed onto the podium pumping his arms in the air and the crowd cheered. Then the crowd stopped cheering and started mumbling.
    -Is that him? It must be him, yeah, I guess it has to be him, the people around me started muttering in Swahili.
          A few moments later another man walked up pumping his arms in the air. Mbusa Nyamwisi was more than a full head shorter than the first man, but this time the crowd was sure and went wild. Mbusa spoke mostly in Kinande, despite yells from the crowd to speak in Swahili. People cheered at appropriate moments, and discussed his words amongst themselves.
    -He was in charge of the Butembo-Beni territories in 2006, says Maman Marie in the car, after he dropped out of those elections. He did nothing. He doesn’t know how to run a territory, so how can he run the country?
    -And Tshisikedi?   I ask.
          The car pauses for a moment.
    -He’s old, Maman Marie says suddenly and laughs.
    -He’s around 80 years old, adds Jean-Paul.
    -Do you think the election is just a show?
    -There are 106 deputy candidates running for only four positions in Butembo alone. Of course it’s a show.
    -And for the presidency?
    -It’s already arranged, responds Jean-Paul as we pull into the Kavingu center.
          It’s been a few months since I’ve been to Kavingu and the center looks great. The metal and stone stove for the patisserie is not only finished but running, and a three room building for classes and training sessions that’s been in construction since I arrived, is finally finished.
    -We separated everything, Maman Marie explains as she climbs out of the car. The patisserie - bread-making- is there, sewing is there, soapmaking is here, animal breeding is still there.
          She points to the different buildings and doors. There are now two concrete buildings and two mud thatched buildings. I’m suddenly so happy to be here. It feels almost pointless sometimes, like spitting into the wind, but seeing how much the center has improved, how much it’s offering to a village that has almost nothing and is filled with people who’ve suffered greatly from the wars, every cent raised and every frustrating moment feels completely worth it again. Children I recognize all swarm the car, but for the first time, many of them aren’t afraid of me. They pat my hands and jump around me. When I move they don’t flinch or start to cry.
          We walk into one of the rooms in the newly finished concrete building. There are already several rows of villagers waiting patiently for us to arrive. Papa Lemba is already there, seated at the front of the room and Jean-Paul joins him. The driver begins setting up the generator and Maman Marie moves immediately to the front of the classroom. There’s even a real chalkboard on the wall. I sit down next to some of the brightly colored women. The pagne in the villages are always faded and tattered but clean. The room smells of hard-work; sweet sweat balanced by the smell of fresh earth. I forgot how stunning these women are. Not just in terms of physical features; they emanate kindness and wisdom.
    -Amy! Exclaims one of the women sitting down the row from me.
          I look at the woman but she’s staring at Maman Marie.
    -Yes, Maman Marie says and smiles at me.
         I realize that Maman Marie just asked if anybody remembers my name, and the woman down the row from me did. It’s a simple, almost childish pleasure, but a woman whose beauty and strength I could never touch, remembering my name after several months makes me want to cry. My cup overfloweth. After Maman Marie finishes, Jean-Paul and Papa Lemba take up the formation session, as these are the village “listeners.” They then explain the schedule, purpose, and objectives of the listening center, and show a sensitization video on psychological illnesses.
          After a few hours I go outside and play around with the children who jump around excitedly in front of my camera. Inside the thatched hut next to the outdoor ovens, there are several girl-mothers kneading bread with a young man correcting small mistakes and explaining the best methods. There is a group of men nearby using leg-sized wooden spoons to mash several vats of fufu for the small celebration after the formation. Maman Helen proudly shows me the listening center. Inside one of the concrete rooms is simply a couple chairs, a desk, a shelf for records, and a bed behind a curtain. When the session finishes, everyone sits in small circles around a large pot of fufu, a few pieces of meat in palm oil, and a small amount of lengalenga.
          After we eat, while the driver is preparing the car and Maman Marie is wrapping a few things up, I take the opportunity to explore something I’ve been wondering about. I grab Jean-Marie, one of the younger COPERMA workers, and we walk up to group of three women.
    -Is it alright if I ask you a question? I ask and Jean-Marie translates.
          The women all nod and wait.
    -Are you planning on voting in the elections?
          The women all nod in agreement.
    -Where is the voting booth near here?
    -In Khighali, the more out-spoken woman responds in French.
    -Can I ask you who you’re going to vote for?
          The women don’t hesitate and respond, almost in unison, Mbusa Nyamwisi.
    -Why?
    -Because he’s Nande like us, Jean-Marie translates after all three of the women respond.
          A few men wander up to our group to listen.
    -Do you like the current government? I ask.
          One of the men listens to Jean-Marie’s translation and then steps forward and responds.
    -No, because Kabila lied. He said that our children would be able to go to school for free and that has never happened.
    -Does it seem like most of the village will vote? I ask.
          The group has now expanded to about ten people, mostly men, and everyone nods yes.
    -Do you think it will be democratic?
          A weathered looking man with his hands in his pockets responds.
    -He says he doesn’t know what democratic means, exactly, so he can’t say if he thinks it will be so.
    -Oh, I say and hesitate. Democratic means, on a basic level, that the people choose the government. That when there is a vote, the results are respected.
    -We don’t know if that will happen, the man responds.
    -And how do you receive information about the candidates? The politics of Kabila, Tshisikedi, Mbusa, all of them.
    -We have the papers, one of the women responds immediately.
          The papers she’s referring to are posters and cards that show only a candidates image, name, and his number on the ballot.
    -So you don’t know the politics of the candidates? I ask. For example, Mbusa, he is Nande but do you know what he wants to change, how he wants to lead the country?
          The woman says something quickly and then walks away.
    -She said no? I ask.
    -She said no, Jean-Marie verifies.
    -He was a rebel leader here before, says one of the men. At that moment everyone had their land and could build a house on it.
    -So he was a nice rebel? I respond. He helped the people?
    -Yes.
    -There are some people, I add, who don’t think that Mbusa was capable of governing the territory.
    -People who say he wasn’t good at governing say that because they are his enemies, responds the man in Kinande. Mbusa is a strong man.
          The car is finally ready, so I thank everyone and we say good bye. In the car, Jean-Paul and Jean-Marie explain that another problem with the elections is that delegates utilize tribalism in order to gain the vote. The delegate who can most effectively convince the Nande, for example, that he will promote them and marginalize neighboring tribes, is often the one who wins the vote, which obviously serves to solidify rifts within the Congolese population. Additionally, Mbusa Nyamwisa is running for President and deputy, but he only hopes to win as a deputy. According to Jean-Paul, Nyamwisi is encouragin people to vote for either Tshisikedi or Kamerhe. Since Kabila changed the law to eliminate the equivalent of primary elections, Nyamwisi may be using his presidential candidacy solely as a support mechanism. Ah, democracy at its best…
          As we drive away from Kavingu, I watch three of the women, standing on a small ridge with the setting sun behind them. Their patterned pagne are draped across their shoulders, giving them an elegantly regal look. It’s the kind of beauty that almost hurts to look at because no matter how long or hard you look, you can’t comprehend that it exists and at the same time can’t drink in enough of it.

Sticks

2011-11-23T04:58:00.000-08:00

          Out in the sunshine, Maman Vee is talking to a United Nations observer so Urbain and I lean against the brick building with pleading arms reaching once more through the bars at us. I hate ignoring humans but with all the requests and hellos here, I’d never get anything done if I didn’t use selective listening. Hangie appears from behind the building and hands a box of condoms and something wooden to Urbain.
    -I brought the preservatives and the stick, Hangie says quickly. She knows it’s a lesson now so I think she’ll let you enter.
          Hangie walks away before I get a chance to ask him what he means.
    -Do you think they’re telling the truth? I ask Urbain about the women inside.
          Urbain looks at me uncertainly and then tells me what he thinks I want him to say rather than what he thinks. It’s out of kindness, but no matter how well I know Nande people I still have trouble getting them to speak frankly with me.
    -No?
    -Why not? I ask. They’re saying the girl who went to the hospital wasn’t raped.
    -That woman, he says after a few minutes, talks a lot.
    -Yeah, I sigh. She does.
          I walk over to the outdoor court proceedings and sit down on a low bench next to one of the magistrate officials. The judge calls out a name, someone inside the prison comes to the window, then the judge spends about five minutes pedantically dictating a letter to “Monsieur President,” mostly about the work they’re doing rather than prisoners case. I notice that the black robe sitting next to me has three buttons on each shoulder of his robe, all of which are covered in leopard print cloth. There’s a book on the bench between us called The Congolese Penal Code. It’s refreshing to know they at least have one.
    -Amy, Urbain says shortly.
          I look over and see Maman Vee finishing up her meeting. I leave the court proceedings and walk back to Urbain.
    -You can show the films today, Maman Vee says.
    -Thank you.
    -I’m leaving now so leave the films with the overseer so I can benefit from them as well.
          Maman Vee begins chatting with the prisoners. She low fives several of them and they all talk as if they’ve been friends since high school. Eliza opens the metal door and Urbain and I cross international borders back into Zaire. In the outdoor living space, the television from the Kapita’s room has already been moved against the front wall and benches neatly fill the space in rows. The benches are already almost full, with the prisoners sitting and looking patiently at the television. The prison “secretary” leads Urbain and me to the front and I’m asked to sit on a small bench just in front of the television. The prisoners look to Urbain, sitting calmly beneath a cat’s cradle of hanging clothes.
          I hear the generator roar to life and several telephones immediately appear. Someone places an extension cord on the table and the phones are all plugged in. Urbain hands the DVD to one of the prisoners, who immediately begins fiddling with the DVD player. A couple other prisoners crouch in front of the T.V. and help. When the film finally flashes onto the screen, Urbain stands up and translates the French into Swahili. He goes slowly through the film, explaining gonorrhea, genital fungi, syphilis, herpes zoster, chlamydia, and SIDA—HIV/AIDS—as the prisoners crane their necks to see the images of ailing genitalia. The screen suddenly fills with a basic drawing of fallopian tubes.
    -Eh! I hear several people exclaim behind me.
    -It’s a vagina! Someone yells in a serious tone and nobody laughs.
          The outdoor space is now completely full and everyone is watching Urbain and the images attentively. Slender, the beautiful female prisoner with pink and black braids shooting off of her head comes and squeezes next to me on my tiny bench. She leans towards the television and reads the words on the screen out loud when they appear. Another prisoner appears behind Urbain and hands something to him as the screen is showing an painful looking case of gonorrhea. It’s the stick Hangie mentioned. Urbain takes the stick and without flinching holds up a smoothly carved, detailed, wooden penis. He points to the tip of the penis, further illustrating the images on the screen.
    -Yoooo yooooh! Slender exclaims next to me with her hand over her mouth when an extremely painful looking set of genitalia flash on the screen.
          A man who looks like he has chalk smeared across his body stumbles through the crowd and sits down next to me. I recognize him as the sleeping Shrek, the Kapita. His face looks like Shrek’s but his body is wiry and thin.
    -Hello, he says and sticks his hand out.
          He pulls his posture into a straight line but has trouble holding himself still. The smell of alcohol explodes from his pores; it’s so strong I wish I could scoot my little bench and Slender a few feet farther away.
    -I’m the Kpidah, he slurs and falls forward towards my face.
    -Pleasure to meet you, I say.
          I respectfully shake his hand and lean away from him as inconspicuously as possible. He looks up at the screen then back at me, bobbing his head on his gangly body like a bobble head doll. He leans against my ear and tries to whisper to me.
    -We have woman here with SIDA.
          He nods over his shoulder at the pregnant prisoner and lightly slaps my face.
    -I love you, he says in a too-close-for-comfort whisper.
    -Thanks, I say and lean away again.
          I look up to Urbain pleadingly. He’s still holding the idealistically sized wooden penis in his hand and gesticulating with it as he speaks to the crowd. I tap his leg with my foot and he looks down at me. He stops his translation for a minute and introduces himself to the Kapita, who swivels on the bucket he’s sitting on to talk to Urbain. Slender elbows me in the side and starts laughing. Urbain’s able to convince the Kapita that he wants to go back to his room just as the film is moving to prevention.
    -The best way to treat these diseases is to not get them at all so use condoms, Urbain says to the crowd. Additionally, it’s very likely to get these illnesses if you rape.
          Someone behind me asks Urbain a question.
    -He wants to know if white people can get AIDS, Urbain says looking down at me.
    -Yes, absolutely, I respond.
          Next to me, Slender wraps her hand around an imaginary stick and makes a very graphic motion in front of her mouth.
    -Of course they can, she says laughing and still moving the invisible stick towards and away from her open mouth. White people are the ones who taught us to have sex like this!
   -Learn something new every day, I say to myself in English.
          Urbain hands another DVD to the prisoners. This one is more for entertainment and creating a rapport, but it gives information on mental illnesses and accepting les fous through the medium of dance and song in Swahili. Someone taps Urbain through the crowd and he pulls me back into the women’s cell with him.
    -I’m the nurse, says a tall thin man whom I recognize.
    -Yes, I remember, I say.
          Little Lauren is sitting on one of the floor mattresses playing with the sexual violence pamphlet I handed out.
    -I want to show you our infirmary, he responds.
          About a quarter of the women’s cell is boxed off with makeshift wooden walls. The Nurse leads us through the wooden doorway. In the small enclosure is a hospital bed, a cabinet with various medications, a scale, and what look like records on a small wooden table.
    -We need medication badly, says the imprisoned nurse.
    -You treat the patients yourself? I ask.
    -Yes, I’m a nurse. There’s a doctor who comes sometimes and she does the more complex things, but I treat things like cholera and injuries.
          A tiny little man, older and more wrinkled than time walks slowly into the wooden enclosure.
    -Why is he in here? I ask.
          The nurse speaks kindly in Kinande to the old man.
    -Conflict of land, he translates. His brother’s in here too but he is recovering from the diarrhea—cholera—so he is laying down.
          The nurse tells me the tiny old man is 75, but he looks 103. The man, Alphonse, moves shakily to the hospital bed and sits down. With great effort, he pulls up his pant leg and holds his foot forward to reveal an open cut on the bottom.
    -Why doesn’t he have any shoes? I ask.
    -When you enter the prison you have to pay the fee. 20 dollars for protection of your life and 5 dollars for a bed. If you can’t pay they take away your shoes to signify that you are a slave.
    -Even with a man this old? I ask appalled.
    -Yes. He and his brother both sleep on the ground, outside, even in the rain. But every Monday they beat those who can’t pay 50 times.
    -Do they beat this man? I ask almost in a panic.
          Just looking at the little elderly man makes me feel like something is pulling on my arteries, trying to separate the ventricles of my heart.
    -No, they spare the elders the beating.
    -Can I meet his brother?
    -Sure, responds the nurse and walks out.
          I start to follow him but Urbain stops me. A few minutes later the nurse walks back in with another tiny man. This man’s ears poke out and his face is so wrinkled he looks like Yoda with glaucoma. The two little men both smile at me with stained teeth and so many wrinkles they don’t have to actually smile to seem like they’re smiling. The Yoda like one, Thomas, is 78 going on 110.
    -How is your diarrhea improving? I ask the older man.
    -He says it’s getting much better. He only had diarrhea two times last night, translates Urbain.
    -Good.
          I point to a box of Oral Rehydration Salts (ORS), the simple and fast cure for cholera.
    -Make sure you keep treating him with these, I say to the nurse. I’ll try to bring more next time.
          After the nurse swabs Alphonse’s wounded foot, the two anciens move shakily back into the main room. At the door, Alphonse tries to lift his foot over the small wooden step but his body doesn’t fully respond and his wounded foot slams into the stair. He almost falls, but manages to grab the wall for support just in time.
    -I can’t leave this like it is, I mutter to Urbain. Old men like that? I’ll pay their prison fee myself they should not be sleeping outside in the rain.
          When the film finishes Urbain and I go back outside. On the motorcycle Urbain and I arrange for him to return with the money. He’ll have to meet with the Secretary and emphasize that COPERMA is donating the money but the muzungu refused to help. White people leaving money around only causes problems. As we drive the gates open and children flood across the roads. I look up at the sky and see a blue and white helicopter directly above us.
    -Hello, Kabila! I say and wave.
          Kabila only stays for a few hours. A massive crowd fills the streets that he’ll pass through. Most people are chanting happily; a few throw stones and tear Kabila t-shirts into shreds but everything goes surprisingly smoothly. Even Hangie changes his mind about voting for Kabila.
    -His way of convincing us to vote for him is by saying ‘if you don’t vote right there will be war,’ Hangie explains the next day. How can I vote for a president who threatens his people to gain the vote?

Congo vs. Zaire

2011-11-17T08:15:00.000-08:00

   -Tshisikedi is arriving this morning and President Kabila is arriving this afternoon, says Maman Marie in the front COPERMA office.
          For the first time in a long time, Maman Marie and I are the only ones in the office and can speak a little more openly and without Hangie forcefully throwing in his two cents.
    -Who are you going to vote for? I ask.
    -I don’t know. You know who you’ll vote for when you arrive at the voting booth.
    -Really? Don’t you think you need to prepare and have at least an idea?
    -It doesn’t really matter anyway, she responds. There are 11 candidates, including Kabila, but all of them are basically the same. They all have the same politics and reasons for wanting power. Since we know Kabila at least a little, maybe it’s best if he stays.
    -You said last year that in Congo you don’t have a government.
    -We don’t have a government, she says chuckling. But there’s no opposition either. If there was a real opponent maybe the elections would mean something.
    -That’s true, I say. Where will Kabila and Tshisikedi be going ?
    -Tshisikedi will be at one end of Butembo and Kabila will probably go over by the cathedral, but he’s leaving directly afterwards.
          The metal gate creaks open and Maman Jose walks into the office. Her hair is short today and she’s covered in a shawl.
    -Are you going to go and listen to what he’s going to say? I ask.
          Maman Marie laughs.
    -He’s going to say the same thing he’s said in all the other cities.
    -One hundred percent sure! I say and punch my fist in the air.
          Maman Jose and Maman Marie both laugh. President Kabila’s tagline for the election is Na Rais 100% sure! -- Presidency 100% sure. Apparently the U.S. State Department considers claiming success before elections to be non-democratic, but the phrase, with Kabila’s face next to it, is written all over Butembo and half the city is wearing hats and shirts that proclaim the victory.
          The door creaks open again and Urbain walks in and places a plastic bag on the table in front of me. Inside there are boxes of medication: paracetamol, antibiotics, anti-diarrhea, and aspirin.
    -Are you ready to go? I ask.
          I hand my motorcycle key to Urbain and grab a plastic container of fuel and the medication and we leave for the prison. When we arrive, my heart sinks when I see Maman Vee sitting at the top of the stairs. Fortunately, Eliza, who’s much less difficult to deal with, is also there.
    -We brought a few films, I say to Maman Vee and sit down on a small wooden bench across from her.
          Their outdoor office must be near the latrine, the smell of feces hangs sweetly in the air. Urbain hands the DVDs to Maman Vee, and I hand her the medication.
    -I need to watch these first, she says without smiling, to make sure they’re fit to be shown in the prison.
    -They’re videos about HIV/AIDS and STIs, I respond.
    -I still need to verify them. You can show them tomorrow.
   -Okay, I understand that, I say. But also, I brought some pamphlets about sexual violence and medical care in Butembo. I’d like to hand them out to the female prisoners, is that okay?
          I hand a pamphlet to Maman Vee.
    -Yeah, that’s not a problem, she says.
          Urbain, Eliza and I walk over to the metal entrance. Eliza lets us inside immediately. I feel the same rush of fear when the door closes behind us, but this time it dissipates quickly. The prison is a strange phenomenon. I spoke with a young Congolese businessman who was falsely imprisoned for several days and he explained that what I first saw as pure chaos is actually more structured than society outside of the prison walls.
          Over an evening beer, J.P. explained that when you enter the prison you are immediately given 50 strokes with a stick. Every prisoner is required to pay $20.00 to gain access to food and security, and $5.00 to be given a bed. Those who can’t pay are labeled as “slaves,” and anyone can force them to do any work and they aren’t guaranteed food. Then there’s a tribunal, in which the prison President, or “Kapita,”—the sleeping Shrek I saw before—and the other prisoners listen to the accusation, hear the side of the accused, and decide if they’re guilty or innocent. The Kapita and his “cabinet” are elected through vote by all of the prisoners. Each cell has a smaller government and the Kapita is called in to settle disputes only when the government of the cell can’t reach a solution. Each time the metal door closes behind Urbain and me, we are no longer in Congo, as J.P. explained. All prisoners are told that within the brick walls, Congo doesn’t exist and they are now living in Zaire.
          Urbain and I are greeted inside by a large, light-skinned woman with red cheeks, indicating that at some point she used the popular skin lightening paste that burns the skin. She leads us to the right side of the prison, into a high ceiling room with several mattresses on the floor. She’s the President of the women’s cell. Inside there are several men crouched over a small coal burning stove. The air is filled with smoke. A tall, slender woman is smoking a joint but she quickly hides it when she sees me. The President, Esther, shooes most of the men out of the room.
    -She’s pregnant, Esther says immediately and points to a woman sitting on one of the mattresses.
          There are four women sitting or lying on the beds.
    -It was rape, says the pregnant woman.
    -Inside prison or outside? Urbain asks.
    -Outside, she says.
    -And she’s sick, Esther says and points to a lump of blankets.
          The blankets move and a young woman pops out her head.
    -What is she sick with? I ask.
          Several people died last week from cholera.
    -A head ache, says the young woman.
    -Is rape a problem in the prison? I ask. Do the men ever force you to have sexual relations with them?
    -No, says the tall slender woman. Our problems are medication. There are many microbes and insects that bite, eating, finding soap to wash.
    -When prisoners are sick they aren’t even taken to the hospital, says a man I hadn’t noticed before.
          The man’s clothes are clean and he’s wearing a rosary around his neck.
    -Those who kill or steal, they leave the prison, continues the slender woman. But those who did nothing stay, like this Maman. She’s been here for five years.
          Slender points to Esther who nods her head.
    -There was a Belgian who lived in Beni, he worked at the airport, Slender continues. There was a day when they said, the Belgian is dead and they said she did it. Her telephone number was saved in his phone, so they said she killed him.
          The little two or three year old with round eyes who previously popped up next to the sleeping Shrek, patters into the room.
    -Does she live here? I ask.
    -Yes, says Slender. Her mother is in here.
    -Do the prisoners bother her?
    -No, they don’t touch her and they don’t touch us.
    -I was told that a fourteen year old girl was kept here overnight and raped, I respond.
    -No, Slender responds waving her hand in the air as if to clear the smoke of a lie. That girl came and they were all drinking. She started drinking, maybe she couldn’t hold her liquor. She was drunk and they closed the door at 5 p.m. She slept in this room with us and in the morning her family came and she left. We lock the door to our cell at 4 p.m.
    -She went to the hospital for treatment, I say. She says she was raped.
    -No. I’m 23 years old today. If a man approaches me and we have sex and if he doesn’t give me some money I’ll go to the police and say he raped me. I’m a grown woman I won’t let a man rape me. To do that you must bring four or ten. There are 20 year old boys in here and they say he raped a 40 year old woman.
           The little girl, Lauren, sits down on a bed next to a man who’s ironing clothes. She sits quietly with a plate of steaming eggs on her lap and calmly begins eating. The door to the cell bangs open and a small, light-skinned woman stumbles in. She picks up a huge wooden spoon and starts yelling sloppily.
    -That’s Lauren’s mother, Slender says chuckling. She’s drunk.
          Lauren’s mother wields the spoon like a weapon and tries to stumble back into the main living space but several men block her and guide her into what looks like another small cell. She fights them but they don’t use violence and are clearly trying to calm her down. The man with the rosary leaves our group and squeezes past the quarreling clump by the door.
    -Who was he? I ask Slender.
    -He’s a prisoner! She exclaims.
    -Oh, I thought he was a priest.
    -He is, she says and bursts out laughing.
    -Why is he in here?
    -Rape! She yells and laughs harder. Always rape.
          I turn back towards the ruckus by the door at the sound of crying. Little Lauren is standing by her swaying mother with tears streaming down from her little round eyes. Slender walks over, picks her up and walks back to us. Lauren stops crying but sniffles and wipes her nose on a chubby little arm. The smoke from the mini-stove turns sharp and bites my throat. I try to ask a question but can’t stop coughing. Nobody else seems bothered by the smoke.
    -I was married with five kids, says the woman with the headache. My husband hung himself from the ceiling and they said, since you were there, you killed him.
    -Were you in the house? I barely choke out.
    -Yes, I was in the house and he went outside. Then we found him hanging near the house. I’ve been here for two years!
          I nod at her and try to rein in the fit of coughing.
    -They want you outside, says the priest reappearing in our group. They say you can show the films today.
          I graciously move towards the door of the cell. Outside in the crowded outdoor space the coughing immediately subsides. Urbain and I knock on the metal door and Eliza immediately opens it. Outside, there are several people dressed in black robes with white bibs setting up a table next to one of the barred windows. The Congolese judicial system at work.

In the Distance

2011-11-11T06:04:00.000-08:00

          When I walk into the COPERMA office, the team is inspecting bracelets hand-made by the survivors in Kavingu and discussing the elections. There are hundreds of people running for delegate. I don’t know how anyone keeps them straight or decides on whom to vote for. Almost every day in Butembo there is a different colored van blasting music that could make you deaf. One of the delegates rallied people to vote for him by placing a scantily clad woman on top of a truck and having her dance for an hour or so. Everyone seems to avoid the topic of President. Congo isn’t like Rwanda, where people are allegedly imprisoned and even killed for speaking out against Kagame’s regime, but I can still feel that the topic is delicate. I pick up a pile of bracelets and start measuring them around my wrist and checking the buttons.
    -So, are you going to vote for Kabila? I ask the general room.
          Everyone pauses for a second, seeming to size up everyone else in the room, then they fill the room with chatter once again.
    -Yes! Exclaims Hangie. Of course I’m going to vote for Kabila.
    -Really? I ask in surprise. Why?
    -Because we have peace now. Amy, before, you can’t understand how bad the wars were. Now we have peace.
    -But you’re entire job involves helping IDPs, survivors of sexual violence, and children orphaned by the war. That’s not exactly peace.
    -It’s much better than it was before! All those times I would spend days under my bed because of the shooting. Now you don’t hear any bullets.
    -But there was shooting almost every night last year. It’s only been calm for the past eight months or so, probably because the governmental army is trying to pretend they’re legitimate.
    -Hangie doesn’t know what he’s saying, Urbain says from behind me. I’m not voting for Kabila.
    -Neither am I, asserts Coco, one of the new members to the team.
          The COPERMA office has a fairly high turn-over rate in terms of female employees. Laurentine was the third employee to leave because of marriage and a husband who wanted her at home popping out babies. Coco and Jose are the new females who took Laurentine’s place. Both Coco and Jose are very beautiful. Coco is young and petite and always wearing exquisite pagne, while Jose is a little older with a wide smile and an obviously high intelligence.
          I like Coco and Jose, partly because they’re not intimidated by me. Even though I worked with Laurentine for several months and have worked with Maman Helen for over a year, both of them always giggled at me and watched me from afar as if I was going to sprout another head at any minute and start speaking in tongues. Coco and Jose treat me like I’m one of them and it’s refreshing; they give me attitude when they disagree with me and it couldn’t make me happier. It’s exhausting to constantly feel like an alien.
          Despite spending lots of time with Congolese women and having many Congolese “friends,” I don’t have any close female friends. While men are able to socialize in the evenings, most women are working constantly: in the fields or market during the day, then taking care of their children at night. Only sex workers are really able to socialize. On the last night of my trip to Goma I went out dancing with the Queen Bee of the sex workers in Goma. She looks like Whitney Houston pre-crack. If I were a man who paid women for sex, I would marry Mamisa in a second. “Life is nice,” she says every thirty minutes or so in a thick Congolese accent. “And then it’s shit. So let’s dance!”
    -Why aren’t you voting for Kabila? I ask Coco as she picks up another bundle of bracelets.
    -Because we need a change. He doesn’t look out for the Congolese people, takes care of Rwanda and himself.
    -He’s paving the roads, Hangie exclaims. And he’s using his own money to do that.
    -Hangie, I say, are you serious? He only started paving the roads a few months ago and they’ll probably stop construction after the election is over. The roads have been partially paved in Kinshasa since Mobutu.
    -And he’s not using his own money, Coco adds indignantly. How many teachers do you know who don’t receive their salaries promised by the government? Parents pay the school fees and the fees are sent to Kinshasa, then the teachers don’t even get paid.
    -He’s probably using that money for the roads, I say smiling at Coco. That and a contract with China.
    -You will all vote for Kabila, Hangie says ignoring our points.
    -You can vote for Kabila, I say. Everyone can vote for whomever they choose.
          Hangie starts muttering to himself. I want to say that if I were Congolese I wouldn’t vote for Kabila, but at this point I’m not sure. If he doesn’t win, there is a definite chance for another full scale civil war. Congo needs change in order to have progress but with the current infrastructure and international tug of war maybe now isn’t the time. I finish inspecting the last bundle of bracelets and sit down next to Jose. With the bracelets finished, Urbain and Coco move into another room to work on something else, leaving Hange, Jose and me alone in the front office.
    -I have a question for you Maman Jose, I say.
          Hangie perks up. He leans forward with a grin on his face waiting for another chance to disagree with me.
    -You’re from Bukavu right? I ask.
          She nods slowly and waits for more.
    -Since you’re not of the Nande tribe, I was wondering if you’ve had any problems with people ostracizing you or treating you differently because of tribalism.
          Jose looks nervously at Hangie, who is Nande, but he loves a good argument so he tells her he’s interested as well.
    -Yes, absolutely, she says finally. When we first moved here the people at the airport caused us so many problems and wouldn’t let us register in Butembo. They made jokes about my husband and I not being Nande and it took us months to get registered even though our paperwork was in order. And then in the community, it was so hard to find a neighbor who would welcome us. Everyone stayed away from us and when my children tried to play with Nande children, my kids would come home crying because the Nande kids refused to play with them. They would say, ‘you can’t play with us, you’re Tutsis.’
    -You are Tutsi, Hangie interjects playfully, but with a tinge of animosity.
          Jose and I both glare at him.
    -I’m not Tutsi but that doesn’t matter, Jose responds squinting at him. I told my children, it doesn’t matter if you’re Tutsi or Nande or Kinnois or Kikongo. As the bible says, God made us all in his image and it doesn’t matter what tribe you are from we are all the same as children of God.
    -Well said! I say and raise a fist in the air.
          Hangie starts to say something but my patience for his purely provocative input is dwindling and I keep looking at Jose, clearly cutting him out of the conversation.
    -The thing about it is, Jose continues, is that children that age do not come up with those ideas on their own. Those words come from the mouths of their parents. I studied psychology and I realized that I would have to go out and show my neighbors that I wasn’t a bad person, not an animal. Little by little I began to greet them and talk to them and slowly they warmed up to me. But it is still every day that people insult me or my children.
    -That’s because Nande people are very proud and very good people, Hangie says finally getting a word in. We aren’t thieves or murderers or rapists and if you are an outsider we don’t know if you will be one of those things.
    -Last time I was at the prison it looked pretty full to me, I say.
          Hangie glowers at me.
    -I ask, I continue, because when I was in Goma I met my first ex-CNDP officer in the governmental army. He was Congolese Tutsi and when I told him that I lived in Butembo he sneered at me and started mocking the Nande people. It was the most intense tribal based hatred I’ve ever seen.
         Anton, the CNDP officer, perfectly lived up to the reputation that former CNDP elements are haughty, disrespectful, and think they rule the world. Mamisa warned me about the man but before we could move away he walked up to us, placed his hand on my chest and moved it down so quickly he was groping my derrier before I could forcefully step away. I’ve now been groped in Congo by a waiter, a prostitute, a priest, and an officer in the army. Due to Anton’s power and impunity in Congo, Mamisa and I both had to sit and chat with him at his invitation, in order for us to remain safe. He seethed with animosity towards all Congolese and bossed Mamisa around like she was a dog. I intervened when I could but I also had to ward off his wandering hands without pissing him off. When he smiled there was no crescent moon shape, just an oval of teeth.
    -It’s not good, Jose adds in the office. Why do we all think we can judge each other based on little differences? God is the only one with the power to judge when we die.
    -We should judge each other! Hangie exclaims. It’s not only God who can judge.
    -Hangie, I say shaking my head, I swear we’ve had an argument about this before when I was not on the side of God and you were arguing exactly the opposite of what you’re saying now. You never tell your honest opinion you just take the most absurd side.
          Jose laughs and gives me a high-five. Hangie sits down and crosses his arms in a pout.
    -It’s true you can judge me. But I’m not going to listen! I say with over-exaggerated attitude as I swagger out. Jose laughs and cheers for me.
    -Bye! I say with a wave.
          On my way home I run into Dusan walking down the street. The main road is blocked by a crowd of people waiting to see another candidate running for delegate.
    -Hey! Where are you going? I ask, after I pull my motorcycle over.
    -I’m needing to buying plane ticket for someone he says. Then I am going to Beni.
    -Paperwork? I ask.
    -No, he says. My friend was killed last night. He was FaRDC and they killed him because he is being to capable and competent and he is not Tutsi. He even studied in United States, and not Tutsi like this is threat in army.
    -I met him briefly the first time we went to Goma, I say. I’m so sorry.
    -This is how it is going, he adds staring straight ahead. They will either to say he was killed by ADF-NALU (Ugandan rebel) supporters, or to say he was supporter of ADF-NALU and traitor.
          We’re both silent for a moment.
    -This is beautiful, he says in a monotone voice. This is life. This is what is happening always. Beautiful.
          He doesn’t look at me, he just stares ahead into the distance.

Recent NYT Post

2011-11-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

Please check out my most recent post, Notes from a Young American: A Rebel Speaks, for Nicholas D. Kristof of The New York Times.

Forgiveness

2011-11-01T11:40:00.001-07:00

          As is his style, Dusan appears with no warning, practically popping up in a bowl of fufu I’m about to eat. We must to go to Goma, please, really baby I need favor. I would not be asking if I am not really needing you, I know you have job to do in Butembo but really, please baby.
    -Fine.
          I arrange for Urbain to keep looking for a projector in Butembo and I give Baloti $100.00 donated to buy condoms for the Association of Women Living Alone, and we head to Goma. I wonder, during the bumpy ride, if there is a Guinness World Record for the longest amount of time a person can talk in a stream. I count the seconds that Dusan does not speak and add them up when we reach Goma. The grand total at the end of the nine and a half hour trip is: 12 seconds. He really could acquire a world record.
    -Everything is hypocrisy, he says during one of the few times I’m actually listening. You must to have hope that you’ll find otherwise but know that you won’t finding it.
    -Are you a hypocrite? I ask, considering the ways in which I’m one.
    -Is that yes or no question?
    -I guess I should rephrase, how are you a hypocrite?
         He ignores the revision of my question but answers the general thought just the same.
    -I think I’m less of hypocrite than is normal. But everyone is hypocrite. If you are lamb in pack of wolves, you won’t be lamb. You can’t be lamb. You must to survive. To survive is first. About these elections.
          As usual, he changes the subject with no transition between thoughts.
    -I’m needing you to always have your passport ready. And if there are some problems, you will nto have choice, I will pick you in Lubero. You will be in Lubero and you will leave.
    -Don’t worry, I respond, I’m definitely going to take your advice and leave if you think I need to.
          With the elections only a month away, the country is finally starting to buzz. Governmental forces have more than tripled in number and the ratty uniforms have been switched with crisp new camouflage. In the cities, people are starting to discuss the various people running for “delegate,” though nobody seems to need to discuss Kabila.
    -I’m thinking, continues Dusan, I am almost sure in this.   That there will be no problems but if there are problems.
    -I need to be prepared, I mutter and he nods.
    -Yes this is it. You know, it’s like rain. You’ve been in Congo long enough now to seeing that when the rain will come you can smell it in the air. Even if you do not going outside, you can smell this rain. There is something not able to touching in the air but you can feeling this.
    -Yes, I add, realizing that now that the rainy season has started again, I have been noticing myself reading the signs. The wind often blows and the skies are often dark, but there is a subtle threshold and a certain something else that lets you know that rain will actually fall, not just threaten.
    -This is how I’m feeling about elections. I do not think there will being problems but there is something in the air. And situation is not good in Rwanda right now, I am not happy about this.
    -What do you mean?
    - America shifted support to Uganda, France is miniscule in terms of support even though they are still with Rwanda. Kagame knows this is problem. Rwanda is not a good investment. It is now 17 years since genocide, and when Rwanda loses int’l support they have nothing. They have no sustainable economy. This is very bad. There will be civil war but not yet. Sarkozy went to speak with Kabila’s government in Kinshasa to ask them to give Rwanda open access to some of minerals Congo has here. And he survived, amazing. If someone is coming to Croatia and asking us to give our resources for free to neighboring country he will be killed, immediately.
    -When do you think there will be war in Rwanda?
    -I do not knowing but there will to be more problems still. You hear this that Obama has sent 100 American soldiers to Uganda.
    -Yeah, to search for the FDLR and LRA except those groups are both in Congo not Uganda.
          Dusan chuckles at this blatant deception.
    -They are, I am telling you, he says. Listening to everything is happening in Eastern Congo. Right now they are listening to this what we’re speaking, I am telling you. They are going to wait to see how things are going to happen with elections. If things do not going their way they will to cause instability.
    -What will happen with CNDP (Congolese Tutsi forces who are integrated into the governmental army but are thought to be the connection between Kabila and Kagame)? Will Kabila be kicked out?
    -I don’t know. America is to decide. They will listen and see what is to happen and they will to decide with not anybody knowing, what is to happen in entire region.
          Normally, I’d shake my head at this as a conspiracy theory in which the United States is always the devil. But he’s almost definitely correct. It’s well known that when Lumumba became the first Prime Minister the CIA ousted him to install Mobutu. By this time, probably, the U.S. will be a bit more practiced at hiding their involvement. We pass through a village that’s covered in FaRDC—governmental soldiers.
    -They’re really rolling out the troops, I say.
    -Yes, they are needing to protecting the voting booths. They do not wanting the rebels to attacking the voting booths, this is sure. But how many people they will forcing to vote for Kabila, we’ll see.
          Dusan veers the conversation again to talk about politics and homosexuality in Croatia, so I tune him out again. We arrive in Goma at night; Mount Nyragongo sits against a starry sky like a black cauldron, its top simmering with fire like the country it is rooted to.
         Dusan introduces me to a friend of his, Lia, from Serbia and we all go out for dinner. After dinner Lia comes back to our house to smoke some more cigarettes and talk politics and history with Dusan. I guess the topic changes to something I might be interested in and the men switch into rusty English.
    -My friend, says Lia standing against the porch railing, used to say that he would go around and ask every woman in place to fuck him. He would get 49 slaps but always he found one woman to go home with.
    -That’s ridiculous, I say cringing. I don’t get how anyone can be so non-selective.
    -It’s just for a fuck, Lia says laughing.
    -You can to be horny! Dusan adds happily.
          Lia laughs.
    - I’m not proud of this, Lia says suddenly. But when I was kid I was drunk I was in car situation and she didn’t want to but she couldn’t get out of car.
    -Wait, I say quickly, but you stopped right you didn’t continue?
    -I was young and drunk kid. She cried, he says chuckling. I stare at him not sure what to do, how to move or what to think, so I just kind of stare.
          My world fades away and only Lia and I are left in it. Dusan sees the potential fury building up inside of me and he changes the subject, but I just sit there staring at Lia. This man who I sat next to at dinner. Dusan sees I’m stuck so he returns to the general subject.
    -I do not to understand how anyone can to have erection when woman says no, he says in a non-accusatory way. If woman says no, is no. I do not understand brain that can to have erection when woman says no.
          My whole body is screaming fuck this country! But it’s not this country. This happened in Serbia, in an everyday, non-conflict zone situation. It was probably a date that the girl was enjoying until that moment in a car. I wonder how her life changed. I don’t know what to do. Lia has a wife and kids and is one of the few men here who doesn’t bounce around cheating on his wife. He’s respectful and kind and I can’t mesh the images together. It’s like oil and water. Two years ago I would have responded to this with indignation. But now indignation feels useless. What does it accomplish? How can I tell this man who’s 10 years older than me, that’s horrible. He already seems to know it but still… he should be in jail. My brain is a train wreck of confusion so I excuse myself from the men and go to bed.
          Dusan and I spend the next day at the MONUSCO offices, Arranging The Things. When we’re about to leave, a tall dark man who speaks perfect English wanders into the office where I’m sitting. He has an IPad and doesn’t know how to connect to the internet, so I agree to help him.
    -What do you do here? I ask, after we’ve left his office and are standing outside in the cold night air.
    -I’m in charge of corrections in North and South Kivu. Prisons.
    -Wonderful! I respond. I just started working in the prison in Butembo.
    -Good, he says. They need all the help they can get. I feel so bad, I’m trying to help those women in the prison but if we lock their section of the prison all the time they will never have access to sunlight or open air.
    -Yes, I’ve only been a few times but I can already see it’s a horribly complicated situation.
    -It is. You know, there was a fourteen year old girl who was raped just last week.
    -Was she a prisoner?
    -No, she was visiting someone but she was kidnapped and hidden. From Thursday until Monday she was hidden and kept as a sexual slave.
          I shiver, despite the sweater I’m wearing.
    -Is she okay?
    -I don’t know. I don’t know how they could have hidden her for that long.
          Was I there when she was? The thought brings ants to my skin.
    -Help them as much as you can, he says.
          We shake hands and he walks back to his office. Dusan and I leave to meet up with Lia for dinner. I still don’t know how to react or feel. We sit at a table facing the lake and both of the men immediately commence chain-smoking. I sit silently, not sure how to act. As always, the conversation turns to prostitution.
    -How long did you make it before giving in to sleep with these local girls? Lia asks.
    -Six months, says Dusan.
    -Because I am here only four months, responds Lia, and I am already fucked up in the head. This is why I’m avoiding alcohol because I don’t want to sleep with these local girls.
          I can’t take it anymore, I know I need to say something or leave Congo because I won’t deserve to be here.
    -Even if you were drunk would you ever force a woman like you did in the car? I ask.
    -No! Never, Lia says emphatically. That wasn’t because I was drunk it was because I was young and stupid. I had nothing in my head. Thinking only with the dick. Now, I know who I am and what is okay to do to another human and what is not. I am sorry about that hundreds of times over. It’s not human. You know, my mother says that you can see a girl’s tears written in night sky.
          I nod, not knowing what else to do. His indignation against himself is the only thing that could allow me to keep speaking with him, though I still feel strange about it. What I’m trying to do in the prisons and with soldiers is to help educate them so they can move forward from a harmful mentality; to find humanity in people who seem to be monsters and hope that their humanity provides a road to progress. Maybe Lia is an example of that hope or that road. But now that the situation of honesty, confession, has presented itself I don’t know the difference between justice and justified forgiveness and acceptance. Everything feels grey.
          When I was a child, I found out that someone I cared about and respected had sexually molested someone else I care about. I dismissed the man from my life but my pre-established love and respect for him fiercely battled the hatred that arose. Forgiveness and justice are undefined and can’t be pinned down. All I know is that Lia’s mother was probably right about tears, and there are a lot of stars in the sky.

Behind the Bars

2011-10-20T06:41:00.000-07:00

PLEASE BE ADVISED: THE FOLLOWING POST CONTAINS POTENTIALLY DISTURBING CONTENT RELATING TO SEXUAL VIOLENCE.

          I avoid the prison for several days. There are times I avoid going to the villages for identification or follow-up on the rotational credit programs; sometimes, my heart feels deflated and I subconsciously find other work to do, in a rather weak attempt to let the little red organ recover. The prison, in my mind, is somehow more terrifying than any of the villages I’ve travelled to, regardless of which military group was present. My aversion to returning is so strong, there’s nothing subconscious about my finding menial jobs and errands to fill a few days.
          When Urbain and I finally do make it back, Maman Vee is there. Maman Vee is the woman in charge of the prison; numero uno, the head honcho, and she perfectly owns and looks the part. Since the prisoners took over all of the offices inside, Maman Vee is sitting on a wooden chair in front of the prison, looking down at the city of Butembo stretched out before her like a wrinkled quilt.
          Maman Vee scares me more than the prisoners do and although she’s the representative of “order” in the strange little box of chaos, she adds to the ethereal, nightmarish quality of the prison. Maman Vee is the largest woman I’ve ever seen; Ms. Trunchbull in African pagne. Her chest juts out from under her chin like a shelf, her pagne falling off of the cliff at the end of the shelf dropping straight down giving her a boxed appearance. She brings to mind a snake that has swallowed a pig, except this is a woman who has swallowed a refrigerator.
          Urbain and I climb the mud hill to her open-air office. The sky is already dark, garnering its fury for the now daily rains.
    -Bonjour Maman, I say and reach out my hand.
          Maman Vee shakes my hand but gives me a look that makes me uncertain of myself. She has kindness in her face, but the authority screaming from her entire person makes me want to kneel down in front of her and beg for forgiveness. I feel like she’s either going to kill me, eat me, or pull me to her bosoms. I don’t know which of those things would be worse, and I look to the prison window, now preferring to be speaking to the caged men. The men who I was too frightened to even touch are still at the bars, and there’s a little toddler of a girl with colorfully braided hair climbing across the bars.
    -You can’t go inside today, says Maman Vee. There was shooting inside the prison yesterday and you didn’t bring food this time. You have to bring food to enter.
    -Inside the prison there was shooting? I ask, feeling even more nervous about entering. Between the prisoners?
    -No, the guards went in and the prisoners tried to fight them so the guards shot.
    -Okay well, that’s better than prisoners having guns. We’ll bring food next time, I say slightly relieved by the refusal. When did the prisoners take over the offices?
    -February, she responds curtly.
    -Wow, I had the impression it was more recent than that.
          Maman Vee doesn’t respond, she just smirks a little and keeps staring out at the city.
    -Can we talk to Urbain’s friend again from the outside, I ask.
    -No, since there was shooting yesterday you have to leave.
          I nod quickly and immediately start moving back down the hill towards the motorcycles. If this woman told me to punch myself in the face I’d probably do it.
          Again, I procrastinate the prison for a couple days, but when a donation arrives for the prisoners I can’t put it off any longer. Potatoes, beans, and porridge powder. Urbain suggests we bring salt and I have to remind him that although people should have spices for their food, salt isn’t something you bring a person who’s starving.
          We go back to the prison in the afternoon, since Maman Vee only works there in the mornings. This time we’re greeted by a young woman named Eliza, who eagerly escorts us to the main metal door. I had planned to ask armed guards to enter with us, but she opens the door and ushers us inside so quickly, I don’t even have time to remember that I wanted guards. Inside, the entry way that I thought was the one section the prisoners hadn’t infiltrated, was simply another little room. We aren’t separated from anyone and men are already peeking from one infiltrated office into the entryway to look at me. I turn around to find the food, and see The Vesuvian eagerly helping two other prisoners carry the heavy sacks up the hill.
          The Vesuvian’s skin still looks sickly, but in the sunlight he looks less frightening and he's laughing with the other men as they carry the food towards the door. His laughter is genuine and full.
    -The prisoners are outside the prison, I say pointing to them in astonishment and ignorance.
          Eliza is holding the door open for them, and she nods in the direction of an AK-47 trained on the men.
          The Vesuvian and his friends move past me into the prison without a second glance. Urbain and I follow them into the office to the left. The men I was afraid to even shake hands with are now all around me and the door to the outside is closed. The room is dark and one of the larger and louder prisoners moves towards us. His face is round, with full lips, and his skin is particularly pasty. He’s wearing a grey shirt that says Love written repeatedly in a circle. The o’s of the word are hearts.
    -You promised me cigarettes, he says with a voice that sounds like he’s been screaming for a century.
    -I know, I know, I say.
          I reach into my pocket and hand him a cigarette.
    -Only one? Come on I’ll smoke this in five minutes, give me more.
    -Later, I say.
          The man takes my hand and starts leading me forward. The office opens into the open air living space. It’s only about ten by twenty meters and is filled with human forms. In the center of the rectangle there are several groups of people huddling around little fires, and someone, somewhere is pounding on a bucket like a drum. We walk along the outside of the rectangle, squeezing through people. Some of the prisoners look normal, though most have the nightmarish look of illness that terrified me before. We pass two young men who are gripping each other’s necks, with their foreheads pressed together as if they’re lovers who are parting. But there is an obvious violence in their gazes and the grasp and I skip forward a few paces to get away from them.
          Most people are just standing around, observing the fray. On the outside of the rectangle is an outer rectangle of large rooms. Each room is filled with little wooden cots and idle humans. Gabriel, the man wearing “Love” and leading me forward by the hand, stops at a smaller room.
    -This is the office where the President of the prison lives, he says.
          He urges me forward into the dark room and then he disappears.
    -I’m the secretary of the prison, says a little man in a pressed suit. This is the president.
          He motions towards a low bed, where there is a large man with bulbous features and sickly skin snoring loudly.
    -You’re prisoners or you work here? I ask quietly, wanting desperately for the snoring man to remain asleep.
    -Prisoners, but you need to have a hierarchy in the prison, he says. Here take a seat.
          He motions to a small bench against the back wall, that’s directly next to the sleeping giant. I walk forward nervously and sit down. I’m only about two feet away from the man’s face. He looks a lot like Shrek. From my new vantage point, I can see behind the curtain that’s hanging next to the bed, covering most of Shrek’s body. There’s a woman lying next to Shrek in the bed.   The room is small and cluttered. The Secretary sits on another bed on our right. There’s a television across from the bench where Urbain and I are sitting.
    -Wow, you have a television, does it work? I ask.
    -Yes, when there’s gas in the generator.
          Three men immediately file into the dark room and stand in front of us.
    -There are 351 prisoners in here, 8 women and 343 men, says the Secretary. Around 80 percent of the prisoners are here for rape.
    -What are the women here for?
    -Mostly murder, he says.
          The sound of a makeshift drum is still pounding from the courtyard, but I’m paying close attention to the rise and fall of snores next to me. I do not want the most powerful prisoner to wake suddenly to the sight of a random muzungu sitting in his room.
    -Here, these men are here for rape, says the Secretary.
          Either Urbain already explained our reason for visiting, or word gets around fast. I look up at the three men. The tallest and skinniest immediately leans forward and begins speaking. He speaks French so Urbain doesn’t need to translate.
    -I’m a nurse, he says in a pleading voice. I’m a gynecological nurse and there was a girl who heard through HEAL Africa that if a man touches you in your openings that it is rape. She was pregnant and I needed to check the baby. I touched her in her orifice with my fingers. I gave her medicine and explained how to take it and she left. But then she heard this from HEAL Africa and she said that I raped her.
    -Doesn’t a doctor normally do that type of thing? I ask.
    -The doctor wasn’t there and she needed to be checked.
          I shrug my shoulders and thank the man for telling me his story. I realize suddenly, how ridiculous this is. These men aren’t going to tell me truths. I’m not a judge or lawyer, so aside from bringing the education and sensitization materials I’ve arranged, there’s really no reason for me to hear these one-sided histories. They do seem eager to tell, though.
          The tall, skinny, nurse thanks me and walks back into the main area. The next man is also skinny, with a short beard and mustache. He speaks very calmly. He’s in for rape. He had a conversation with the woman, she was 16 years old. He’s 25 years old. He was accused because of the age difference.
         -Do you think 16 is too young for a girl to consent to sex? I ask.
    -No, it’s not too young. She was in agreement but we weren’t married. That’s why the Maman was angry.
          I nod my head and the young man smiles and then leaves the room. The next man is much older than most of the men and he looks extremely tattered. His teeth are stained and many are missing. The short mustache and beard circling his mouth looks unruly and wiry.
    -How old are you? I ask, and he only speaks Kinande so Urbain picks up the translation.
    -He’s 62, he’s been in prison for 4 years and two months.
    -Wow, that’s a long time. What was occasion that put him in prison?
    -The girl was eight years old when he slept with her.
          I stop writing and look up at the man. An image of him anywhere near a child flits into my mind and I have to carefully restrain any reaction. I don’t want the man to think I am judging him, but he can definitely tell that I’m paying much closer attention to his story than I did the others. I want to pick his brain but I can barely formulate a question that makes sense. What do you ask in this kind of a situation? How do you get insight into this kind of a man and mentality?
    -Did he realize that the girl did not want to have relations with him?
          I wonder if he’ll try to tell me an 8 year old consented to sexual relations with a then 58 year old man.
    -He says there was a conflict of land, Urbain translates as the man begins to rattle of a fast-paced story. The man had a conflict with another family and so the Maman said he raped the daughter. There was a boy who came to separate them when he was fighting with the Maman. He never knew the girl, he didn’t even know her name. He never heard the complaint against him, so he doesn’t know if it was the field or because of the girl that he is here.
    -Wait, now he’s saying he didn’t do it? I ask. But he already said that he did.
          Urbain nods at me and shrugs his shoulders.
    -Now he’s changing the story, he responds.
    -You’re not going to find men who will admit that they did the crime, says the Secretary from the bed.
    -Yes, I figured that much, I respond.
         The sleeping Shrek stops snoring and reaches up to scratch his face. My heart stops with the cessation of snoring. I glance at the sleeping man, getting ready to grab Urbain and run. Suddenly a tiny little head pops up on the other side of Shrek. A little three year old girl, with bright eyes, stands up next to Shrek.
    -Papa! Muzungu! She chirps and points at me.
          I smile at her and wave enthusiastically, hoping to mesmerize her enough to stop her from trying to wake up her father.
    -Do children live here? I ask the Secretary.
    -Only one, he’s three years old.
   -What about this little girl? I ask as the girl climbs over her father and patters over to the Secretary to inspect me more closely.
    -She’s visiting with her Mother, he says.
          The hanging curtain moves again and a slender woman leans out. I greet her but she immediately busies herself with slipping a tattered old Disney Princesses nightgown over the naked little girl. Through all of this, Shrek continues sleeping. Another man walks into the dark room and squats in front of me, and I realize the older man has already left. The new guy looks very young, and Urbain immediately goes back to questioning.
    -He’s 20 years old and he’s been here for two years, Urbain translates. He had a woman, he didn’t know her age. They said he raped her because he gave a gift to the girl. Her father saw this and said, ‘you raped my daughter.’ When the father found out he tried to kill this monsieur with a machete.
          The boy is wearing acid wash jeans and a red-white-blue track jacket. He pulls the right sleeve of the jacket up to his elbow, revealing a thick, dark scar.
    -He protected his head from the machete blow with his arm.
          The boy and Urbain both lift their arms to reenact deflecting the swing of a machete.
    -Did the girl accuse him of raping her? Or only her father? I ask.
    -She agreed to have relations with him, but they forced her to say that she was raped. She agreed before they had sex but then when the papa came, she changed and said he raped her.
    -Did you know her before this? Were you friends?
    -Yes, they would walk through the market together, often.
    -That’s not a very nice thing for your friend to have done, I say.
          I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. It’s definitely possible that the girl was embarrassed or cruel and she lied about it, but there are a lot of weak points in his scenario.
    -If I bring a film that gives information against sexual violence, do you think the men will be interested in watching it? I ask the Secretary.
          The boy stands up and wanders out with a wave.
    -Yes, definitely. And if you can bring medicine sometimes, that can help. People die in here.
   -I’ll see what I can do. But you said there is electricity sometimes, so I can plug in the projector?
    -Yes, you need to bring gas for the generator and then we can have electricity.
          I stand up and hand the pack of cigarettes to the Secretary.
    -Please hand those out to people, don’t keep them for yourself, I say.
    -I have already told people I will share the cigarettes with them, he responds with a smile.
         Urbain and I walk back through the courtyard. One of the fires is now the size of a large trashcan, but people only seem to be using it to cook. When we get back to the front door we bang on the metal and Eliza immediately opens the door. The sunlight is refreshing and I feel like by walking through the entrance door, I’ve shed a heavy jacket and I’m glad to be rid of it.
    -Do prisoners ever escape? I ask Eliza.
    -Yes, they climb the walls and try to run but usually we catch them.
    -Do the guards shoot them?
    -Yes, they shot someone last Thursday, just down there.
          She points to the general direction of where our motorcycles are waiting.
    -Muzungu! Gabriel croaks through the bars.
          I walk over to him, but now that there are bars between us, I stay out of arm’s reach.
    -Please help me pay the fees to get out of the prison, he pleads. I’m from Ituri region and so my family is too far to help me.
    -I can’t Gabriel, that’s not the type of aid I provide.
    -Why are you in prison? I ask.
    -I’m a chauffeur and I had a very bad accident. Four dead.
    -Were you drunk?
    -No it was a technical problem with the car.
          I stay far away from his outstretched arms and start moving back towards Urbain.
    -Why are you staying so far away? You’re afraid of me now? He asks.
    -No, I’m just having another conversation, I say. I’m sorry I can’t help you.
          But it’s not true; Gabriel’s right. This man, who was just holding my hand, has somehow turned back into frightening uncertainty. The prison was as I’d figured it would be, as almost everything is in Congo; not that scary once you get through the door. When something is heard but not seen, or seen but not touched, it’s easy to forget the complexities of humanity. A killer becomes simply evil in the mind of society, and society forgets that a killer has fears and weaknesses, hopes, regrets, and kindness. It’s weird how a cage can turn a man into an animal. People are good or bad based on their actions, but I wonder if an evil action on the tablet of a man’s life is something that can’t be erased?
          I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I’m not the one with the power to judge.

An Eye for An Eye

2011-10-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

          Urbain and I bring 25kg-grain, 25 kg-beans, and 70 kg-potatoes to the prison. It’s not just a nice gesture to get permission; every Congolese person I’ve spoken to about the prisons says it’s a sentence to death by starvation. I wanted to bring the food originally, but originally it was mostly for the gesture. It was mostly for the gesture until I saw the girl who was sentenced to 5 years for an alleged and unverifiable abortion. And I guess somewhere on the fringes of my caring, I want to find compassion for the men who perpetrate the horrible crimes I hear about every day. I want to believe in their humanity, because without that, there’s no hope.
          I carry the beans and powder on my motorcycle and Urbain picks the worst road in Butembo. It’s like driving across a solidified brain, covered in slick mud and the moving obstacles of exhilarated children. The prison is perched somewhat ominously on one of the highest hills in Butembo. When we arrive, a small elderly man in an African print button-up introduces himself as Leo, the man in charge for the day. Leo greets us at the bottom of a set of wide stone stairs that lead up to the brick prison. At the top of the stairs is a shelter with several soldiers and police officers lounging around smoking cigarettes. Their shelter is next to a large metal door that gives the only passage into or out of the prison. The metal door leads into a small barred chamber, so the outer door can be locked before an individual actually enters the jail.
          I visited the prison briefly once before. The building is set up in two parallel lines of blocks, with the front line of rooms allotted for guards and offices. The back section, separated by floor to ceiling metal bars, is an open air compound for men and women alike.
    -There was a lot of fighting today, says Leo as Urbain and I untie the heavy sacks of food. It would be too risky for you to enter today.
          I look up the steep incline to the prison. The front offices, that I walked through previously, are now filled with prisoners and speckled with arms reaching through the bars.
    -They infiltrated, Leo adds nonchalantly.
         Urbain begins yelling greetings to one of the men who is reaching through the bars.
    -My friend is there, Urbain says walking towards the stone steps.
    -Your friend? I ask incredulously.
          As I follow him up the uneven steps, Urbain explains that his “friend” and he lived in the same neighborhood as children. At the top of the stairs the prison guards greet us and beg for cigarettes and sodas. We respond respectfully but ignore their requests and move to the barred office-turned-prison window to the left of the metal entry door. It’s the same room I sat in when I first visited the prison. At that time there was a desk, several chairs, and several police officers.   Now the desk and chairs are gone, and there is a tirade of messages etched all over the concrete walls like wallpaper. There was never glass in the windows so the prisoners are able to reach their arms through to gesture or take cigarettes from a diligent wife. Wives are sparse; only two or three women are outside with Urbain and me. I impulsively start to reach forward to shake hands with Urbain’s friend but stop myself.
          Despite the caged energy crackling through the bars, each of the men looks deathly ill. Their skin looks as if someone began to erase the color but gave up the pursuit midway, making them look like real life manifestations of “the undead.” I shiver at the thought that if I rubbed their skin it would come off in my hand. Most of the men have healed scars on their faces and their lips look as if each prisoner has been eating blueberries for days. Their appearance is unsettling, but only the smell truly makes me want to walk away. It’s a smell as thick and heavy as butter; it smells of illness, compacted and curdling in the air. My throat tightens and I have to resist the urge to step away.
    -I have something to explain to you, one of the men says reaching his arm over other prisoners through the bars in my direction. Come closer, why are you standing so far?
          I take a step forward but remain just out of arms reach. I scan the arms to make sure nobody is holding anything that could act as an extension.
    -Come on closer, he says.
          I shake my head and smile at the absurdness of the request. Another man walks up to my beckoner and begins arguing with him in Kinande. The men’s voices sound equally as ill; they’re deflated and the bass has taken on a strange timbre.
          Urbain asks his friend if he wants to explain what happened and the man eagerly nods and moves to the corner of the window. The tallest, most zombie-like and vesuvian man on the other side of the bars shoos other prisoners away. The Vesuvian has several dark scars on his face and his lips are such a deep violet that if he lay down any passerby would think him dead. He seems like a creature from a vivid nightmare. Urbain’s friend, Samuel, is particularly pale; though it’s clear his skin was lighter than most Congolese skin before it took on the diminished pallor of the prison.
     -What are you here for? Urbain asks.
    -Rape, Samuel responds as if he’s listing his favorite food.
    -What was the situation? I ask.
    -I’m 23 years old, he says. I spoke to the girl and at night her family asked the girl, ‘where are you coming from at this hour?’ She said she was with me.
    -Did you force her? Urbain asks.
          Despite the periodic “shooings” of The Vesuvian, the other men quickly return to the window and many listen. Several of the prisoners are wearing over-sized military uniforms. I don’t feel comfortable with the lack of privacy, but Samuel is spilling out his story; or at least, some version of it. Clearly he’s not worried about the other listeners, so I let him continue.
    -No, it was not by force, Samuel says adamantly. She was 15 and her parents found out what my age is and so they arrested me.
    -Did she get pregnant? I ask.
          There must be more to the story. I’ve heard many cases of middle-aged men marrying girls as young as 14.
    -No, says Samuel waving his hands back and forth emphatically.
          I can’t really delve into the boy’s history or cognitions in this setting so I switch to a more general topic.
    -What is life like in the prison?
          I can see past the men into the main living area, though I can only see a small frame of what's going on. The frame is filled with pots and hanging cloth and people moving around as if they are stacked on top of each other. I can’t see ground or sky or any open air. The thought of being caged in that claustrophobic, fetid enclosure makes me shudder again.
    -It’s painful, we’re starving, Samuel says. There are problems with stealing and rape in the jail. There are gangs that formed. The group of rapists, the thieves, and then the different armed groups.
          As Samuel speaks, I notice The Vesuvian nod his head and purse his lips. He jumps out of my nightmare and into real life, as a flicker of sadness and intelligence scintilates briefly in his face. Suddenly the metal entrance to the prison clangs open and a man stumbles out. I feel an electric shock of adrenaline shoot through me as I imagine all of the prisoners flowing out of the prison. The prisoners still inside all begin shouting. Urbain grabs my arm, and we both stumble backwards a few steps, ready to duck or run.
          But little, elderly, Leo is standing there in his red, yellow, and orange button up. Somehow, Leo wrestles the prisoner back inside and manages to close the metal door. He secures the lock before any of the prison guards seem to register what happened. The attempted escaper flies to our window and begins shouting through the bars. His skin is just as reminiscent of death as the rest of them but what I first take to be long scars across his face catch the sunlight and glisten red. Streaks of blood flower down from a large open wound on his forehead.   Urbain translates as the man yells.
    -He says, I am a big bandit in Butembo, even the chiefs of different offices know of me and are scared of me. How is it that my wife brings me food and it’s stolen?
    -Did he get wounded just now trying to escape? I ask not quite able to wrap my mind around the possibility that little Leo could have inflicted it.
    -No, other prisoners hit him to steal the food and so he’s furious.
          Leo walks over to us. He’s almost a foot shorter than I am and he’s trembling.
    -You have a very big job to do, I say shaking my head.
    -Yes, you can see this now.
    -Well, we’ll go and come back tomorrow.
          Leo nods gratefully and walks away. Urbain brought a pack of cigarettes to give to prisoners and I suggest he hand out the entire pack. As soon as the green paper packet of menthols leaves Urbain’s pocket, The Vesuvian reaches forward and says something in Swahili. I have to avoid looking at the man; I feel like he'll infiltrate my dreams if we make eye contact for too long.
    -He says he is the chief of this office so we need to give the cigarettes to him.
          I don’t question the man and I take the cigarettes from Urbain and give the entire pack to The Vesuvian. We promise the other prisoners to bring more cigarettes the next time and walk back to the motorcycles.
    -She’s not even wearing any pockets for me to reach into or ask her for money, yells a police officer as we walk down the stairs. Wear pockets next time!
          Urbain laughs and I make a mental note to wear yoga pants and a t-shirt for every prison visit.
    -That’s a horrifying life, I say to Urbain when we get back to the office.
           He nods and then shakes his head quickly as if to erase the images from his mind.
    -And the smell was like…
          I pause, not knowing how to describe it.
    -Like a butcher shop, he finishes for me.
          The connection makes me gag; Urbain chuckles and pats me on the back. The deathly faces of the prisoners and the odor stay with me for the rest of the day. Even though I didn’t touch anything, I can smell sickness on my body for hours and I shiver every time I think of the jail. I stay with the COPERMA team for a few hours, chatting and trying to pull myself from what feels increasingly like it was a nightmare. Impunity is a devastating aspect of society and helps fuel all violence in Congo. But suddenly I can’t get the Gandhi quote out of my mind: “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.”

Arrested

2011-10-06T10:44:00.000-07:00

Urbain and I go to the procureur’s office at the allotted time. The procurer is sort of like the head, and only, prosecutor (and in many ways judge), in Butembo. He’s in charge of the civilian prisons and his is the permission we need to obtain. Luckily, he and I have chatted several times at a hotel where I often use internet. Unluckily, I often cross the line with him by criticizing the impunity in Congo in over generalized ways. We seem to have still retained a sort of friendship though.
          When Urbain and I arrive, the procureur is not there, so we take a seat on a wooden bench outside of the thatched mud police station next to the procureur’s office. Only a few minutes later, an elderly man with all the markings of a fou—mentally ill person, walks up. Fou technically means crazy, which I originally thought was disrespectful and ignorant. But I’ve come to realize it’s more of a term of excuse and kindness. It’s a way of saying, without knowing details, that a person may act a little strange. And society reacts with forgiveness and patience, rather than ridicule as I’d first expected.
          The man points to me and says something in Swahili. I look to Urbain but he bursts out laughing and it takes a moment before he can translate.
    -He says you were well birthed, Urbain translates still laughing.
    -Asante, I say to the man and bow my head a little.
         The man then launches into a happy litany in Swahili. His face is perfectly crinkled with age and although his smile is missing a few pieces, the crow's feet around his eyes fill in the blanks.
    -He’s explaining to you that in Congo people farm. He thinks that where white people come from there is no farming.
          I smile at the common misconception and the man nods at me and wanders off.
    -Do you have pigs in the States? Urbain asks.
    -Yes, of course we have pigs.
          I love shocking Urbain and I get an idea.
    -We actually have some pigs, I say, that were bred so they got smaller and smaller and smaller until they’re only the size of a cat. They cost about 10,000 dollars.
          Urbain looks at me in disbelief then laughs.
    -Why? He asks.
    -Because really rich people want them as pets. To be kept like cats. Animal friends.
          Urbain doubles over with laughter.
    -What phenomenon is this? He exclaims. Pigs should be kept for meat to eat or to sell to make money for food and living. They pay thousands of dollars for a pig to keep like a cat?
          I nod at him through my laughter.
    -What could one possibly gain from that? He asks.
          A blue clad police officer wakes up from a nap inside the office behind us. He moves as if he received orders in his dreams, and goes to a locked holding cell next to our bench. He opens it and two young boys walk out, both barefoot. Neither are in handcuffs. A heavy, middle-aged woman walks to our bench and sits down.   The old fou notices that both Urbain and I are watching the two boys; he ambles back over to us.
    -He wants to know, Urbain says, what the punishment is in your country for a woman who kills her own baby. This woman is here for that.
          Urbain points into the open mud room behind us at a timid looking young girl.
    -Do you mean after the baby is born she killed it?
    -The woman was pregnant and then she wasn’t anymore. The community accused her and said she had killed the baby. She says she was never pregnant at all.
    -If she were pregnant, how could they know it wasn’t a miscarriage?
    -They can tell at the hospital,Urbain continues. There’s a pill women can take here that immediately ends the pregnancy. Even if the baby has been eight months in the womb.
          This information is all too difficult for me to break down. I can’t imagine such a pill, and even if the girl had aborted the baby, medicine and obstetrics in Congo are so basic I can’t imagine they’d be able to separate miscarriage from abortion. There's definitely a reasonable doubt in her case; several, in fact. It’s a horrifying thought, if a village can call a miscarriage an abortion and put a woman in prison.
          The old man starts rambling again. Three or four police officers move in and out of the mud office, mostly taking turns napping or chatting with the old man. Although he talks constantly, most of what he's rambling about seems to be making sense. AK-47s swing in the air like metal monkeys; the men pay no attention to where the barrels point. Someone sneezes from the mud office and I say my nonsensical translation of “bless you.” Urbain looks at me, as if waiting for me to continue. I remember that there is no blessing or wish of health given after a sneeze in Congo.
    -In the U.S. it’s very important to wish someone good health after they sneeze, I say. If you don’t, it opens up an opportunity in the world for evil spirits to get through.
    -Oh, Urbain says nodding his head.
    -The evil spirits are little men, this big.
          I lean over and hold my palm about 4 inches off the ground.
    -Sorcerer children, he responds knowingly.
    -No, full grown men but tiny men with evil faces and smiles.
    -Is that real? He asks and pushes me in the arm.
    -Yes, in English they’re called Leprechauns. At the end of a rainbow there is a large pot of gold and the leprechauns guard it. But if someone sneezes they leave their posts and come to kill the person in their sleep.
    -Is that really real? Urbain asks. He laughs but he sounds nervous.
    -No, I say and burst into laughter. It’s a story for children.
         He punches me in the arm and we both crack up for several minutes. I forgot how fun it is working with Urbain. The old man has been listening to my story and he picks up where I left off.
    -The man says that at the end of the rainbow there is a right side and a left side. On both sides, where the colored light reaches the ground there is a field of sheep. He says he’s seen it before.
   -Wow, that’s much better than evil leprechauns, I tell the man.
          The heavy set woman who sat down next to us begins speaking rapidly to Urbain. By the immediacy of how she began speaking, I know she’s explaining her situation in the hopes that the immeasurable wealth speciously conveyed by my white skin will be able to help her. I brace myself to wish I could help her, and then know that I can’t.
    -A man burned down her house while she was out of town, Urbain translates. She and her husband are both handicapped. He had both of his legs amputated and she has problems in her knees. Some people started saying that she’s a sorcerer and with no proof a man burned down her house.
    -I’m so sorry, I say to the woman.
          She switches into French.
    -The man is here, they arrested him. But we lost everything. The clothes I’m wearing were given by a friend and we are staying in the house of a friend. We have nothing left.
    -What did the man who burnt down the house say? He should have to pay you back for the damage he caused.
    -He asked for pardon. He said he drank a lot of liquor and smoked chanvre.
          I consider mentioning again that the perpetrator of the crime should have to pay, but I highly doubt that’s even a possibility in Butembo. Even if the man miraculously had money, I don’t think there’s a civil court.
    -If you give peanuts to children to be nice, says the old man now speaking in French, and the child goes home and says, ‘my stomach hurts,’ and then he dies. You will be the responsible one and you will be accused as a sorcerer.
The woman accused of sorcery nods her head saddly as the old man speaks. The two boys who were led out of the holding room return, still barefoot and uncuffed. Rather than going back to the holding room, which is locked, the enter the little office and sit down. Urbain turns around and starts talking to them. Both of them have baby faces and can’t be older than 17.
-Are they not wearing handcuffs because of the guns? I ask.
    -Yes, Urbian says nodding. The police here kill very easily. If they think you are going to run they will shoot you on the spot without any problem.
    -Do you know why those boys are here? I ask, since everyone is conversing on and off but the Kinande leaves me as the only uninvited party.
    -This boy got really drunk last night, he says pointing to the taller, skinnier, and more tired looking of the two boys. And this morning his parents brought him to the police to discipline the boy.
     -Oof, that’s unfortunate, I mumble. Strict parents.
    -This boy is here for the accusation of rape.
          I turn around and look at the boy fully. He looks nervous and sad. His skin is smooth and he has the face of a 6 year old on the body of an adolescent.
    -Did he do it? I ask.
    -He says no, he didn’t do it.
          The boy launches into an explanation from the bench; neither of the armed police officers seems to notice or care.
    -The girl was 17, he is 16. He spoke to the girl and they hung out during the evening. The girl went home later than normal and so when the boy arrived at home his uncle said, ‘you raped her.’
    -Did the girl accuse him of raping her?
    -No, he says she went back to her village immediately in the morning so she can’t even be asked to say if he did or did not rape her.
          I’ve always known a primary problem in Congo is impunity. Criminals are almost never caught or incarcerated. And although I don’t necessarily believe the boy, I suddenly realize how devastating it can also be if it goes in the other direction.
         One of the unidentifiable police officers walks to the holding room, with a long brown rope in his hands. He opens the door and one man steps out. The officer ties the rope around the man’s wrists and then motions into the invisible room for the next person. After 10 minutes, the man has a circle of 8 men, including the two original boys. All of them are barefoot. As they stumble away up a dirt path one of the men yells to me.
    -When I fracture a bone, will you bring pomade and medicine to help me heal?
    -That's a weird question. Why would he ask that if he’s not fractured yet? I ask Urbain.
    -He knows he will be injured in the prison, he has been in the prison before. They were saying he escaped with all the prisoners in one of the smaller prisons here when the guard was drunk. That man's the only one they've caught so far.
          Another police officer leaves the office with the young girl who has a potentially aborted or naturally halted, but missing fetus. They don’t tie ropes around her wrist, but the officer clings to his weapon as they follow the men up the path.
    -She’s going to prison for 5 years, Urbain says.
          I watch her disappear up the hill.
    -That’s so sad, is the only thing I can think to say.
          We sit in silence for a while. Shortly after the new prisoners leave, the procureur arrives. He is a startlingly handsome man, always dressed in perfectly pressed suits. He’s impossible to read, always seeming discontent and then recounting a story that makes him laugh at the end. His voice is low and scratchy, as if he’s been a smoker for years, but he insists he doesn't smoke.
          In his office he explains that rape in Congo wasn’t a big problem before. The problem only really escalated because of the wars. He gives us permission to speak and work with willing prisoners. I’m excited to start working but can’t even begin dissecting the brief interactions we had while waiting. This is going to be a much more complicated world of problems than I’d expected. But what else could ever be the case in Congo?

Home Sweet Home

2011-10-03T09:45:00.000-07:00

    -Welcome back! Everyone yells in unison when I walk into the COPERMA office.
          Hangie, Urbain, Maman Helen, and Jean-Marie are all sitting around a pile of papers discussing something. The excitement in their faces makes me happy to be home. Dusan is on leave, and I’m exhausted from so much traveling. I’m excited to be back with the team and start a new project.
    -You’ve been gone so long, Hangie says accusingly as everyone shakes my hand.
          I can always see the inkling to lean in for the three head-taps, but I never was able to get used to that. To me, it feels like we’re leaning in for an eskimo kiss. It’s interesting that hugging is considered too intimate in Nande culture, but I’m completely uncomfortable pressing my forehead into someone else’s three times.
    -I know, but now I’m staying in Butembo for a while. I’m tired from traveling and I miss COPERMA. Is Maman Marie here?
    -She’s in the office, Urbain says still smiling.
          I spin around and knock on the wooden door to her little concrete office. When I enter, Maman Marie responds with similar enthusiasm, though there’s a wooden desk between us so she doesn’t even try to tap my forehead.
    -How’s the work going? I ask and take a seat.
    -It’s good, it’s good.
    -What’s new?
          Then I remember the message Hangie sent me a few weeks ago.
    -Maman Marie, your father passed away, I add. I’m so sorry. Mes condoleances, vraiment.
          Maman Marie nods perfunctorily but emotion floods her face.
    -Yes, you remember he had one leg already amputated. Well, the gangrene spread to his other leg. We took him to the hospital and the Doctors did everything they could for him. They amputated part of his good leg, but he was truly sick, Amy. And then he passed. I guess, everyone has their time to die.
          I met Simone Nzoli once, during a visit to Maman Marie’s house. He was a skinny man with a wide smile and glasses that made him look like a bug. He told me about how important it was for him to educate his children, both the boys and the girls. Simone was a teacher his entire life; education was the most important thing in life, he told me.
    -I’m very truly sorry, Maman Marie.
    -Thank you.
          We both stare at the desk in silence for a moment before she starts up enthusiastically.
    -Victorine is better! She exclaims. You know, the woman who had the badly broken arm. She underwent the surgery and she recovered in the hospital and at my house. I even passed the night next to her in the hospital.
          She shook with laughter.
   -I was truly her guardian.
    -Merci, that’s wonderful. Can she use her hand at all?
    -Yes, she has started using it slowly and she is able to cultivate again.
    -How much did the surgery cost?
    -500 dollars. The United Nations was supposed to provide the free transport to the HEAL Africa hospital in Goma where it would have been free. But they were taking so long after we had all of the paperwork, and her arm was getting much worse.   It hurt her very bad so I decided to pay for the surgery, and get it done immediately so she wouldn’t lose the arm.
    -I’m glad you did that. That’s really frustrating that the U.N. didn’t follow through.
    -It was 500 dollars, Maman Marie adds. But now she is healing. When she arrived she even weighed only 30 kg (approx. 66 lbs). But she ate well when she was staying with me and in six weeks she moved up to 40 kg (approx. 88 lbs). Now she has become so pretty.
          I add some more positive exclamations before Maman Marie continues.
    -There were 14 new cases of rape just past Isale.
    -By the FaRDC?
    -No, we think it was ADF-NALU.
          The ADF-NALU is a phantom-like rebel group from Uganda. There are rumors about how well they’re trained, and how dangerous they are, yet they’re extremely hard to pin down. They reportedly have a fairly high presence in this area, yet I’ve never seen one.
    -Why do you think it was the ADF?
    -Because the survivors all said that the men were speaking a language that was not one of our own.
          Language is typically the best, though still inefficient, way of attempting to identify perpetrators of rape. Lingala indicates FaRDC; Kinande- Mayi-Mayi or civilian; Unknown sounds- ADF-NALU.
    -One woman, who came in with Victorine has persistent infections on her body. We told her to separate from her husband while we discover if she has HIV/AIDS.
    -Did she take an HIV test? I ask.
   -Yes, she took two we are waiting for the third one. The first test was positive and the second test was negative.
    -That’s strange, I respond.
    -Yes, very. That’s why I say it is suspect for HIV/AIDS.
          We sit in silence again for a moment.
    -Maman Marie, I say suddenly. I have a new personal side-project. I’m still going to try to work with the Mayi Mayi and maybe the FDLR, but I’ve realized they can’t give me the perspectives I’m looking for, and that I don’t currently have the funding or man-power necessary to institute an effective sensitization program. Also, HEAL Africa is currently working with the Mayi-Mayi, which is wonderful. I’m most interested understanding the mechanisms behind perpetration of rape, so I want to get permission from the Mayor to speak to accused rapists in the prisons here.
    -There is one rapist whom we trapped in Maseni who is in the prison here. And the rapist from Vutondi whom I saw and trapped myself.
    -Yes, I’d like to hear what they have to say.
    -Okay, you can go to the Mayor’s office tomorrow with some food to bring to the prisoners. That will help you gain access. And many people are dying.
    -Where?
    -In the prisons, from starvation. They are not fed there and if nobody brings them food then they starve quickly, and then become sick, and they are taken to the hospital too late and so they die.
          A non-selective death penalty.
    -Is it okay if Urbain goes with me? I’m not sure how the Mayor conducts business, and the prisoners probably won’t speak French.
    -Of course, she exclaims laughing. Oh, and there is a lot of killing between here and Beni.
    -Really? I say tilting my head in disbelief.
          I just drove the Beni-Butembo road and it was all sunshine and prancing goats.
    -You can ask even the driver, she says. We were driving back from Beni and there were bandits on the road that stopped us.
          At that moment the driver, who I’ve never met before, walks in. He must have heard her mention him.
    -Tell her, Paluku, she says and nods to him.
    -Because of the elections, I think there are more bandits now, he says nervously. The bandits who stopped our car stole everything from our passengers.
    -We hid our phones though, Maman Marie chimes in with a smile.
    -Well done, I mutter and then look back to the chubby little driver.
    -I think the bandits were put there by Mbusa Nyamwisi, the driver continues. He’s running against Kabila for the Presidency. The bandits said, why did you vote for Kabila in the last election? You are the reason we are suffering so much because you voted for Kabila. You are forbidden from voting for Kabila, if you vote for him this is what will happen. You must vote for Mbusa. That’s when they made everyone take off even their shoes and the stole everything.
    -Except our phones! Maman Marie chimes again.
    -When did this happen? I ask.
          Maman Marie waves the driver out.
   -About two weeks ago, I think on…. September 18th.
    -Did they hurt anyone?
    -Not in our car, but the car behind us one woman was shot. She died. The driver wasn’t going to stop for the barrier so the bandits shot at the car and a woman was hit and killed.
    -And you watched this happen?
    -Yes, it happened just behind us.
    -Oh my God, that’s all horrible.
          We finish going through our update and I hand some more donated funds to Hangie. It’s raining, so I stand outside for a while, joking with Urbain about his fear of the prisons, and explaining the concept of bungee jumping. As we all giggle with each other, I realize how much Maman Marie’s experience elucidates about the upcoming elections. If Mbusa whomever really did station bandits on the road to intimidate people, he clearly isn’t a hopeful option for progress. I would have expected that type of force and intimidation from Kabila, not from an underdog. The story is sad because of the woman who needlessly lost her life, and it’s extremely disheartening, because it shows that this country probably won’t be going forward or upward anytime soon.

The Good, the Bad, and the Rebel

2011-09-23T01:57:00.000-07:00

         Safari disappears for days at time. When he is around, we walk to the other Mai-Mai camp and talk to more of the men, but mostly we just sit together. Safari wades through the English history book for hours at a time, asking me to explain words like “augur,” and “fledgling.” Some of the words are beyond the reach of my French and Safari howls with laughter as I pull chairs together and huddle amongst them (“congregate”) or purposely trip over a chair (“clumsy”).
          But despite the Colonel’s profligate laughter, there’s a forlorn feeling to his presence, as if he’s always looking through the Bell Jar. There’s an added effort, as if his personality has molded into the niche of personal solitude, and being around others has become more difficult than being alone. He tells me his primary role, most days, is to stand on the top of a hill waiting to receive and send messages; a human answering machine. Now and then, Safari looks up from the book or stops talking mid-sentence and gazes at a patch of grass, as if he’s just remembered an opportunity he was excited to pursue but never got around to and it slipped away. Rarely, he remembers that I’m still there, watching him, and he’ll open up his thoughts and let me peek in.
    -I box a little, he says randomly during one of these moments while contemplating a distant banana tree. I was really weak as a kid, and when I was in the military training camp in Rumangabo with the Rwandese, I had to box in order to avoid death. So many found death there.
    -What do you mean? Why did they die? I ask softly, not wanting to jolt him out of his somnolent reverie.
    -The officers would tell one thousand people to climb a tree like that one, he says and points at the distant banana tree.
          The tree is small and plain, no higher than 20 feet.
    -And you would run fast at that exact moment so you could climb the tree. But then the tree would be full of people so quickly and most of the trainees couldn’t climb it. So they were beaten with a huge stick. Ten and twenty at a time; they were beaten until they died.
          I gaze in parallel to Safari at the tree and imagine it covered with human forms, trying to climb each other in order to climb the tree.
    -When was that? I ask, though I really want to ask why?
    -In 1996. Because it was the time when they were trying to get rid of Mobutu. Rumangabo was a military camp before Mobutu was overthrown.
          After a moment he chuckles and then goes back to diligently copying down the English history of the region.
          To get to the last Mai Mai camp in the area, Safari calls a motortaxi to take us to Bunyatenge. The village is only a few kilometers away, but I can’t make the trip alone as Bunyatenge is where Rwandese, FDLR, rebels are also living. When the motortaxi arrives the driver’s face lights up when he sees my skin and he begins to give me a raised price, before he realizes who is sitting next to me. The man’s mouth remains open, in the brink of speaking, but his eyes flick back and forth between the Colonel and myself. I laugh quietly; the man is torn between the raised price he wants to give a muzungu, and the lowered price he should give someone as powerful as the Colonel. Finally, the driver settles on respecting the Colonel and offers a very fair price.
          When we reach Bunyatenge there are only a few rebels wandering around, and it is difficult for me to distinguish between Mai Mai and FDLR. Safari buys a local drink called Tankengo, proclaimed to be a “health drink wine,” that tastes like fermented molasses. As we begin to climb another steep mountain, Safari takes slow, thoughtful pulls from the plastic bottle and explains more about the relationships between the different rebel groups. He explains that the local populations feed the FDLR and the Mai-Mai groups, and that the FaRDC governmental army steals from the population because they aren’t properly supported by the government. Then, in order to weaken the governmental army, the FDLR steal from the population so that there’s nothing left for the FaRDC to steal.
   -An army that’s not fed can’t do their job well, Safari says.
   -On all accounts, the population suffers the most, I say.
          Safari nods his head in agreement.
    -C’est une domage. The camp is up there, he says changing the subject.
          He points up to the top of the mountain which is still a long ways off.
    -Are you going to arrive? He asks me.
    -Yes! I exclaim through heavy breathing. Tired, yes. But I’ll make it.
          Safari suddenly sits down pointedly in the middle of the small path, I happily follow suit.
         Despite the alcoholic beverage and the fact that it’s a very difficult climb, Safari’s breathing hasn’t escalated at all.
    -We climb this several times a day, he says taking another pull of Takengo.
          As I catch my breath, Safari lapses into another contemplative silence and I look out across the rolling hills, freckled with brown huts. Even though we’re only half way up the mountain, we can see for miles all around. It’s an excellent location for a rebel camp. I turn and look up at Safari, perched a few feet above me. He’s picking at a blade of grass with the now familiar expression that tells me he is contemplating the meaning of life and death and his place in either phase of existence.
    -Are you happy? I ask.
          Safari only reflects for a second before he looks up at me.
    -Not really.
    -Why not?
    -Everyone here is traumatized in some way, he responds. It’s a sacrifice living as a rebel. It’s suffering. We’ve grown up in war; we don’t have a taste for love.
         I nod my head softly and begin playing with a blade of grass in the same peremptory, yet oblivious manner.
    -What do you think about at night when you’re trying to sleep but you can’t? I ask, not looking away from the blade I’m engaging with.
    -My mom, he says and I look up at the sound of a crack in his hardened voice.
          I search his face to see what emotion is there, but he keeps looking at his own blade of grass and his voice re-solidifies once more.
    -My younger brother and sister, he continues. When I call my mom it’s hard because she always starts to cry as soon as she hears my voice. I think about them a lot.   My mother worries about me living as a rebel, but I can’t even take the time to visit her and ease her fears.
          I resist the rising urge to climb up next to him and put my arm around his shoulders.
    -When was the last time you saw your family? I ask instead.
    -Years ago, he says. I could maybe take some time soon, but I don’t have the means to get there.
          I nod some more, not knowing what to say. Safari stands up again suddenly and continues climbing. He walks slowly and changes the subject to education and learning, his favorite things in life. He loves reading; he wants to go back to school. When we finally reach the top of the mini-mountain, the weather turns on a dime. The grey sky begins grumbling, sending a portent of rain with the accelerating wind. We walk through the camp to another thatched, wooden, enclosure. The stick walls are strong enough to stop the wind from whipping my hair around in swirls.
    -This is the Commander of this section, says Colonel Safari when a skinny man walks in.
          The man reaches out and shakes my hand. He is soft-faced and startlingly shy. Almost every time he and I make eye contact, his cheeks flush red and he even hides his face in his shoulder a few times.
    -The Commander? I ask, incredulously.
          Safari nods at me and smiles. After some polite small talk, the shy guy becomes a little more comfortable. He stops hiding his face, though I still feel like I’m talking to an eight year old boy who has a crush on his baby-sitter.
    -Do you like being Mai Mai? I ask.
    -I don’t like it, he responds softly. But because of the conditions and the irresponsibility of the government I stay Mai Mai. I’m a career military soldier. You fight where the money or your heart lead you.
          The Commander’s name is Muhindo George, and he grows more and more confident as he speaks, until I am finally able to see the solid outline of a man who has spent his entire life in war. The transformation is astounding, and I begin to think the bashful little boy never existed. He goes through the same history and ideology that Safari and General LaFontaine both explained.
    -What do you think about the phenomenon of sexual violence? I ask when he finishes his version of Congo’s history.
          Muhindo puts his face in his left hand, and I can see the nervous little boy emerge again. He looks at the ground and stays silent for a long time.
    -It’s a complex affair, he says finally. I can’t know how or why that happens, but I know it’s a really bad problem.
          He rubs his eyes with his hands as if he’s suddenly exhausted.
    -Do you think there will be peace in Congo? I ask.
    -I think we’re victims of a war transplanted from Rwanda to Congo, he responds. If we can have a government that collaborates with Rwanda as neighbors, but not in a way that is to the detriment of the Congolese and benefits only the Rwandese, then yes.
    -It’s America who makes us suffer, interjects Safari. Because America picked up President Kagame—of Rwanda—and supported him with arms and funds. With that support, Kagame makes us suffer in Congo because he is able to steal our minerals. If America came here and made a deal so they benefit and we benefit, without war. Truly we could be happy. But by supporting Kagame, who would be weak without Americas support, it is America who makes us suffer.
    -What gives you the strength to keep fighting for peace? I say, as the sweet, musty smell of marijuana floats by.
          I glance through the small doorway and see a few young guys sitting in another hut smoking around the embers of a fire.
    -Everything we’ve seen, done, lived through and continue to live through is that gives us the strength to keep fighting, says Muhindo pulling my attention back into our own little sanctuary. To live peacefully is our right, everywhere in our country. But since we live in inhuman conditions it traumatizes us, but it gives us strength to fight those who treat our people inhumanely. The East of Congo generally could live with the FDLR peacefully without a problem, but when the government attacks the FDLR, that’s when the FDLR start attacking the population. That’s why we say the International community must change their politics in order to create peace in this area. The FDLR need to be allowed back to their country of Rwanda. Rwanda says no, they are genocidaires and they can’t come back. But they have a justice system in Rwanda. They need to let the genocidaires back and judge them there. That’s not our problem!
          The little boy has fled again, and by the time Muhindo finishes his speech he’s practically yelling. Safari suggests that we take a tour of the camp, and the three of us step out of the hut into the menacing wind. The young men in the hut smile at me, and the smell of marijuana smoke permeates the air, despite the wind. Safari shows me several more marijuana plants that are at least three feet taller than I am, and the men all sigh when I explain that one of their marijuana bushes could sell for around fifty thousand USD on an American college campus.
          Safari walks back down to the village with me and I take the mototaxi back alone. His presence on the way to Bunyatenge gives me sufficient enough security to return without him.
          The next day, only three days before Dusan is scheduled to come pick me up, I open the door to my room just as Colonel Vincent is about to knock.
    -Good morning, Amy, he says without smiling. There is news that the FaRDC will be coming to attack soon. Do you know anything about this?
          I chuckle and smile at him, but he doesn’t smile back.
    -You’re serious? Not joking?
    -No, he says. I have a source who says they will attack soon and I want to know if you know more details.
          I shake my head.
    -I don’t, I’m sorry. I have no sources at all, except Dusan and he hasn’t said anything about it. If he knew about it I’m sure he would have contacted me. When do you think they might attack?
    -I’m not sure, he says. Maybe tomorrow or the day after?
    -I’ll send a message to Dusan, I say quickly. I’ll see if he knows anything about it.
          I go inside where I’m able to send an SMS through Skype, since the phone service in Muhanga is almost non-existent. If Dusan does have information about a pending attack, it would compromise his position in the U.N. to share details about it with any of the rebel groups, but he’d sure as hell better share the details with me. Father Giovanni and Maman Conchetta have been gone for about a week and are supposed to arrive that evening, but I have no way of contacting them. Maman Conchetta’s adopted son, Mbusa, starts fiddling with the SAT phone trying to reach them and warn them or ask for advice.
          Colonel Vincent disappears and Safari does not arrive. There’s really no way for Dusan to respond, but I let him know about the rumor just in case. Part of the agreement in my staying in Muhanga alone was that I would alert him to anything and everything out of the ordinary. Soon after dark falls, Maman Conchetta and Father Giovanni return with several Italian visitors. Only an hour after their return, Dusan and Jay show up. Dusan doesn’t know about an attack and doesn’t think they will, but he wants me to leave the bush, anyway. He’s not happy that there are so many visitors in Muhanga when rumors are swirling, but there’s nothing he can do for them.
          The next day we make a brief trip to Bunyatenge so I can say thank you to Colonel Safari and so Dusan can meet with him briefly. When we pull into the village, every hut has at least three FDLR rebels stationed in front of it. Colonel Vincent hitches a ride with us, and is able to point out the small clump of Mai Mai amidst the herd of FDLR sentries.
    -They are ready for a fight, says Colonel Vincent.
          We don’t linger in Bunyatenge. The contemplative, nostalgic philosopher in Safari has evaporated and take-no-prisoners fighter is all that remains. He barely acknowledges me, so I leave my thank you in the dust and climb back into the car. We leave Muhanga as the sun begins to set and when we reach the closest village, Mbingi, our car is surrounded by the lecherous bravado of the FaRDC. One soldier crosses his arms and over his AK-47 and stands in front of our car, glowering as if God has given him the power to burn down humanity with his eyes. The soldier succeeds only in looking rather pathetic.
    -Showing the dick size, Dusan mutters quietly.
          A man who is clearly an officer walks up to the car and begins questioning Jay in Swahili. Where are we coming from, where are we going? How long will we be gone? The man does not attempt to utilize the same childish intimidation tactics as the young man still standing in front of the car. It’s clear he’s an officer and does not need to show his dick size. The officer is tall and lighter skin than the rest of the men. Jay answers calmly and after a few moments the officer motions for the glowering soldier to move out of the way.
          Neither Jay nor Dusan speaks for a few minutes, both clearly caught up in some revelation I’m not privy to.
    -They will to attack, says Dusan suddenly. It is sure but I do not knowing when.
    -Why do you say that now? You knew they were here before and you said they weren’t going to attack.
    -That officer was Tutsi, which means he is former CNDP officer. If Tutsi officer is here, then they will to attack.
          We make it safely to the provincial church where we often spend the night. In the morning I emerge from my room just as Jay is walking sleepily out of his room.
    -They attacked at 2 a.m. this morning, he says to me. There is shooting even now.
    -Is everyone okay? I ask, knowing that statement is pointless and means nothing. Who is everyone anyway?
    -I don’t know, says Jay. I received messages and calls during the night. The villagers have fled to Father Giovanni’s and many are staying there.
          Dusan assures me there’s nothing we can do to help. I realize how absurd it is that I had to flee the bush when the governmental army came close. The United Nations uses the terms “positive” and “negative” forces to distinguish between rebel groups and the governmental army. But, in this game, the distinctions between good and bad are nebulous and the only clear fact is that the population suffers.

Rebel Reasons

2011-09-11T03:41:00.000-07:00

          It’s a relief when Dusan and the team leave Muhanga. Dusan’s complaining was becoming overwhelming and the quiet bustling of the village is easier to sink into without the team’s presence. In the morning I get hot water from the kitchen and walk around the house to the wooden enclosure, where I can take a bucket shower. Colonel Safari arrives shortly after I finish getting ready and we go to sit in our usual room. He’s brought his English dictionary with him, as I’ve promised to give him a one hour English lesson each day.
    -Good morning, he says with a big smile and a firm handshake.
          We ask each other about how the other slept and feels this morning, then on to business.
    -So, I say. Today I’d like to visit one of your camps and meet some of the other soldiers.
    -Yes, that is an okay idea. And then we will come back here maybe and spend an hour or so speaking in English?
          He looks at me and there’s a flash of nervous uncertainty in his face. As if I could go back on a promise to a Mai-Mai Colonel. Not that he’d hurt me if I did, but my situation would definitely become more precarious.
    -Absolutely, I respond enthusiastically.
    -Great, he says relaxing his face. The other thing is, what the General was discussing with you earlier about friendship. If you are going to benefit from us we need to get something back in return. The General’s idea is that you meet with a local N.G.O. here and see if you can, over time, find finances for them. The people have suffered greatly because of the war here. And they haven’t received any help in this area because everyone says, no, the FDLR are there, the Mai-Mai are there the funds will be stolen so they don’t send anything. If you can help an NGO and help the local population that will help us a lot. The General is available for you and your security will be taken care of, but if you can help by helping this NGO that will be good.
          I explain again the work I’ve been doing in Butembo and that even for an American it’s not easy to find funds. Safari nods his head in understanding and says they just want me to try and help however I can.
    -We, the Mai Mai, can’t say we help the population much when there are financial needs, he continues. We want the people’s well-being to assured.
          The Mai-Mai are absolutely not as unruly and violent as they’re made out to be, but they will also be putting on their best face for my stay.
    -AAA—an NGO—helped us build another road and that was very important and a good help, he adds.
    -Well, I’ll see what I can do but I can’t guarantee anything, I recite.
          Safari grabs the Congo history book I’ve lent him and starts the motions of leaving. I run back to my room to put on sneakers and a coat and then join him at the top of the dirt road leading down into the village. The day is cloudy but not cold and there’s a soft wind tickling the banana trees. We start walking and Safari starts talking.
    -We’ll go to Colonel Vincent’s camp right now so you can see what it is like, he says.
    -Perfect, I respond with true enthusiasm. So, when did you join the Mai-Mai?
    -The Mai-Mai here in this area started in 1999 and that’s when I joined here but I picked up my first gun as a military in 1993, when I was 14 years old. Then I was in and out of the military, one year in, then one or two years at school. I got my diplomat.
          He says this last part proudly and shoots a side glance at me to make sure I heard him.
    -Wow, I respond. That’s impressive. And they let you leave the Mai Mai and come back whenever you wanted?
    -Yes, I was getting more schooling but I always went back. Sometimes I fought in the FaRDC, sometimes with the Mai-Mai. There have been so many groups integrated into the FaRDC and then soldiers flee to join another group. General LaFontaine used to be a major in the military when Kabila the father was in power. He was good friends with President Joseph Kabila.
    -He told me that last night, I say.
          We make our way into the village, and as Colonel Safari speaks he interrupts himself almost every sentence in order to greet the various villagers working outside of the mud huts.
    -After the Rwanda genocide, he continues, all of the Hutus who participated fled. Kabila the son and LaFontaine went to Angola, Namibia, and Kenya together recruiting the Hutus for the Congo military. At that point, the FDLR and the Hutus were good, but as soon as Kabila the son became president, he switched and said Hutus must be chased out and the Tutsi CNDP are good. General LaFontaine saw that Kabila was working with Rwanda. When Kabila is near LaFontain, Kabila has nothing to say anymore. He can’t say anything because he has betrayed so many people and Kabila knows that LaFontaine knows all of it.
    -You think Kabila is ashamed around LaFontaine?
    -Yes, ashamed.
          At this point we’ve past the ten or so houses in the village and are walking down the dirt road with only the mountains and their green fur surrounding us.
    -LaFontaine was FaRDC but then he was sent on a clandestine mission in Eastern Congo. He killed a Ugandan colonel in Beni and he was put in jail for eight months. They were going to kill him but the Ugandans realized that he was well-trained and intelligent so they protected him and eventually he was released.
          The dirt road turns into a sharp incline.
    -That was in 1999. Around that time there were three Rwandan soldiers in this area; back then they were called the ALR. They began pillaging the villages with their weapons so the villagers went to the nearby Mwami—king. They took up lances and machetes and they attacked those three elements. Two were killed and one was injured. That’s when LaFontaine came out here and began really organizing the Mai-Mai. We are an auto-defense system. We have established ourselves only when and where there is a need to protect the population. Right now, the Congo government is injuring its own population so there is a need for us to exist. You will see, the villagers feed us. When we are here they feel comfortable and there is security, so they help us. You are tired.
          Colonel Safari stops halfway up the steep hill we’ve begun climbing and stares at me. I’m breathing slightly heavily, but I didn’t think noticeably so. Safari stays still but continues talking.
    -Even with the FDLR here. General LaFontaine has organized meetings between different groups, including the FDLR. When they first came they raped and pillaged the villages. But LaFontaine spoke to them and said no, you must protect the people.
    -And they just stopped? It was that easy?
          This is almost the exact conversation I had with LaFontaine but I’m curious what the Colonel’s take is.
    -No, it wasn’t easy it took time. But now they speak some of our languages, they understand easily and they stopped pillaging the villages. And if a man wants to take a woman as his wife, he can ask her and arrange with her, calmly. The girl accepts, and they do what they want.
    -So, the FDLR right now they’re not a menace?
    -No. Right now, no. If we fight with the FDLR, it’s the population that suffers. The FDLR isn’t completely integrated here. The population knows they are here because they have guns.
          I’ve heard many times from the population, Mai-Mai, and United Nations employees that the FDLR, though potential ex-genocidaires, have a rather strict system of law. There’s no real way to prove anything in Congo, so anybody can do anything and simply blame it on someone else. The media runs with it and the real perpetrators get off scot free.
    -Last time, I say as we begin climbing again. When we were here, someone asked you if you ever are able to beat the FDLR. You said yes, but when you do they begin raping and pillaging the local population.
    -Especially if the FaRDC attack the FDLR, then the FDLR attack the population .
    -To do what? I ask.
    -To claim revenge! Because they were originally brought here by Kabila himself. It’s Joseph Kabila and General LaFontaine who went to look for them. They helped him and now he has said they are the bad ones and he sends his troops after them. So when they feel it is Kabila who is attacking them, someone who needed their help at one point, they get their revenge by raping and destroying the local villages. Kabila came into power in 2001 after the death of his father. At the time, he himself said in an interview that the FDLR aren’t a force to fight against; that the people to fight are Rwanda because it’s Rwanda who hurts us always. Kabila betrayed the Congolese.
    -You have such a complicated political history, I say, mostly to give myself a minute to absorb the flow of information.
          Safari chuckles; it’s high-pitched, soft and full. It sounds like ice tea in the backyard on a hot summer day.
    -Tres complique! He exclaims.
    -So is PARECO the only Mai-Mai group in North Kivu?
    -No, there are many Mai-Mai groups in Congo but PARECO is the largest movement. It has already been decided that we will have a deputy in the government soon.
          As we reach the top of the hill I see tiny leaf huts begin to poke out of the foliage. It’s the Mai- Mai camp. Each hut is about the size of the couch cushion forts I used to build as a child.
    -How many soldiers do you have here? I ask.
    -I can’t tell you, that’s intelligence information and can compromise our security.
    -Right, sorry, I say immediately. I didn’t think about that.
    -You don’t need to know that information.
    -True, very true, I say emphatically.
          The General has let me in but he trusts no one and I don’t want him to start thinking I’m FBI again. I change the subject quickly.
    -Did you guys build these yourselves?
    -No, this is a permanent military camp. The FaRDC have lived here at times and they may again. It all depends on where fighting and security move you.
          We walk through the tiny huts to a full sized leaf and stick gazebo with woven seats and an old campfire in the middle. Colonel Vincent, the commander of this camp, immediately joins us. Hehas an intelligent face and a bright smile, but he speaks rarely and smiles even less. We greet each other and he gives me the privilege of a rationed smile. Two other men, both younger than Vincent and Safari file in after him. It’s immediately clear neither of the young Mai-Mai speak French.
    -I’ve heard, I continue once everyone is seated on the woven seats under the gazebo roof, that the name Mai-Mai comes from the belief in the magical properties of water.
          The word Mayi (Mai) means water in Kiswahili, so the rebel name technically means Water-Water. Safari and Vincent both laugh.
    -Yes, says Safari.
    -It’s the magic? I ask.
    -Yes it’s the magic of water. That when you are touched with the blessed water it is by the grace of God. It’s a great thing for us. God has blessed us.
    -Ah, so it’s kind of like when Christians are baptized or they dip their fingers in holy water and make the sign of the cross?
    -Exactly, says Safari. We’re people, not water! Man cannot become water.
          Again, they laugh and it’s clear they’re laughing at my ignorance.
    -Do you know who Simo Kimbangu is? Safari asks and I shake my head no. Simo Kimbangu came as a prophet in 1926 before Congo gained Independence. He was the first who blessed the water and said the black man could be independent. If you went to his house in Bas-Congo and you were sick and touched the water you would get better.
          The story’s similarities to Christianity immediately strike me. The “magical” property of water is often sensationalized, made wholly African and exotic; yet, this is no more radical than a middle of the road Christian. I decide to explore further.
    -I also talked to a few demobilized Mai-Mai a while ago, I continue. They said they had tattoos that protected them from death as long as they followed the Mai-Mai law.
    -Yes, there are conditions, Safari answers. You cannot rape and you cannot steal. If you rape, you break a condition. It doesn’t matter what bullet is shot it will find you and kill you. This is biblical as well; there are commandments that we defend.
    -And if you don’t break a condition you will be protected from bullets?
          Safari reads the incredulity on my face and laughs again.
    -No, a bullet will not hurt a Mai-Mai who is keeping with the laws, Madame. You can see.
          He takes off his baseball hat, leans forward and points to a scar on his forehead.
    -This was a bullet. And if you feel here…
          He leans over further and touches a lump on the back of his skull.
    -This was also a bullet.
          I’m dumbfounded. Safari doesn’t flinch when I reach forward and run my fingers across the scar. Vincent stands up and leaves the small refuge. Rain has begun to fall but none of it passes through the tightly woven banana leaves of the roof.
    -You took a bullet to the head and you didn’t die? I stutter. It went inside your brain?
    -No, it was a shot straight on and the bullet bounced off and didn’t go through my skull.
          I sit in silence for a second, genuinely astounded and trying to figure out a scenario that would make sense. The bullet wasn’t good quality, it was too far away, it was shrapnel… I don’t make much progress, the scar looks like a large blueberry exploded in the form of skin. It looks like a bullet wound. Vincent returns with two other Mai-Mai. One looks extremely young and is wearing an I LOVE JESUS hat and a shirt that says GET WHAT YOU WANT. He sits down and Vincent starts pulling off the boy’s shirt. I’m confused at first but then I see a large oval of white denting the skin in the middle of his right shoulder blade with bolts of purple crackling from the center. It looks like a large, oblong potato chip.
    -This is from a bullet, says Vincent.
          The bullet clearly ripped a large hole in the boys shoulder, and the trajectory looks like it passed through a lung. The other man who entered with Vincent sees his cue and pulls up his right pant leg. His entire calf would be a scar, except there is no calf left. It looks as if someone sliced off the entire muscle with a machete. The guy pulls up his left sleeve then his right, and then pulls his pant leg higher each time revealing new bullet wounds.
    -Did they go to the hospital? I ask.
          Vincent translates this time.
    -No, they were treated with traditional medicine. How are we to go to the hospital? If we are recognized as military we will be killed even in the hospital. And there is no means to go. We don’t have any money, we’re not paid. We live off of the hospitality of the villagers we protect.
          Again, my Western, scientific mentality is utterly boggled.
    -Can I see your tattoos? I ask.
    -No, responds Safari calmly. We cannot show you them, and they are different for each individual.
          I’ve seen the scars before on the demobilized child-soldiers. They’re simple, small scars.
    -They’re not like this though are they? I say jokingly.
          I pull up my right sleeve to reveal an American made ink tattoo. Everyone howls with laughter, but as it tapers off Safari’s face transforms into a soldier’s mask once again.
    -No, they are nothing like that. There is no ink and it is not a joke.
    -Yes, I’m sorry, I say, feeling a bit ashamed of myself. Can I ask these other guys some questions? I ask.
          Safari translates and everyone consents. The first man I speak to is young, almost sickly looking, and sporting an inch long goatee.
    -What is your experience with the Mai-Mai?
          He responds without hesitation.
    -I joined the Mai-Mai because we suffered for a long time, he says through Safari’s translation. It was the suffering. I was 12 years old; people were dying, we didn’t have any protection so I joined the Mai-Mai. I’m 27 now and I’m still Mai-Mai. I’ll stay Mai-Mai until there is peace in our country.
          He stares at me without flinching throughout his entire story. He looks much younger than 27.
    -Ever since the Tutsis came to find the FDLR there has been killing, he continues. That’s what pushed me to join. It’s not easy, we suffer but we stay Mai-Mai to protect the country. Because of the enemy I can’t visit my family. I saw them last in 2005.
          The man finishes and Safari picks up where the man left off.
    -You see it’s very difficult, he says. It’s a sacrifice.
          I nod my head and then move to the next man. He’s a little bit older and looks much healthier than the first.
    -I entered when I was 11. What pushed me to join was seeing the strangers who came and started to cultivate our fields and then make money. Then they started to buy guns with their money and to push us out. I’m 35 now. When the Mai-Mai fight, I fight with them. I’ve fought with the Tutsis before when they captured me and forced me to fight but I am back with the Mai-Mai and have stayed with them ever since.
    -Is your family still alive?
    -My parents and some of my family died in the fighting in Masisi. My parents were murdered. Others are still alive, he says without changing his tone or facial expression.
         The youngest looking Mai-Mai, with the potato chip bullet wound in his back is the only one who seems uncomfortable. He’s constantly shifting his weight and turning his head to gaze outside of the gazebo.
    -Safari, I say turning back to the Colonel. The Mai-Mai are well-known for using children as soldiers. Even you said you joined when you were 14 and all of these men joined as children as well. The Western world views this as a very bad thing, but what do you think?
    -We don’t have knowledge of a law that forbids children, he says leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Nothing that says this person is too young and this person is not. But now we understand that using young children is not good, and you do not see any children here.
    -Yes, I say. And Dusan told me that recently PARECO demobilized many child-soldiers in order to cooperate with the U.N.
    -The problem is, that many of these children, like this man.
          He waves his arm towards the last man who told his story.
    -They don’t have parents because their parents are killed in the fighting and then the children are not safe. We do not steal the children or force them. The children come to us because they need protection and many want to fight back to protect their families and their people. When these children are demobilized through the U.N. or we tell them they cannot fight with us because they are too young, they come back to us and say, ‘you took care of us and now you’ve deserted us.’ They have nothing. If we can find someone to take good care of those kids, it will be more effective.
          I nod my head and remember the thirty some children Dusan demobilized months ago. The kids were given to Save the Children and placed in homes, but the adoptive families needed financial support. The children ended up being pay checks and field labor, so many fled back to the bush. Children are often demobilized more than once.
    -We’ve understood it’s not good, continues Safari. But we’re still responsible for the children. They don’t have any parents and they come to us.
    -Is it difficult to kill other humans? I ask, in a puerile manner.
    -It’s difficult the first time, because you’re not use to it, Safari responds after considering the question for a few moments.
    -It’s more difficult, he continues, as kids because we still have that maternal love even when we are not with our mother.
    -Are you often afraid?
    -We don’t have fear because we believe in our protection, water and tattoos. Because of that we aren’t afraid, even if they come in a big number. If they kill two Mai-Mai, we know we will kill 20 and we will remain with their weapons. Our enemies don’t chase us as a joke, they must come seriously when they come.
          It’s getting late in the day so I begin to move more quickly through my questions.
    -What do the men here think of sexual violence as a problem in Congo? I ask.
          Safari translates to the group, but only the well-spoken, sickly, young man with the goatee volunteers a response.
    -Aside from protecting our conditions as Mai-Mai, if someone rapes and is captured he should be in prison for twenty years. We speak with all groups about not raping; if you’re a patriot you shouldn’t rape.
          Again, Safari takes over the conversation.
    -I don’t know how to explain the sexual violence, he says. If it’s a problem that comes from the wars or because of ignorance, or a problem of poverty, I don’t know. Or maybe they see the sexual violence outreach in Congo is well-funded internationally so they think they should rape to get money. Truly we can’t explain. But it’s also culture. In Rwanda, you propose to marry a woman after you rape her!
          His voice gets high as he says this.
    -If people with that mentality come to Congo, what will they do? The same thing.
         I nod my head in agreement, even though this reference is over-generalized and over-simplified.
    -There was a Mai-Mai, he continues, who raped a girl of 18 years old one month ago.
    -Did he say why? Do you know what happened?
    -He said that he saw the girl and he told his friend to go and tell the girl that he loves her. The friend spoke to the girl and when he came back he said that yes, she accepts. When the man went to be with the girl she refused and said she had never accepted. He said, ‘the girl was playing with me so I used my gun and took her by force.’
    -But they caught him?
    -Yes, he is in jail now in Beni.
          Safari leans his head out of the gazebo and looks at the sky, smeared with grey clouds like a frosted cake.
    -It is becoming late, I think you should take a small tour of the camp, he says standing up.
          I follow him out of the gazebo and the other Mai-Mai form a line behind us. As we walk amidst the tiny huts Safari points to little plots of land and explains what different Mai-Mai soldiers are cultivating. There are a few women and toddlers outside of the huts. Safari explains that most of the Mai-Mai are married and their wives are able to live at the camp. We pass several marijuana plants that are several feet taller than I am. One of the Mai-Mai grins and puffs out his chest next to one of the plants. This must be what he’s cultivating. Vincent chides me some more. Every time a rebel comes out of a hut or moves into view, he points to the man and shouts “Look! A Water!”
         After walking through the entire camp Safari and I say good bye to the others and leave for the village together. The rain is sharp and cold but light. Something about it is soothing. As we walk Safari explains that if the fighting ever ends, all he wants in this world is a small plot of land on the top of a hill so he can build a house, grow crops, and start a family. Maybe, if God is willing, he can even have a few goats and put those future children through school.

Lessons from the General

2011-08-31T02:39:00.000-07:00

          Muhanga is an off button that I have been searching for. The trees of the forest coating the mountains that line the village are like walls to a room. My mind turns off and my daily activities become limited to reading, writing, and watching children play. There is no stress and suffering is somehow hidden. My heart and mind breathe softly in a way that makes me feel as if I was sprinting before Muhanga. Everyone avoids the bush; it bears the brunt of stereotypes and sensationalized media, and while the Mai Mai and FDLR pass through non-chalantly, it feels calm and peaceful.
          Dusan does not feel the same way. General Lafontaine lives in various places in the deeper bush so after our initial meeting, we have to wait two more days before he’ll resurface again. Dusan’s potty mouth becomes increasingly dirtier as we wait. The children are too loud, the food is too scarce, and he and Maman Conchetta continue their feud of miscommunication. We go over the best ways for me to speak with General Lafontaine. He has sent me permission to stay and spend time with the Mai Mai; Colonel Safari apparently convinced him that I am not a spy.
          It’s strange to watch the two rebel groups moving through the village with their guns, rubber boots, and green digs. They are like a dissonant chord; you notice them, but they work well within the village song. Their presence doesn’t seem to inspire fear as the governmental soldiers do.
          By the time General Lafontaine makes his way back to Muhanga, Dusan is mentioning every other sentence that he will never return to Muhanga ever again. He arrives towards the evening and waits for me in the NGO room across the children’s courtyard. He greets me kindly, his smile is so bright it warms the room. He doesn’t seem to want to talk to anyone other than me. I realize quickly it’s simply because I’m a fresh mind that he sees as ready to mold. General Lafontain loves to talk.
          We sit in the gloaming, protected by the red bricks of the small room and surrounded by the faint light of an old bulb.   I explain more fully my work in Congo and my ideas about the Mai Mai.
    -For us, this isn’t any problem, he says. I am very happy to be able to receive you, since you are accepting to stay here for one month or several weeks. This is an opportunity for me and my men.
          The General reaches into a black computer bag lying on the wooden table and pulls out a stack of papers and magazines. The lesson begins.
    -Mai Mai originated from colonial times. We have to protect our communities, if there is no FDLR and no threat menacing our population and our government works to protect the people and the land, will we have any reason to exist?
          He looks at me expectantly but I don’t’ respond. I hate rhetorical questions.
    -No, of course not, he continues. What will we do?
          He pauses again, and again I refuse to respond.
    -And if you have someone who is FDLR who rapes and then flees to another village, we must chase him and punish him. If while trying to get him we kill him and people are killed around him, are they not too victims of his crime?
          This time I can’t handle the expectant pause, so I nod in agreement. But if I think about it, I don’t fully agree. People in war always seem to justify the entirety of their actions; the enemy is always the one to blame. But if a man does flee to a village and while trying to capture him, the untrained, inexperienced, poorly equipped Mai Mai begin shooting in his general direction and kill several people, there is a division of responsibility there. The General would never agree though so I just keep nodding.
    -Kabila’s mother was married to a man and who was friends with Kabila the father, Lafontaine says.
          I can tell he’s going for the political side of things, so I get my grain of salt ready. Everything in politics is hearsay or opinion, but a Mai Mai General’s opinion is definitely one I want to hear.
    -When the man died, Kabila the father, who was President of Congo in the late 90s, took the now President, Joseph Kabila, as his son. But both of Kabila the son’s real parents were Tutsis from Rwanda. James Kaberebe, the Rwandese secretary of defense is President Kabila’s uncle. So, now the problem is not who he is or where he’s from.
          Lafontaine is practically lying on the table, he’s leaning so far forward and staring at me to make sure I’m taking everything in. He speaks as if he’s revealing the reasons for creation, and the final plans God has for the world.
    -Okay, President Kabila is Rwandese, he says. Whatever, that’s fine with us. The problem is that he himself is now menacing the Congolese people and dealing with President Kagame of Rwanda to massacre our people.
    -How do you know this stuff about Kabila’s family? I mean, I’ve heard rumors about that but nobody seems to be sure.
    -I used to be in the government army with Kabila the son when his father Laurent Kabila was rebelling and then when he was in power. We worked together, in the same room. But now he is like a stranger because he is harming the Congolese people. With the Rwandese, the problem is not who they are, it’s that when they came during World War I during a famine, we received them and accepted them into our homes. If someone is starving you have to feed them do you not? And then the Second World War came, and again the famine. Again they fled to Congo and again we helped them. So now, we accepted strangers into our country and our homes but they have turned around and decided to take up arms. If they didn’t take up arms we would have no problem with them being in our country. But because of that decision, the decision to fight those who took them in when they were hungry or persecuted, what else are we to do? They are threatening our security and menacing our people. So we must fight. If it’s the Congolese government or strangers in our country, if they are menacing and massacring our people we must rebel.
     -Yes, I say. I have heard a lot of things about the FaRDC—governmental troops—being the biggest problem. When I am in the rural villages, it is all FaRDC out there, and when women and men are raped or robbed or killed, it is the governmental army. Of course, they aren’t the only ones but the worst areas for the local population, in my experience, are the areas where the FaRDC are deployed.
    -Yes, he responds. First, when you have an army that is supposed to be a fully integrated army, but you simply put Tutsis from Rwanda with Congolese who were always governmental military and then put them all with Mai-Mai, how will you succeed? If they are told to attack the FDLR, what will the Rwandans who used to be FDLR think and do? If they are told to attack Mai-Mai, or me, what will the previous Mai-Mai do? You have Rwandans who have their own ideology, Mai-Mai with another ideology, CNDP with another ideology and they are asked to fight the same battle on the same side. Is that going to succeed? No, the government has failed terribly. But how do you explain that where there are FDLR, who are strangers, there is no raping and no stealing, but in Kirumba where there are FaRDC these things happen always. We, the Mai Mai, have lived peacefully with the FDLR even though they are our enemies. And where the government has failed, we have succeeded, so of course they will demonize us.
    -How exactly have you succeeded? I ask.
    -We have had meetings. We have sat and spoken with the other rebel leaders and we have told them that it is not good to rape the people who are allowing you to stay in their homes. They are your brothers and sisters to and it is not good to harm them.
    -And it worked, just like that?
    -No, it was a process but we have made much progress and now when there is no fighting and the FaRDC are not attacking the FDLR they live normally within the Congolese communities. You see, here, you are safe. You should feel safe; other muzungus who are here or who come they will be safe. This area has many rebels but we don’t cause visitors problems. Why would we cause them problems if they are not a threat to our people?
         A guy with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder walks into the room. He reaches into the back of his pants and pulls out a pistol. The guy hands it to Lafontaine who similarly tucks it into his pants. Lafontaine notices my eyes following the weapon change hands.
    -Don’t worry, he laughs. It’s not for you. If you have no gun am I going to try to kill you? No.
          He glances at my body as if suddenly realizing he didn’t check me for guns.
    -I don’t have any weapons, I say laughing and patting my pocket less pants.
          I laugh a little too forcefully and quickly diminish to a smile. I feel like I’m lying, like I’m hiding a glock in my bra, even though I’m definitely not. This is the strangest social encounter. The General doesn’t seem to notice my awkwardness, he smiles and continues.
    -Why kill you? If you have a gun I’m going to look at you and think, what is that person trying to do with that gun? If you try to use it, then of course, I will defend myself.
          He opens one of the magazines lying on the table; it’s from 2002. He quickly flips to a certain page that’s been highlighted and underlined many times. In the article, images of Kagame and Kabila are embedded in the text and there’s a scanned image of what looks like a constitution.
    -It says here, he begins reading, that the peace agreement between Rwanda and DRC signed on the 30th of July said that Kabila would stop the acceptance and arming of Interhamwe who had fled Rwanda. Which means that Kabila was originally arming strangers in our country, and for what?
          Lafontaine turns the page and points to a box of text.
    -And you see, Nkunda, you know him?
    -Yes, he was the one who led the CNDP and was very violent but also said he was a Christian minister.
    -You see, Nkunda himself is Tutsi and he calls North Kivu, notre petit etas. As if it belongs to Rwanda. Our country is like a beautiful woman who walks by, and she will have one man looking at her as she walks. If there is one man looking at her of course there will be another. Then you have three or four men following her and then when she disappears what do you think they will talk about? They’ll talk about her. They’ll talk about her beautiful nose, her eyes, the shape of her body, the earrings she was wearing. It is like this with Congo.
    -You are a very beautiful woman I say.
          Lafontaine pauses and furrows his eyebrows.
    -CONGO! Congo is a beautiful woman, I add quickly.
          He laughs, and his is the kind of laugh you want to partake in whether something is funny or not. Joining his laughter is not difficult since I’m already so unsure of myself. I feel like I’m trying to lay flat on a telephone wire.
    -Yes, he says. And she has beautiful jewelry. Diamond earrings, golden necklace, everything else.
          A wiry old man enters the room. He’s clearly from the village. His missing teeth and leather-like skin reveal the type of life he has lived. Even though his body looks completely used up, he’s almost bouncing he’s so excited to see the General. They speak in Kinande and I can pick up enough to understand the man is telling Lafontaine about a problem he had. Lafontaine looks at the ground and shakes his head and then imparts advice to the old man.
          I think about the image the General just made, of the Congo as a beautiful woman decorated with sparkling accents. I remember his comment about the United States, Europe, and Rwanda raping Congo and it suddenly makes so much more sense. The international companies that buy minerals and supplies through Rwanda or illegally through Congolese merchants have finished discussing the beautiful woman and are rapidly trying to strip her of her beauty and wealth.
          The old man and the General speak for about ten minutes before the man leaves and LaFontaine turns back to me.
    -Maybe you can find me a muzungu wife! He says and bursts into his typical, unexpected laughter. Why not? But it will be hard to find someone who will accept to marry a rebel!
    -I’ll look for you and ask around, I say laughing as well.
          A young Congolese girl walks in and quietly places several pots of food on the table.
    -And an American especially, Lafontaine adds. I think nobody would touch me or hurt me if I married an American woman. It would become much more political and difficult.
          I quickly steer the conversation away from marrying American women.
    -Are you going to eat with us?
    -No, I can’t. The villagers have prepared a meal for me and I will eat there.
    -Eating with your brothers? I ask.
    -Yes, that’s about it. And I need to leave soon. I never sleep in the villages. I never know if someone will be upset with me or some enemy will find out where I am and come to kill me. So I sleep in the bush and I move around always.
    -A difficult life, I say.
    -Yes, a difficult life.
          Lafontaine smiles some more and then goes outside to say good bye to Dusan and the team. He says he’ll come by again while I’m in Muhanga so we can speak some more, and I find myself wanting him to drop by not just for a political science lesson, but because he’s kind of nice to have around.

The Mai-Mai General

2011-08-23T09:16:00.000-07:00

          I wake up to rapping on my door and Dusan’s morning voice yelling “Baby! Is timing to working!” When I gather myself and step outside into the children’s courtyard, Dusan is already puffing on a menthol cigarette. The Muhanga compound is arranged like an F, with the main living quarters for Conchetta, Giovanni, and their V.I.P. guests located in the bottom and back part of the letter; the longest line. Between the bottom stick and the first horizontal, is a courtyard reserved for children. Even though Dusan’s knocking officially woke me up, every day in Muhanga begins with the six a.m. shrieks of happy children outside the window.
          Maman Conchetta is a kind but feisty Italian woman who has lived alongside Father Giovanni for about 40 years. Father Giovanni is a Catholic priest, Conchetta is simply a woman who wanted a certain kind of life. She and Dusan have a never-ending battle of miscommunications. Dusan’s sometimes gruff demeanor and Conchetta’s solid refusal to take crap from anyone, make them constantly at odds.
    -We must to take breakfast, if there is some food, with Colonel Safari and then to waiting the General, Dusan says when I emerge into the sunlight.
          We walk across the children’s courtyard to a small brick building where NGO workers and the UN eat when they visit Muhanga. Inside there is espresso and a strange coos-coos concoction, supposedly left out from the night before. I greet Safari and pour espresso for each of us. Nobody touches the concoction.
    -Bonjour Aime! Exclaims Safari.
          I greet him and we tap foreheads three times in keeping with custom. Safari and I have met several times, the first being when he was in hiding near Goma. Safari had agreed demobilize through the United Nations, but for some political and military games, he ended up returning to the bush. Safari has a hard-head that looks like a bowling ball and dark eyes that are seated deep in his face. He’s appearance is frightening at first, but when he speaks he laughs every few words and I immediately enjoyed his company. I place the book I’m reading, Congo: Plunder and Resistance, on the table and sit next to Colonel Safari. Safari immediately picks up the book and begins scrutinizing it.
    -I love reading, he says to me in French. Especially when it helps me learn English.
    -That’s great. I love reading too. I think reading is very important.
          He nods his head in agreement and continues silently flipping through the pages. Dusan lights another cigarette and pours another espresso.
    -Coffee is not coffee without cigarette, he says and shrugs.
    -Can I bring up the reason I’m here now? I ask in English.
          I know Safari speaks some English but I don’t know how strong it is, and I’m sure if I speak quickly he won’t understand. The problem is, that Dusan doesn’t understand either.
    -What? Americans speaking too fast.
         I repeat the question more slowly, not really caring if Safari understands. He clearly does, as he lifts his head from the book and looks at me expectantly.
    -Why not? Dusan asks, and then leans back to continue with his morning routine.
    -Safari, I’m here because I was hoping to spend some more time with the Mai-Mai, so that I can understand better. I also want to hopefully help support your soldiers by giving them education they haven’t had access to and sensitization about sexual violence.
          I continue explaining what I’m hoping, in the roundabout way I’ve learned from Dusan and nearly everyone he speaks with. When I finish, Safari responds immediately.
    -It’s no problem, we’ll have to make sure with the General but I think it will be very good. You know, there was a Mai-Mai who raped a girl of 18 recently. And there were two civilians who raped women. They were all trapped and have already been transported to jail in Beni.
    -Really?
          I can’t hide how incredulous I am, not because of the rapes, but because Safari is telling me about them. Dusan prepared me for the fact that the Mai-Mai, as with any group, will be putting their best foot forward if I’m allowed to stay. Then again, the fact that the Mai-Mai was arrested and is in jail is another version of a best foot.
    -Yes, he continues. I think the problem is ignorance. Most of the men don’t have the information or the knowledge to know that it’s not okay.
    -I agree, I think education is very important. It’s not as simple as that, of course, which I know you know. And in order to figure out how I can help, in whatever small ways, I need to get a full image of your lives, your ideology, your everyday.
    -Yes, he says nodding enthusiastically. It’s good to get a full picture. What we are doing is revolutionary, and people say we are such bad people. Maybe you can understand more and know that it is not so. And then you can tell other people this.
          I agree emphatically to everything he says as I finish my espresso. Even though I poured Safari some coffee, he doesn’t drink caffeine so he sips on a glass of water. When Safari and I have finished our discussion, Dusan launches into a history of Italian politics, always connecting things to the situations in the ever changing Croatia. He stands up for about twenty minutes pointing to different spots on a map pasted on the wall that still references the Russian Federation as the U.S.S.R. Right when he’s really getting into it Father Giovanni walks in.
          Giovanni is a kind man with a perfectly crinkled face. He’s lived most of his life in North Kivu. He’s soft-spoken but direct, and lets Conchetta handle everything involving the house. Giovanni, however, handles security.
    -You are meeting with the General today? He asks after we finish greeting each other.
          Giovanni doesn’t speak English, so I act as translator.
    -Yes, says Dusan. You know, they have to making very good and intelligent decisions now. With pre-elections processes it’s very important that they are not playing the games they are normally playing and they are very careful and intelligent.
          Giovanni nods at the beat-around-the-bush words. Giovanni brings up some names of various Officers in different groups who have been around, and rumors he has heard. Dusan is interested in everything but can confirm nothing. I feel like a child listening to adults, but am even more uncomfortable since they’re relying on me to communicate with each other; I can’t just listen passively and pretend not to.
          When breakfast finishes, we all disburse. I go back to my room to read, Dusan disappears with a cigarette clinging frantically to his lips, and Giovanni disappears into the house to entertain four Italian guests. After a few hours, Dusan raps on the door again.
    -Okay, let us go, he says with no further explanation.
          I understand Dusan-speak better than anyone in Congo, and I realize immediately that the General has arrived. I follow Dusan around the house to the other side of the F where there is a long porch looking out on banana trees and hanging laundry, both waving nonchalantly in the wind. Father Giovanni is already sitting in a wooden chair, Colonel Safari is standing next to him, and a man who’s short and wide is standing against the railing. I walk straight up to the man against the railing.
    -General LaFontaine, he whispers leaning his head towards me. His hand is pudgy and warm.
    -It’s an honor to meet you, I whisper back not knowing why we’re whispering but feeling the importance of the meeting. I’m Amy.
          LaFontaine leans back, still holding my hand, and emits a roar of laughter. The crackling coals of his whisper evaporate immediately as if they never existed. I laugh as well, though I also don’t really know why we’re laughing. I’ve heard stories about LaFontaine’s decisive violence. Whether or not it has been the “valid” violence of war, or cruelty I don’t know. But it’s well-known that he’s capable of it. I take a seat next to Giovanni, Dusan sits on my other side. The Mai-Mai sit across from us in a row. Two other men who are clearly Mai-Mai, join their row.
          One of the new men is Colonel Vincent. Vincent and I met briefly the last time I was in Muhanga. He looks strikingly similar to comedian Dave Chappele and is quite handsome. The whites of his eyes don’t have the same stained tint as Colonel Safari’s do. The fourth man in the row is another Colonel I’ve never met and nothing in his features or demeanor stand out. He’s a phantom taking up space on the bench. I’m expecting Dusan to talk about UN business and Congo politics, but he begins immediately with me.
    -I think it is very good for you to meeting Amy, she is doing very good work here in Congo. Very serious girl from United States, she will explain.
          I’m speechless for a moment, shocked by the brevity of our introduction.
    -Well, I’m here in Congo working with sexual violence, but I’m not here in Muhanga to accuse anyone. I’m trying to understand other perspectives and hopefully I can find a way that I can also help the Mai-Mai. I’d like to understand how the Mai-Mai live and what they think about, really everything. And then I’d like to show them some information and some films that can help with basic education and sensitization.
    -So, General Lafontaine responds laughing inexplicably again. Will they get a diplomat of some sort if they speak to you? After they see your films and read your material will they graduate and have a certificate?
          I’m thrown off by the question but quickly try to recover.
    -Well, no. I don’t work for the government, or anything like that, so I can’t give Congolese certificates or diplomas.
    -Who do you work for? LaFontaine asks. He’s not laughing anymore.
    -I’m kind of an independent here, working with sexual violence.
        Dusan understand the basic French in the sentenceand shoots me a look.
    -I’m also attached to DDR/RR and the UN, I add quickly.
    -You are from the United States, LaFontaine says putting his elbows on his knees and staring directly at me. You know, when we are raped in Congo it is the U.S. that is raping us. It is the U.S. and Rwanda who are raping the Congo. So maybe you should start with your own country.
          Again, I’m thrown off balance. He makes a good point.
    -Yes, I agree, I respond. I understand the U.S. is heavily involved and Rwanda as well. But my work is more on an individual basis and in areas that have less access to information and support.
          Thankfully, Dusan cuts in. He seems to have understood the dialogue is moving towards discussion or argument. He starts explaining the “situation,” still equivocating and not actually asserting or denying anything. The elections are coming and things will be bad, everyone must to be careful, etc. He actually says, “I can’t confirming or denying anything,” several times. Maybe there is some esoteric meaning in the words, though I doubt it. Again, I am a child, nervous about participating but employed to transfer the meanings of their words. I translate.
         Giovanni sits quietly next to me. He insists on being present when meetings are held in his parish, but he just listens. Giovanni is perpetually caught in the middle of a real life game of tug-of-war. He has to play the game, or at least monitor, otherwise he’ll be trampled after ever game.
          Soon after Dusan begins talking business, his team members, Jay and Kensey, arrive. They pick up the job of translating. I’ve heard most of the information before so I mostly tune out the conversation and study the General. Despite his power and status as a rebel, the General makes me think of Santa Clause. He has a round belly and face with soft eyes and a smile like a fireplace in winter. As I watch him, the General stares directly at me and speaks in Swahili.
    -Yes, I respond in Kinande as a sort of joking way of indicating I don’t understand.
    -Did you understand, asks Jay.
    -No, I say laughing.
    -He says he is fine with what Dusan is saying but you, Jay raises a finger and points it at me. He says you could infiltrate them from here because probably you are FBI.
          I laugh but the General clearly isn’t joking.
    -Okay, with this maybe you should leave, says Dusan.
    -I’m not FBI, I say in French, but I will leave.
          I stand up and bow slightly to the General and the other Mai-Mai, then walk off the porch cussing to myself. On the other side of the F, in the children’s compound I pull out a cigarette I’ve been avoiding. Kensey quickly joins me.
    -He thinks I’m FBI, now they’ll never let me stay, I say.
    -It is because you are saying you are Independent, he responds laughing. There were people here a while ago saying Independent and they were investigators from America. Did you tell him you’re American?
    -Dusan did, I say after thinking for a moment.
          He throws his hands in the air and laughs.
    -Now you’re FBI!
    -No! That’s not good. I’m not FBI!
          Kensey keeps laughing and I can’t help but join him. I like to think I’m relatively hardened and capable, but apparently even if someone tries to steal my phone and I skin my knee I’m going to cry about it. If the FBI were in Muhanga they’d be laughing with us. Kensey goes back around to join the conversation, but I’ve been condemned as a spy so I sit in a wicker chair and watch the kids. A little girl comes up to me and places herself on my lap.
          One great thing about Muhanga is that the children are all accustomed to muzungus, though not just any muzungus. The internationals who thread through Muhanga stay for a month and go home. They don’t drive around in locked Land Rovers and aren’t fatigued by the constant presence of children, they relish it. Whether or not Big Brother in Congo is watching, the children always are; typically between eight and 40 of them. After a month the many eyes staring at you become heavy and exhausting. Mostly, the kids just watch and often cry if a muzungu gets too close; but in Muhanga they’re not afraid and it’s nice to be able to interact with them rather than simply exist as a perpetually entertaining alien.
    -Are you okay?
          I look up and see Colonel Safari standing next to me.
   -Yes, I’m fine, thank you, I say once again confused.
    -I hope you’re not uncomfortable, he continues. The General can’t trust anyone, you must understand that. He doesn’t mean to offend you. It’s like me when I first met you. Trust is always a process, but he’ll get to know you.
    -No, I’m not offended at all, I say. I completely understand.
          The fact that Safari is worried that I’m hurt by my excommunication from the group clearly signifies that he, at least, doesn’t think I’m a spy.
    -Don’t worry, I’ll speak to him and explain more, he says.
          He pats the little girl sitting with me on the head and then walks off with a wink.

Back to the Bush

2011-08-08T02:35:00.000-07:00

          We spend a few more days romping around Goma. My knee and finger don’t bend for a few days but gradually everything starts to heal. Then back through Virunga Park and into the mountains to Butembo. I only have time to drop off some donated funds for COPERMA before Dusan tells me we are going back to the bush, today. I’ve been pressing him more about the rebel project; traveling around with him is fascinating and always presents something new, but I want to start understanding the rebels so I can figure this conflict out a little better. To truly help, you have to understand as much as possible and understanding in Congo is quite elusive. Finally, a chance presents itself.
          Over the potholes and through the trees to the Bush Bed & Breakfast we go. Jay and Kensey, Dusan's team members, both join us. Dusan’s job is becoming increasingly more convoluted and demanding as the elections approach. It hasn’t yet become clear which rebels are working with whom, and apparently nobody trusts anyone anymore. We leave late in the day and neither Jay nor Kensey are happy with the decision. As we go further into the bush the road gets worse and daylight quickly dims into night. The four wheel drive on the Land Rover can manage most mud but the car hydroplanes left and right, often barely missing ditches and wayward branches.
    -No, baby, don’t do this to me, Dusan says out of nowhere.
          As we approach a large truck completely stuck in the middle of the road he starts cussing in Croatian. There’s just enough room on the left side of the truck for the Land Rover to pass but the road is a swamp of mud, and where our driver’s side tire would pass, there is a deep ditch. It’s pitch black out and the truck seems diserted. Dusan stops before the tiny space next to the truck and keeps muttering cusswords. Jay and Kensey both get out of the car and disappear on the other side of the immobile truck. When they come back they are accompanied by about six men of all ages. The men are covered in dried mud.
    -Stay in the car, says Dusan as he climbs out.
          They start taking rough measurements of the space available and the width of the Land Rover. It looks like we can fit but the car will be scratched by branches on the left and the metal of the truck on the right. This is not safe territory to remain in and we can’t turn back at this hour so I’m sure we’re at least going to try. The men pull out shovels and start shoveling away the replenishing mud in the road. Some chop at the mud wall on the Land Rover’s left trying to make more space to pass.
    -This is not good, says Dusan getting back into the driver’s seat. Hold on extremely tight.
          He revs the engine, switches on the four wheel drive and we slide forward towards the tiny space. Just as we pass next to the front bender of the truck the left side of the Land Rover falls into the ditch and I’m lofted into the air. Dusan accelerates but the tires only scream at him. The car is irrevocably stuck and is slanted at a 50 degree angle. I have to hold onto the door handle to avoid tumbling onto Dusan. Dusan’s door is pinned against the mud wall so I have to climb out of the car in order to let him out on my side. My feet are sucked into the mud and I almost fall several times in the slippery darkness.
          Dusan goes to talk to the mud covered men and the shoveling continues. I notice a light behind the truck and head towards it. The men have started a large campfire in the middle of the road.
    -They’ve been stuck here for three days, exclaims Kensey when I sit down on a log in front of the crackling fire.
    -Three days? Did they bring food to eat?
    -I don’t know, he says. They must have brought something.
          Within only a few minutes all of the mud covered men return to the camp fire and I hear more words of fire explode from Dusan’s mouth. I walk back to the car.
    -They’re too lazy to helping us, he yells.
    -They’ve been digging their truck all day, retorts Jay. They are not lazy they are tired.
          I agree with Jay.
    -This is not good. I have never stucking overnight. Ever.
          Dusan walks off to speak to Kensey by the fire.
    -We’re going to sleep here, says Jay. I always say we need to leave early. And I am always right and Dusan never listens to me. I’m always right and nobody every notices!
    -You were right Jay, I say and pat him on the back. I noticed.
          He walks over to Dusan and Kensey still sulking. They chat for a few minutes and I stand in a puddle of mud surrounded by a cloak of blackness. The cloud cover is too think to see the stars and the only senses I have are the coolness of the night air and the insect sounds filling the blackness all around me.
    -We need to call Father Giovanni, Dusan says, returning to the car. We have to use the satellite phone. Do you have his number?
          Both Jay and Kensey shake their heads. Dusan pulls out the SAT phone anyway, hoping to call someone who can give us the number. Father Giovanni is the head priest in the community where we are going. I've named it The Bush Bed and Breakfast, since it's in the middle of what's referred to as "the bush," yet has internet, 24 hour electricity, a washing machine, and the best Italian cuisine south of Sudan. When Dusan pulls out the SAT phone he cusses some more, this time in English and Croatian.
    -Kurats Usladuledu, f#$*ing phone. Battery is dead.
          Jay and Kensey both laugh.
    -Let’s charge it, says Kensey.
          When he finds the charger, they have to tape it to the phone to get it to work. Now to get service. With the cloud cover the service is almost non-existent. Seeing as Dusan has been reduced to pure profanity, I walk back over to the fire and Jay follows me. When I get there they are roasting something on a stick. It looks like a hand puppet. When I take a closer look, I see what looks like the charred remains of an extremely large rat; it’s mouth is open in a scream and it’s arms stick out straight with no paws on the end. It looks like a smaller version of the swamp rat that attacks Wesley in The Princess Bride. The animal has been cut in half and there is light red blood filling the inside.
    -What is that? I ask.
    -It’s like a porcupine, says Jay.
    -Did it have spikes when they caught it?
          It looks nothing like a porcupine.
    -No, it’s not a porcupine actually. It’s a forest rat.
          I lean in to take a closer look as the guys all laugh at my astonishment. I work hard to keep disgust off my face.
    -They said they got lucky today, Jay translates for an older man in the group. They haven’t eaten almost anything in days, but today one of them caught this rat.
          Jay points to one of the younger guys. The guy takes out a machete, places the bottom half of the rat on the log he’s sitting on and begins hacking it into small pieces.
    -It’s good meat, says Jay.
          All I see is black flesh and shiny red blood; no meat. The older man who just spoke points to me, points to the rat and then makes the motion of eating.
    -Thank you, that’s very kind but I don’t want to take any of your small meal.
          Jay translates and the men all see the nervousness written on my face and laugh.
    -That could make me sick, right? I ask Jay.
    -Yes, it’s better not to eat it.
    -Bonne appetite! I say.
          Jay and I walk back to the car, sharing the one flashlight we have. Kensey is perched on the window sill of the passenger’s side door holding the SAT phone up to the sky for service. After several attempts and a few broken conversations, Kensey is able to contact Father Giovanni. Giovanni doesn’t know if he can help, but he’ll see if there are men willing to come at this hour with a car.   They’ll need a Mai Mai escort since this is Mai Mai and FDLR territory.
    -Well, why don’t we to eat something? Dusan says when everything is tentatively arranged.
          Everyone gets back in the car. Due to the slant I have to put my feet on the side of Dusan’s seat and hold onto the door handle. It’s like sitting on top of a steep roof with only one side of the roof to work with. We pull out the salami, bread, and cheese that we brought and Jay and Kensey bring out cans of sardines.
    -It’s a picnic! Yells Jay, laughing.
          Kensey pulls out a bottle of Hunter’s Choice Whiskey.
    -The best picnic ever!
          He fills the top of the bottle with whiskey and hands it to me.
    -Your glass, Madame.
    -Thank you.
          We eat quickly and with a small measure of whiskey in each of us we settle in for the night, uncertain whether or not people will come to help. Dusan is comfortably pressed against his door, cozily weighted down with the pull of gravity. I, on the other hand, have a bit more trouble. I consider opening my door and hanging out but with the other men nearby Dusan won’t allow it. I curl into a fetal position but have to cling to the door handle and wrap my arm over the side of my seat to stay aloft. Finally, after a few hours of cramping and clinging, I’m able to hook my body in just such a way as to not have to actively hold on and still stay in one place. I begin to drift off.
    -They’re coming? I hear Dusan mumble in his sleep.
    -Yeah, maybe they’ll come, I mumble back.
          Kensey is stretched out on the back seat snoring loudly; Jay is curled up in the trunk.
    -No, they’re coming! Dusan yells.
          I sit up quickly, forgetting to grab the door handle and almost tumble onto Dusan. I grab it just in time and see headlights moving towards us through the darkness. The mud covered men are sleeping under a large tarp in the middle of the road and at first I’m afraid the car will drive over them, but the car stops and the men stumble out from under the tarp. Within seconds there are men by my window.
    -Bonsoir! Each of them says smiling at me.
          At first I think they’re the guys who tried to help us earlier and I’m amazed at how quickly they jumped from sleeping to digging. I soon realize these are the men Giovanni sent; the other guys are stationed around the coals of their fireplace once again. The new men work quickly, digging mud from around the tires and attaching a long yellow cord to their car and ours. I stumble around groggily, trying to comprehend their energy and not lose a shoe in the mud. After about 30 minutes they’ve towed the car free of the ditch, the mud, and the truck. Jay, Kensey, and I hoot in celebration and Dusan gives me a high five. It’s almost 3 a.m. We make it to Father Giovanni’s around 4 in the morning and every single one of us immediately collapses into a horizontal bed.
          Tomorrow we are to meet with the General of the Mai Mai group. General Kakule Sikuli Vasaka LaFontaine, leader of the largest and most influential Mai Mai group currently in Congo, has walked several days through the bush to meet with Dusan. I'm going to throw in my two cents and see where it lands; the goal is to stay for a while.

The Candy Shop

2011-07-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

          Ah, Goma. The city of wazungu, whiskey, and prostitution. After dropping off the bullet man, Dusan and I snake our way through the grey city to the House of the Former Yugoslavia. Understandably, individuals working for the United Nations tend to clump in houses based on nationality and language. In our large green house over-looking Lake Kivu there are two Serbians, one Croatian, Russians and Ukranians in and out, and then randomly two gentlemen from East Timoor. When we arrive Dusan immediately pours us each a small glass of Johnnie Walker Red Label Whiskey. Even if there is work to be done, Goma is always a slight vacation for both of us; friends, fancy restaurants, and flirtations abound.
          One of the Serbian men in the house is Zander; a hopeless romantic though married man with children. His story is nothing new. Most of the International men in the mission, once away from their wives and children, relive their glory days or create ones if they never had them. After briefly catching up and settling in, Dusan, Zander and I go out for a quick dinner (lasagna and escalope cordon bleu—with whiskey on the side) then out to the clubs. Most clubs are “off limits” for United Nations workers due to the plethora of sex workers and the inability of the men to resist. Goma is truly a candy shop filled with little boys, each running around gaily picking candies off the shelf. Try one put it back, move on to the next brightly colored sparkling sweet thing.
          It’s not like in Butembo; even though the Association of Women Living Alone consists of 6,000 women who are all potential sex workers. In Butembo you can spend hours in a local nightclub and never know that every woman inside is looking for a fare. In Goma you can’t walk through the door without having beautiful smiles and over-enthusiastic laughter clinging to you like smoke. At B-Club we meet up with our friend from a previous trip, Charlie. Charlie is an international who has been living in Congo for several years. The club is full, the dance floor is throbbing and neon lights make everyone glow different colors. Dusan immediately gets to work. He flits through the crowd greeting women he knows; a hug here, a peck there.
    -You know, I don’t get it, says Charlie, bringing me a beer. I’ve fallen off the wagon a few times when really drunk and taken home a woman, but I always hate it and it’s never fulfilling. Even if the woman speaks a little bit of English there’s never any semblance of a connection. It’s mostly just depressing.
          We both sit on the back of an outdoor couch and watch the gyrating crowd, sparkling under a disco ball.
    -Yeah, that’s how it seems like it would be to me. But then again, I don’t know anything anymore. I used to be kind of uncomfortable with all of this but now it’s just like, who cares?
    -I can’t judge them. The women. They need to make a living and this is the best way to do it. I just don’t like to be the one helping them make a living.
    -Yeah definitely. And I guess for the men, as long as they aren’t abusive or disrespectful, it’s their business. But, I mean, like Zander, for example.
          I point into the crowd where Zander is actually speaking to a woman he knows from Croatia.
    -I’ve spoken to him a bunch about this. He truly believes that women he takes home are genuinely interested in him, rather than simply looking for money. But the woman he’s seeing right now has a Congolese boyfriend. It’s well known. And she often asks him for exorbitant amounts of money.
          Charlie laughs.
    -I don’t get it either. Here, let me get you another beer.
          He gets up and walks back into the fray. I sidle over to a standing table where Dusan has joined Zander and the Croatian woman. Dusan introduces me as his bodyguard and personal secretary before they switch back into Serbo-Croatian chatter. Every now and then Dusan jumps away from the table to say hi to a newcomer.
    -Nice enough legs, normal size, good ass, yeah? He says returning to the table, as we both watch the woman walk into the crowd.
          After every woman he inspects her body and asks me what I think. I’ve never checked out so many women in my life. It’s strange, and I feel like I too am treating the women like different shaped pieces of candy.
    -I just got offered two free blow-jobs, says Charlie returning and handing me a beer.
          Dusan breaks into laughter.
    -Both said it would be the best in my entire life, continues Charlie laughing too.
    -Yes, always it will be the best, says Dusan.
          Dusan is pulled back into the Yugoslav conversation by Zander.
    -I told them it would cost them thirty dollars, Charlie says and we both laugh.
    -That’s a perfect answer. I bet they were pretty confused.
    -Yeah, they thought I meant I would pay them, but I said no, you’ll have to pay me. They declined.
          I laugh for a moment and then we both fall silent. I’m tired of talking about sex workers; whether sizing up their beauty or discussing the ethical complexities, it makes up 80 percent of the conversation in Goma.
    -So, Charlie, I say. You’ve been in the mission awhile right?
    -Yes ma’am. A few years.
          He takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it; another characteristic of United Nations living. He hands the pack to me and I slide out a bad decision and light it.
    -Well, I continue. So many people in the U.N. talk about what they don’t like about working in a mission or how hard it is. And I know it’s not easy, it’s a very solitary life and your job is everything. But then people also stay in for so long. And I’ve heard you say that you missed out on things in your country, for example. I guess what I’m getting at is, do you regret it? Or, if you had the chance would you do it differently?
          Charlie takes a drag from his cigarette and thinks for a moment.
    -I don’t think even if I wanted to do it differently that I could.
    -What do you mean?
    -I think to live this kind of life you have to have something a little off. Emotionally, chemically, I don’t know. But people who live this kind of life and do this work are people who maybe seek out being alone or solitary. They’re able to handle loneliness but maybe they also seek it out.
    -Do you feel like an outsider even when you go home?
    -Of course, he laughs. This is a parallel universe. How am I going to have small talk at home about talking to murderers and rapists?
    -Yeah, I know what you mean.
    -It’s hard for people to understand because… this is Congo. We live here. And it’s not sensational and it’s not thrilling and it’s hard. It’s living and it’s up and down but within a parallel universe. I mean, I’ll spend the day with rebels who are murderers and then go kill people in a game on my Xbox.
          He laughs.
    -It’s fucking weird, man. But to be honest, I don’t feel anything anymore; unless I decide to.
          He looks at the ground and then gives me a c’est ca look.
    -I think I’m starting to understand that, I say.
    -Oh well, that’s life my friend. But I need a break.
    -Baby! Dusan says, prancing over to us.
          He leans over and gives me a kiss on the forehead. He always gets a little fatherly-affectionate when he’s drinking.
    -I think we must to go to another club. The titty situation here is not so good.
          He and Charlie laugh.
    -Were you doing titty reconnaissance? I ask.
    -Yes! Exactly! Titty reconnaissance, I’m liking this. But let us go yes? It is good idea?
    -Sure, I say. The titty’s all look the same to me anyway.
          We walk to a nearby club with an outdoor bar under a gazebo. Again, Dusan greets various women, but there’s a problem. Zander’s current love interest is present and she’s ignoring him. He sits at a table and starts glaring at her.
    -Uh oh, this is not good, says Dusan making his way back to me. We must to watch him all night. I am not understanding this, it is not good. You know, I am telling him he should just have fun talking to these women and such but not bring them home. You know, I am not bringing them home. I am dancing and enjoying but then I am giving them money for taxi and saying, go.
          He makes a shooing motion with his hand.
    -I will give them some money to helping them but I don’t want to take them home with me. But Zander, no. He must not only sleep with them but get emotionally involved. This is terrible business, I am telling you.
    -He looks pretty angry.
          Dusan walks over to the plastic table where Zander is sitting and glowering at a woman. Zander’s face is dark; he looks exactly like a little boy who’s lollypop was stolen. The woman is a girl, she’s only 20 according to Zander. But she’s tall, slender, has an eyebrow piercing and holds herself as if the entire scene will disappear on her say so. She’s beautiful but I can see that she’s calculating her movements and directing them at Zander.
    -He needs to stay away from that, says Charlie offering me another beer.
    -Yeah. He’s kinda like a child even though he’s almost 40. Most of the men are in Goma.
          Suddenly, I’m enveloped by dark wavy hair, the thick smell of perfume, and arms around my waist. I lean back and see a woman who’s famous as a sex worker in Goma. While the 20 year old Zander is staring at thinks she is controlling the room, this woman is always in control.
    -Hey baby! Glad to see you, she yells.
          She starts to sway her hips and dance around. I join her for a few half-hearted minutes before telling her my legs are tired. She practically sashays off to someone else she knows. She knows everyone.
    -She’s impressive, says Charlie leaning against a wooden pole of the straw roofed gazebo.
    -You mean attractive?
    -No. Well, she’s okay. But she is the Queen Bee, the Mother Hen and she has been for years. It’s amazing these women stay alive at all; it’s a dog eat dog business.
          It’s true. Even though there are no pimps in Goma, it’s not an easy business and there’s a strictly regulated hierarchy.
    -Yeah, I respond. I spoke to a beautiful young girl from Burundi last time I was in Goma. She said she started selling sex to send her younger siblings to school. Both of her parents were killed in Burundi so she and her siblings moved to Goma. When she first started coming out to the clubs she was beaten up several times by the more established sex workers.
    -They have to maintain their structures, he says.
          I nod my head and watch a rather large man with white hair, clearly over sixty, grind on the dance floor with a gorgeous woman who can’t be more than twenty.
    -I’m going to go ask Dusan something, I sigh and walk off.
         I’m ready to go home.
    -Don’t worry about it, I say patting Zander’s back when I get to his table.
          Dusan seems to take my presence as his ticket to freedom and he bounces off towards a young woman who’s dancing very seductively. Zander doesn’t want to talk so I sit with him and watch the young girl pull his puppet strings. Finally, after a few more songs and Charlie’s departure, we’re able to tear Zander away from slender girl with the ‘tude. We walk back up the street to the first club where the car is parked but when we get there the gate is closed. Dusan pounds on the metal and Zander shakes his head, clearly still thinking about the girl.
          It happens so fast I don’t even hear myself scream. Within a second someone’s arms grab me and throw me onto the ground. The phone on a cord around my neck was the target but the cord doesn’t break. Within an instant Zander is next to me helping me up.
    -Amy! Are you okay? He yells.
          Before I can respond he yells, “your phone!” and runs off after the young man and his friends. Zander catches them at the end of the road where there is an intersection. I stumble forward holding my phone in front of me.
    -He didn’t get it! I try to yell but it comes out more as a squeak.
          Under the dim orange light of a street lamp I can see Zander’s fist rise into the air and then drop towards the man on the ground. The man’s friends are doing nothing, just watching in a stunned circle. Zander is a huge man and his anger has been simmering without climax all night.
          He’s going to kill him, is all I can think.
          The light from the street lamp perfectly surrounds them like a spotlight; it makes them look like they are glittering.
    -He didn’t get it! I try again, but the sound that comes out is still pathetic.
          I’m moving too slowly, but Dusan appears from behind me. He moves in front of me and runs to where Zander is still on top of the man. I don’t know if Dusan pulls him off or simply yells at him. Once I see Dusan moving to control Zander I look away from them and start to take inventory. My knee is bleeding and swollen and my left pinky finger is definitely jammed. Both of my hands are bleeding and the left part of my chest is already throbbing.
    -Are you okay? Zander asks again when he gets back with Dusan.
          He’s breathing heavily.
    -Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for helping me. They didn’t get my phone.
          I give him a hug as someone finally opens the gate. As we walk to the car Dusan and Zander speak rapidly in Croatian cusswords I understand. Yebenti Matera! Kurats!
    -You know, there was a police officer there with a gun, says Zander switching to English. For a second I almost took the gun and killed him. I was afraid I would kill him.
    -So was I, I say softly.
          Zander gives me another protective hug before we climb into the car and the adrenaline that flooded my system starts to dissipate. I know I’m okay but my body is trembling and I try to conceal it when I start crying. It’s embarrassing in front of these two military officers but with the declining adrenaline it’s completely out of my control.
    -Fucking Goma, says Dusan. That police was helping them to attack you. You saw he was right there when they grabbed you and he did nothing. Why were you behind us? You should have been in front of us. This should never to happen. Did you speak to those guys? Didn’t you see them?
    -I was only a step or two behind you, I say defensively. And no, I barely saw them. He grabbed me from behind.
          I can tell he’s just angry that I was hurt but I’m not so excited about the insinuation that it was my fault a guy tried to rob me. Back at the house Zander uses vodka to clean my hands and knee and then seems to realize he has iodine and uses that. They discuss the situation some more, venting their anger. I finally succeed in calming the trembling in my body.
    -Well, I’m okay, you’re okay and you’re okay, I say after a few moments, with a steady voice. And they didn’t even get my phone! So, life is good, yeah?
    -Yes, says Dusan. This is good way of thinking.
    -Well, thank you for your help gentleman. I think that was enough excitement for me for one evening. Goodnight.
          I leave them sitting on the porch, where Zander stays for another few hours hoping the young sex worker will stop by as promised. She doesn’t and the candy shop closes for the night.

This is Africa, Baby

2011-07-18T08:49:00.000-07:00

          The “Congolese” FDLR rebel who was recently shot, has admitted that he is Rwandese. With this new information the United Nations mandate covers him and he can be helped. Dusan and I are to pick him up from the hospital in Kaina and continue the 4 hour drive across the bumpy roads to Goma.
    -That trip is not going to be comfortable, I say to Dusan before we leave Lubero.
          The morning of our departure I drove the motorcycle from Butembo to Lubero, and am now waiting for Dusan to “wake-up.” Even if he wakes up at 9 a.m. he often needs to sit on a couch in his pajamas sipping coffee, Coca, and cigarettes until well after-noon. He told me to be in Lubero no later than ten, but it’s already noon and he’s lighting another cigarette.
    -I don’t care for his comfortability, says Dusan putting the cigarette to his mouth.
    -Well, I’m just saying with six recent bullet holes, riding in the back of a landrover is going to suck.
    -I don’t to care, he says more forcefully. This guy is piece of shit. Absolute piece of shit. You know why he was shotted? He went to kill a motortaxi driver and the passenger to steal the moto. The passenger was an officer in the FaRDC and shot back. So, because of this, I don’t care of his comfortability. Piece of shit.
          I nod my head in contemplation and relative agreement. I’ve mostly stopped trying to decide what I think about things or how they make me feel. It’s all too confusing and layered at this point to make any headway. After another two hours, Dusan finally calls Jay to come pick us up and we head south to Kaina together. Jay is not happy about the time of departure and he huffs into the back seat before settling in with his arms across his chest, muttering about driving at night. Dusan is relatively quiet, something which only happens when he’s completely exhausted or in serious contemplation. I’m somewhat grateful for the reprieve.
          We arrive in Kaina just after evening falls and we go straight to the hospital. The man has been transferred to a more private room. He’s lying stretched across two beds, this time with his bandages showing. He has been shot four times in the chest and twice in the leg. We’re taking him to Goma to have his leg amputated at a better hospital. Something in his face looks somewhat smug this time, and the intensity of his gaze on me makes me reflexively zip up my jacket. I shudder, and leave the room.
          Tilapia fish, rice, cabbage, Coca, and cigarettes, in a nearby restaurant before the three of us glide through the silent darkness of the village to a local parish with decent lodging. Watch a movie, go to bed. In the morning Jay and Dusan ask a few local guys to help them fix something on one of the tires. The back of the Land Rover is open and there are several mattresses and a blanket rolled up inside.
    -I’m assuming those are for the man to lie on? I ask Jay when he walks up to me.
    -Yes, he will sleep on it. And there’s one other guy from Kaina who will be back there.
         I stop speaking and imagine the semi-smug guy from yesterday. It slips out of my mouth before I finish formulating the thought.
    -That’s going to smell terrible, I say and cringe immediately.
          Jay gives me a look. Not exactly the most compassionate reaction.
    -Don’t worry we’ll open the windows, he says.
   -Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fine I say, trying to sound like less of a jerk.
          It wasn’t the most compassionate response, no, but the smell of healing and dying flesh mixed with the metallic odor of blood and antiseptic is one of the most horrible recipes I’ve encountered. I remember it well from my years as a volunteer Emergency Medical Technician Co-Pilot.
          Before we can remove the man from the hospital, we need permission from the FaRDC commander. The FDLR soldier is technically under arrest for being a rebel, and for attacking an FaRDC officer. The governmental military camp is only a few minutes away from the hospital. It’s not what I’m expecting. Most FaRDC camps are huts made with sticks and draped with tarps and cloth; they’re old-fashioned tents that can be easily destroyed and moved. This camp is a large, Belgian era building and when we drive in there are several uniformed soldiers playing volleyball in the yard. They smile and give us a thumbs-up as we drive by. We’re taken to a large stick gazebo to escape the full force sun and speak with the Commander.
          After a few minutes a squat man with a wrestler’s body and an intelligent face walks in. He’s wearing civilian clothes and shakes all of our hands without smiling. Officers never smile.
    -So, we are here to speak with you because under the United Nations mandate, we can to remove the man who was shotted and take him to have better care. I need to let you know we are not taking him to release or give special treatment. We are not here to letting terrorists free. When we are to transfer him, we will to inform the FaRDC battalion in Goma and they will to take over his arrest. He can to be repatriated in Rwanda, if FaRDC says this is okay, or he can to be tried and judged in Congo. We are simply to get him to better hospital care.
          Jay translates and the Commander nods his head knowingly. When Jay finishes the man leans forward in his chair.
    -For your mission, this is not problem for me, he says. I know very well about DIH –Droits International Humanitaire—(International Human Rights) in fact I am the one who said he needed to be taken to the hospital. He needs to get the best treatment possible so that he can get better and live, and then he will be judged in accordance with either Rwandese or Congolese law. For me, what you are doing is not a problem.
          Interesting, an FaRDC officer who seems to be genuinely concerned with the law. It probably would have been easier to kill the FDLR rebel, and more often than not, that’s what happens. This Commander is a positive anomaly.
    -Great, says Dusan after Jay translates. And I want to say thank you for all of the work you are doing and thank you for the operations you performed recently. We were able to extracting many from the bush so thank you.
         The Commander smiles slightly and nods his head some more.
    -We must to continue this work we are doing, Dusan continues. And the most important thing is peace. This is most important thing. We are to finishing what we started.
          We all stand up and shake hands. Into the sun, back in the car, return to the hospital. I follow Dusan into the room where the man is still being held and treated. When I walk in his bandages are bloody and the smell engulfs me like an invisible wall of smoke. There is a sickening addition to the smell; something is not healing properly. I resist the urge to put my hand over my nose and mouth but turn and walk back into the warm, fresh air.
    -Don’t worry, says Jay walking up beside me. They will clean the wounds.
    -Yeah, it’s okay. I’m not worried about it.
          Dusan joins us and we start unrolling the mattresses and cleaning the dust from the back of the car. The space is only large enough for one man, sitting up. Dusan drives the car over to the door leading to where the man is staying and props the back doors open. Jay and I stand a few feet away and stare at the car. Through a back window I can see Jay’s red backpack poking up next to a roll of toilet paper. It looks like we’re going on a camping trip.
    -The space is not big enough, says Jay. This man will suffer greatly.
    -Why didn’t we get an ambulance? I ask.
          An ambulance is just a Land Rover with no backseats, but at least the man would be able to lie down.
    -I don’t know. Ask Dusan.
          He says it as if either he simply doesn’t want to have to deal with the task, or he thinks Dusan did it so that the man would suffer.
    -This man will die, he says.
    -Today?
    -No, but soon. He is shot all across the chest.
          He points to four spots, more or less covering his lungs.
    -It’s amazing he’s alive at all, I say. Especially in Congo.
    -Yes. You see.
          Jay walks off to inspect the back of the car and Dusan walks over to me and lights a cigarette.
    -Dusan, why didn’t you get an ambulance?
            He looks down at me as if I just asked what country we’re in.
    -Because, he pauses. If I am asking for ambulance this will take several months to arrange and they will not to go until security escort is come. Man will die and then they will say, okay we are ready. Come on, Amy.
          He pauses and then pats me on the back.
    -This is Africa, baby.
    -Dusan, says Jay walking back to us. I think we can lower the back seat and make enough room for the man to lie down.
    -You think so?
          Dusan tosses his cigarette onto the ground and the two of them walk back to the car. Within a few minutes they have pushed the back seat up and the mattresses fit easily.
    -You and me will both sit up front with Dusan, says Jay.
    -Ҫa va.
          When they’ve finished cleaning the man’s wounds and given him a shot of pain medication, six nurses carry him out on one of the mattresses. He looks like a skeleton. His normally high cheekbones are like wooden slates propping up the skin on his face and his body seems to sink into nothing once his ribs end. I smile at him but he looks through me. Someone places the blanket across his body and sets a plastic bag next to his head.
    -Okay, we are to go, says Dusan. We must to pick the other guy.
          I climb into the front seat next to Dusan and Jay climbs in on my right.
    -I think we will to reach Kivanga in a few hours and we will stop to take some omelete.
    -With the guy? I ask pointing behind me.
    -No, of course he won’t eat he’ll stay in the car.
          If I had a man riddled with bullet holes and a leg to be amputated in my car, I definitely would not stop for omelets. But Dusan always knows best so I keep my mouth shut. A few minutes down the road into Kanyabayonga village we pull over to pick up someone who will watch over the bullet man. A young man climbs into the car carrying a bag that’s long and clinks. He sits down awkwardly next to the bullet man’s head and tries to find a place for his feet. There is almost no space. The door opens again and another man climbs in.
    -You’re both coming? I ask surprised.
    -Yes, one responds.
          The door opens again and a third man climbs in.
    -Jeez, I mumble and shake my head.
          One man drapes his legs across the bullet man who is staring at them with wide eyes. The third guy squats next to the bullet man’s chest. If the car swerves he will definitely land on the man’s chest wounds.
    -Okay, let’s go.
    -Three people? I ask Dusan.
    -Yes, why not? It is fine. Don’t worry. Hakuna Matatiso- No problems.
          Our first flat tire occurs on the mountain descent leading to Virunga National Park. One of the guys in the back, who calls himself Charlie Hotel, starts changing the tire. Dusan walks up to me and takes my arm. He has a small stick in his hand and he pretends to poke me in the arm with it as if it’s a syringe.
    -Sorry, I have small veins. They always have trouble sticking me, I say.
    -No, this is what they are telling you. But really they are having trouble because you have too much grass.
          Grass is Dusan’s word for fat. He starts chuckling to himself. I kick a stone at him.
    -No, I know this is small veins issue, I’m only kidding, he says.
          I reach out and point to his veins which are large and clear under his skin.
    -Well, you’re old, I say.
    -Oooooh! He howls. Now it is one to one yes? This is good!
          He raises his hand and gives me a high five and then walks off still laughing.
          Charlie Hotel only takes a few minutes to change the tire. You can’t drive in Congo without a spare so we have to make it to the Indian battalion in the Park. It’s about an hour drive to the Indian battalion, if we get a flat we’ll be stranded with a dying man in the car. Dusan drives less carefully than Jay and I are comfortable with. Both of us wince and make exclamations each time a tire hits a sharp hole.
    -Hakuna problemas! Says Dusan. Don’t worry so much.
          We make it to the Indian battalion and they are able to switch the tube in the flat tire. It takes about an hour and I stay in the sweltering car, glancing back at the bullet man from time to time. I watch him slowly untie the knots in the plastic bag by his head to reveal a piece of stale bread. His hands tremble as he slowly rips off pieces and brings them to his mouth. I consider trying to help him but can’t figure out anything to do.
    -You know what is funny, Dusan says returning to the car. We have three weapons in the car and they are pretending to watching security. It is funny, you know. And one of these guys with us is an ex-combatant. He’s being extracted too. They can to be attacked even from inside.
          I remember the clinking plastic bag one of the guys brought in. Two FDLR ex-combatants and three AK-47s in the car, but the bullet man couldn’t use a gun if he wanted to, and the other ex-combatant seems pretty mild. They finish repairing the tire but the outside casing of the tire has also split, and before we drive off again, Dusan points out the wire they used to stich the split together. There’s no way it will hold.
          We leave the Indian battalion and drive for about an hour before Jay rolls down his window and I notice the loud fssssssssssssssssss coming from the front tire.
    -Stop! He exclaims.
          We climb out once again and Charlie Hotel gets to work. I notice that the third man in our car is wearing a t-shirt that says, CAUTION: Alcohol Testing- Risk of projectile vomiting, verbal diarrhea, gaseous emissions, uncoordinated movements.
          The area of the park we are in is one of the least secure pieces of passable road in North Kivu. A German NGO worker was shot in this stretch a few months ago and people are often attacked and looted. Jay seems to notice this at the same time.
    -This is great. If we are to be attacked, this is the place, I’m telling you. This is where they are.
          He nods his head in the direction of the FDLR ex-combatant.
    -Yeah, but we’re with their friends so maybe they won’t attack us, I say.
    -Are you kidding? He says and laughs. This gives them more reason to beat us because we are extracting their people.
          It’s an interesting balance. On the one hand we’re trying to save the life of one of their soldiers, and on the other we’re decreasing the number of their forces.
    -Okay, finish! Says Charlie Hotel standing up. But this is not strong tire so you should drive carefully.
          Back in the car. Jay climbs in next to me and explodes in laughter. We’re all a bit giddy at this point.
    -The minibus behind us stopped! He says still laughing. They thought we were being looted and they were getting ready to run.
          Dusan takes off, and caution is not a word that could be used to describe his driving. Jay winces for the tire, I wince for the bullet man.
    -Should we to let the minibus pass? Dusan asks, accelerating as the minibus climbs up on our left side.
          Dusan has a thing about other vehicles not passing him, even though when others don’t let him pass he always yells that they are just trying “to showing the dick size.” Jay and I respond at the same time.
    -We have a sick man, I blurt out.
    -The tire! Yells Jay.
          Dusan hunches his shoulders and stops accelerating.
    -A minibus to passing us, he mutters.
          Suddenly Jay lets out a shriek next to me.
    -EEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!! An Elephant!! Dusan, Dusan!
          Dusan slams to a halt in front of a massive elephant standing next to the road. Jay and Dusan both climb out of the car and take turns taking pictures standing next to the elephant. When Jay gets back in he’s ecstatic and makes me look at the photo of him next to the elephant at least three times. He’s Congolese and his excitement confuses me.
          In Kivanga, we stop for omelettes, fries, and fried chicken. We need to fix the spare tire again, so we have an excuse to order more than just omelets. The sun is setting and shortly after leaving Kivanga the tire pops a third time. Charlie Hotel sighs and cusses a few times but takes a cigarette from Dusan and changes the tire again quickly. Jay mumbles some more about why it’s important to leave in the morning and not lounge around smoking cigarettes. I glance constantly at the bullet man and the three other men continuously tell me everything’s okay.
          After about six hours we make it to Goma and drop the bullet man off in the DDR/RR repatriation camp. He made it through alive and only verbally acknowledged his pain towards the end. Just outside of Goma, I see a half-broken bicycle with three boys clinging to it as it rockets down the road. The boy in front is wearing a white shirt that’s miraculously clean in an atmosphere heavy with grey dust. On the front of the shirt in large block letters it reads: I HEART PARIS HILTON.
          This is Africa, baby. Whatever that means.

Genocide

2011-07-09T08:50:00.001-07:00

          Mangurajipa is inaccessible by road. While preparing to leave, Jay, Dusan’s translator, speaks with several truck drivers who attempted the road and had to turn back. I’m disappointed that we can’t go to the village I’ve been curious about since speaking with a gold salesman, but also glad we didn’t start the trip and have to spend hours digging the car out of the mud in an area where safety is never a certainty.
          The next day Dusan calls me.
    -We will go to Kaina, he says. To Arrange The Things.
          I wonder to myself if I’ll ever be able to have a professional meeting without referencing The Things. Kaina is south of Lubero, so I head out on my motorcycle to meet Dusan and his team in Lubero. There is nothing like driving across the rocky, potholed, muddy roads of Congo on my motorcycle with music playing under my helmet. The country is beautiful no matter where you go, no matter how bad the roads are. Women carrying bundles of sticks and babies line the roads, next to men pushing goods on toothpick bicycles. Even when the rains threaten, there is something comforting about Congo. The country is a well-intentioned but cruel lover, and no matter how it hurts you or those around you, you can never stop loving it.
          In Lubero, after Dusan smokes a few cigarettes and all phones are charged, Jay, Dusan, another team member named Kensy, and myself pile into the UN car. Kaina is only three hours away, a short distance in comparison to most DDR/RR trips. We hurtle through the countryside as Dusan gives history lessons and discusses The Things with Kensy and Jay. When we arrive in Kaina the sun is just beginning to set. I don’t know what Things we are arranging but we pull into the dirt courtyard of a small hospital.
    -I think we should speak first with the Commander of FaRDC, says Jay.
          My heart pops into my throat and I have to work hard to suppress it. With all of the rebel forces in Congo, the governmental forces frighten me the most. They have the “law” behind them, no matter how corrupt or non-existent that law is and thus they have more power than simply the power of a gun. They cause more chaos in this country than any rebel, but much less than any politician.
    -We have to check The Things first, says Dusan.
          All of us file out of the car.
    -What are we doing here? I ask Dusan.
          He’s wearing his black sunglasses to shield the sharp rays of the setting sun.
    -We must to see a man who was shot.
    -Is he FaRDC?
    -No, he’s FDLR. He was shot in some ambush.
          A man wearing a Doctor’s white coat comes out of one of the small concrete buildings to speak with Jay and Kensy. When they finish Kensy turns to us and translates.
    -The man is having his wounds dressed, we must wait about thirty minutes.
    -Okay, says Dusan puckering his lips. Let us go to take something to eat.
         Back in the white vehicle, ten minutes up the road to a small concrete building where we stop often to take tilapia fish and Coca-Cola. Dusan immediately starts with a history lesson. His favorite topics are World War I, World War II, and of course, the wars for Independence of the former Yugoslavia.
    -You know in World War II 80,000 victims were German. And about 30,000 were Russian, he says across a large wooden table as we wait for our food.
    -I heard, even though it’s not normally a good thing to mention, that there have been more people killed in Congo than in World War II.
          He pauses.
    -I will not say like this. But yes, it can be true. You have over six million victims in Congo but it is over the course of more than ten years. In World War II it was over a few years, and then in Rwanda it was 800,000 victims but in the time of a month or so.
    -Why is it so hard for people to admit that? The comparison of victims.
    -You know, United Nations reports pushing governments to admit this is genocide, but Rwanda is furious because they must to have claims to that word.
    -Well, I thought that genocide was ethnically based. And from as far as I can see, even though there are ethnical reasons and aspects to the conflicts here, mostly it comes down to money, minerals and power.
    -What is genocide? He asks and leans forward knowingly. What?
          I hesitate, as whenever he looks at me knowingly it typically means I will eventually be wrong no matter my response.
    -Genocide is the attempted extermination of a group of people based on ethnic lines?
    -Okay. What about religion?
    -Um…. I think it means trying to exterminate an entire group of people. I'm not sure how they draw the lines that make people different.
    -What about if it is ridding people in order to profit from what they have? Is profit enough to make differences?
    -Uh… I’m not sure. I can look it up though.
          I pull out my kindle, one of my most precious traveling companions, and open the The New Oxford’s English Dictionary.
          Genocide- n. the deliberate killing of a large group of people, esp. those of a particular ethnic group or nation.
    -So, says Dusan when I finish. You are telling me this isn’t genocide? Deliberate killing of a large group of people? Baby. This is genocide.
    -Yeah. That’s true.
    -And baby, it will only get worse. Nobody can see this as genocide because it has happened over many years. But over six million victims, all deliberately killed. This is only genocide. Minerals or not minerals, this is genocide Chief.
          I nod in agreement.
    -Okay, I think we will to go, he says suddenly.
          Back at the hospital we walk into a common room with beds and patients. Most are women, many are elderly. Only the young man wrapped in the blanket stands out. Dusan mentioned he is a war criminal, meaning he either partook in the Rwandan genocide or has committed atrocities in Congo. The guy looks vulnerable and nervous as the four of us surround his bed. The only part of him that pokes out of a brown patterned blanket is his face. He’s young but looks relatively healthy.
    -Let us go to wait outside, Dusan says to me.
           Jay and Kensy stay, as they speak his language. The point of the meeting is to find out if the UN can help him. If he’ll admit he’s Rwandan, he can be considered someone to repatriate and the UN can help him get back to Rwanda.
    -He is saying he is Congolese, says Jay emerging from the room after only a few minutes.
    -Does he know we can’t to help him if he does not tell the truth? Asks Dusan.
    -Yes, we explained. But he is saying he is Congolese. He was shot many times, at least three, possibly up to eight. They are to amputate his leg.
          I listen as he speaks and think of the absurdity of all of it. He can only be helped if he admits he’s Rwandese, even if he is in fact Congolese. And no matter his war crimes, repatriating him is better than having him in Congo to wreak havoc. His wife is still in the bush, supposedly, and nobody knows if he has children. He ambushed the FaRDC, allegedly, but wasn’t looting. He’s a member of FDLR but isn’t Rwandese. If he is Rwandese he’s helped by UN but potentially ostracized by his country of origin. I hate this conflict, I hate the complexities; I hate the never ending aspect of not being able to actually help or make progress. There are too many hands in the cookie jar.
         As the sun gets lower and lower it permeates even the shade. I watch a little girl of about two years old imitate her mother. She looks like a sixty year old woman, in a dirty green frilled dress, with her squat little body and knowing face. She takes sticks and pebbles and dumps them into a little hole in the ground before pounding a rock into the hole and stirring with another stick. She’s making stew. I wish I could simply watch her forever and revel only in the perfection of her imagination.

Voyagers

2011-07-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

          Two days and twenty hours of driving later, Dusan and I arrive in Lubero. It is the rainy season; at night there is no light but the lightning. I always seem to sleep best in Lubero. The darkness and the silence of the village envelope my mind and calm the many thoughts and frustrations of the day. The next day, after another two hours of driving, Dusan drops me at home in Butembo.
          I have some Things To Arrange in Butembo for a few days. When I’m done, I’m eager to get to COPERMA and happy to see my colleagues diligently working in the main room when I arrive. All of them greet me with enthusiastic hellos and complaints about how long I was gone.
    -You have become une voyagere! Exclaims Maman Marie with a tinge of disappointment.
    -Yes, I’m sorry, but I’m still a part of COPERMA.
    -Amy, says Hangie walking in from one of the smaller offices. There are the three survivors of rape here.
          He points to the wall behind me, and I turn around and see three familiar faces I completely missed on the way in. All of them smile at me and greet me in Kinande, knowing now that I can respond. I greet them back, shake hands with each woman on the thin wooden bench and bow my head slightly before following Hangie into the small office he came from.
          Even though I’ve been working wiith COPERMA for over a year now, there are still cultural divides in communication, especially in terms of money. Several months ago I had to arrange to have only Hangie speak to me about money; it was too overwhelming receiving requests and needs from everyone on the team.
    -That’s great the women came for their follow-up, I say once we’re alone inside the tiny concrete room.
    -Yes, they came on motorbike, but Amy we don’t have the money to pay for them to go home. They will walk for several days. And they need to stay overnight and we don’t have money to feed them, if they can stay at FEPSI.
   -Okay, well I’m actually leaving soon I have to go to Goma again. But I am able to bring some funds to help. Tell me what else is going on.
    -Amy, one of the women here, it hurts my heart very much.
    -One of what women?
    -The women from Katolu, the three women sitting in the office. She has leprosy. Amy it hurts my heart, truly.
          He presses his hand against his chest and looks at the table.
    -Shit, I say as a pang of fear hits me in the chest. Did you speak with the Doctor at FEPSI to verify it was leprosy?
    -No, but she has infections and wounds on her sex and all over her lower body. She told us that it was leprosy.
    -But have you verified it with the Doctor? She has probably not been to a hospital to determine the cause of the infections, and neither you nor I nor she can verify if it is leprosy.
    -No, I have not spoken with the Doctor. But we will need to take her to a colony in Musienene.
    -Hangie, please speak with the Doctor first to find out what the is problem and then we will figure out a solution from there.
          Due to the lack of education in all of Congo, people often pick the first likely name for any illness. A cough is automatically malaria, strange behavior is traumatization, and even when people are able to go to local hospitals they are rarely diagnosed before being given medication for one of these more well-known illnesses. I start thinking about what to possibly do if the woman does have leprosy. Though a frightening problem due to the many horror stories about the illness, leprosy is treatable these days. If there is a colony in Musienene, which I never heard of while living there, it would more than likely mean that the medication to treat leprosy is not available in this region. Or hopefully, they just don’t know about it.
    -Please check with the Doctor as soon as possible to find out if it is leprosy, I say.
          I start planning ways of finding or smuggling in enough leprosy medication for a potential colony.
    -What about the woman from Katolu with the broken arm? I ask, switching tracks.
          When speaking with the women in Katolu, one woman had a severly broken arm. After raping her, the soldiers tried to hit her in the head with their guns but she blocked the blow with her arm. The break happened months ago. At FEPSI, the Doctor said she would have to go to Goma for surgery. She would need a guardian and a Doctor from Butembo who would continue with post-op follow-up to go to Goma with her. Dr. Mukama agreed, Maman Marie was selected as the most appropriate guardian, and I arranged with the United Nations to provide her free transport. Dr. Mukama also talked to Dr. Luisi, the founder of HEAL Africa in Goma and arranged her free surgery and care. Yet, it’s been over a month since making those arrangements, as Dr. Mukama needs a free week to travel, and all three travelers need to provide copies of their identification to the UN in order to arrange the Movement of Persons (MOP) order.
          Even with money, the largest obstacle in Congo is logistics. The woman lives three and a half hours away from Butembo on a road that’s not always accessible. Her ID will need to be brought to Butembo to be copied and then returned to her, and during that week she will be at greatly increased risk, as not having an ID is a common excuse for a soldier to feel justified in raping a woman. Soldiers near Graben, where the woman lives, can ask women at any time to show their identification. I’ve already spoken to one woman in Katolu who was raped because she had forgotten her I.D.
    -We have not yet obtained her I.D. Urbain went out last week but she didn’t have it with her.
    -Why didn’t he go to her house to get it since he was already out there?
    -She lived ten kilometers away from the village center and it was already late enough where Urbain was in danger traveling.
    -Okay, I say rubbing my forehead. Please send Urbain out again early in the morning.
          I take out a few hundred dollars of money recently donated and hand it to Hangie.
    -This woman must be a priority, I continue. It’s already been months and we have everything arranged except for her I.D.
          Amazingly, the woman doesn’t have any children, which is a saving grace in this case. It means she can leave home without leaving a ten year old in charge of the younger kids. Hangie takes the money, says thank you and nods his head.
    -Also, he says suddenly. The woman in Isale with the mental illness gave birth recently.
    -Has she gotten any better at all?
          The woman Hangie is referencing was a puzzle of thoughts that didn’t fit together or with the outside world. COPERMA was able to bring her in for treatment in Butembo, but psychological treatment here means wiping out a person’s brain for at least a week with psychotropics, and hoping the “break” will clear their minds. Of course, more than often it makes the situation drastically worse.
    -No, she is very bad. And she cannot care for the child.
    -What are we going to do?
    -I don’t know. I think we must find a family member to take in the child but we have not found yet.
          If a family member is able to take in the child, they won’t be able to effectively support him and follow-up is something COPERMA can’t even consider. They're already struggling to help the many survivors of sexual violence in the village that's almost inaccessible.
    -They haven’t released the child from the hospital yet, as she can’t afford the fees to liberate him.
    -Use the money I just gave you to liberate him from the hospital, but not until you’ve found someone to take him in.
   -Okay, we will arrange that when we go for the I.D. We can pass through Isale on the way to Katolu.
    -Great, I’m so sorry I can’t join you and help but I have to go to Goma again, today.
    -We will see you when you get back then, he says standing up.
          Outside I quickly say good bye to everyone and rush home to pack for another trip. First to Goma then Mangurajipa. Mangurajipa is a gold mining village Northwest of Butembo. It’s the village I was advised not to travel to without security, by a gold salesman. Security has now presented itself, so Dusan and I will go To Check On The Things.

In The Jungle

2011-06-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

          Sunday morning I’m rocked into the world by the smooth sounds of an Italian symphony orchestra. I can’t separate myself from dreaming for a while; the sounds of string harmonies tie my dreams to reality and the two worlds are able to communicate with the music acting as translator. I wake up when a male’s voice becomes another layer over the smooth water sounds of the strings and I realize that the music is in fact real. On Sunday mornings, Conchetta and Father Giovani play opera music or soft symphonies from large black loud-speakers. Starting at 6 a.m., the music floats over the village to help ease everyone through the transition from dreaming to life.
          In the dining room, most everyone is already awake. A thermos of golden espresso is waiting alongside the remaining Kit-Kats, some handmade cheese, and gradually aging bread.
    -Chief, says Dusan walking in from the front porch. Good morning.
    -Good morning, I respond as I pour Conchetta’s magical, smooth black coffee into a mug.
          There is nothing like fresh Italian espresso in the morning in the middle of Congo.
    -Are C—and the others already setting up? I ask.
    -I don’t know. I am thinking yes but I cannot think too early in the morning. You know this.
          C—and his team are going to have a photo shoot in front of a green screen all day.
    -I think I’m going to go check out the church for a little, I say.
          I finish my coffee and then walk down the dirt road to a small brick building with colorfully dressed people covering the grass outside. I sit down next to an elderly woman who smiles at me. Nobody can hear anything that’s happening inside the church, yet everyone is sitting quietly as if receiving their own private mass and I’m the only one who can’t hear it.
    -Maman ,says the woman turning to me. Give me money.
          The woman puts the back of her left hand in the palm of her right and slides her fingers towards me repeatedly. It’s a common gesture and one that’s necessary to ignore unless I want to go broke or murder someone.
    -No, I’m sorry, I say in French.
          I stand up and leave the church, since I’m not included in the sermon anyway. Back at the house the music is still blasting but it has switched from soft symphony to children’s music. In front of my room there are about 20 children dancing around to the music. It’s quickly apparent which song is their favorite, and I think Conchetta must be watching since the song plays three times more often than the others. As soon as the first notes start to play all of the kids jump into action; right hand to forehead and left hand to back, then switch, shake booty and shuffle around. They look like rhythmic, and happy little worms.
          In the jungle the miiiiighty jungle, the liooon sleeps toniiiight. In the jungle the mighty jungle the lion sleeps toniiiiiight.
          A-weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—a-wiimmmbaaa- weeeeeehhhh.
          During the chorus all of the children start howling along with the song. I let one of them show me how to do the hand-to-forehead-rump-and-shake-then-switch dance and all of the kids laugh but keep dancing.
          Hush my darling, be still my darling the lion sleeps tonight.
          I look past the little crowd of laughter and movement and notice someone leaning against a banana tree on the far right side of the compound. He is wearing army green, black boots, and has an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He’s leaning with one arm up against the banana tree, watching the children without seeming to really see them. I look on the other side of the compound and notice another AK-47 in green. The children either haven’t noticed or simply don’t care.
    -The Mai-Mai have started to arrive, says Aubrey walking up from behind me.
    -Yes, I was just noticing. Are you guys ready to get started?
    -Almost. I think C—still has some stuff to do.
    -Has he already set up the photo area?
    -He’s working on it right now on the porch.
          I say good bye to the kids with a quick worm gyration and walk around the house where there is a fairly large wooden porch jutting off of the house. C—has spread a green cloth on the far end of the porch and is arranging different sized lights that look like fancy umbrellas. I look towards the church and notice people starting to flow out.
    -It looks like church is finished C---.
   -Okay, thanks, I’m almost ready. Nelson and Aubrey will be selecting people as they come out.
          C—has a cigarette hanging from his lips that wobbles as he speaks. Within only a few minutes the grass area around the porch is cluttered with human beings. As the number of people increases, so does the number of Mai-Mai. They stand mostly in a clump around the two Colonels who are sitting in wicker chairs. A few stick their fingers in the monkey cage, with their machine guns swinging in the air behind them. A young guy with short braids and colorful beads throughout is carrying a large rocket-propelled grenaden(RPG). Except for the Colonels, all of the young men are carrying at least one weapon.
          I smile at the braided young man carrying the RPG and he nods at me and smiles back. Two of the young men carrying AK-47s turn and laugh at each other as one of the monkeys in the cage munches on some green weeds. Even though their carelessly held weapons often point at my chest and face, I feel completely at ease with them. I realize now why seeing the boys the other day seemed so normal; because they are normal. Army clothes and deadly weapons don’t make a boy a man or a monster. They are people, and once again, all of my preconceived judgments and ideas about things in Congo deflate completely. No, there shouldn’t be boys taught to kill but the reality of everything is much more complex than a simple right or wrong judgment.
          C—invites some of the Mai-Mai onto the porch and begins arranging them; he molds their weapons and body positions as the villagers look on.
    -There are two FDLR here, mutters Jay from behind Dusan.
          He says it quietly and makes sure not to move his lips.
FDLR are a Rwandan rebel group that originated after the Rwandan genocide. They are composed primarily of ex-genocidaires and Rwandan refugees.
    -Don’t look, he barks as Dusan begins to turn around.
    -There is one next to the empty chair behind me, and one by the monkey cage, Jay continues as if practicing ventriloquism.
          Everybody within hearing distance slowly scratches their cheek with their shoulder or stretches inconspicuously. The two men Jay is referencing look exactly like the other armed men in the yard.
    -How can you tell? I ask.
    -FDLR always carry two weapons. And I spoke with them and if you talk to someone you can know immediately.
    -Why are they here? Is that a problem?
    -No, it is not problem. Colonel S. invited them. FDLR gave warning that if we extracted anyone they would retaliate. Colonel S. told them to send people to make sure that we are not doing anything funny just taking pictures.
    -Small chief, says Dusan. I think you must to arrange the things with Colonel S. for your dick-cutting project.
    -Okay, I’m ready, I say.
          Dusan motions to Colonel S. who quickly walks over to me. We step off the porch and walk a few feet away from the crowd.
    -So, I was thinking I can just talk to your guys as they finish taking their pictures, I say in French.
    -Okay. That sounds like a good idea, he says.
    -Also, you told me you wanted me to speak with the head of some civilian council, correct?
    -Yes, the Mwami-King. I think it is important you speak with him. The civilians need to be educated as well and they often are doing this raping and blaming it on Mai-Mai. The Mwami, for example, he will take a wife as young as this girl. He will take several wives of that age.
          Colonel S. points to a little girl of about five years old hugging my leg.
    -Really? I didn’t know that.
    -Yes. It’s not good. You need to speak also with them so that they can know that this is not okay.
    -Okay, I’m not sure when we’ll be able to but I will make-sure to make that part of my plan.
          I’m also not sure how I’m going to combat culturally ingrained values and convince a village King that he shouldn’t marry a five year old. We finish speaking and Colonel S. walks onto the porch where he is similarly molded and posed. I grab my pamphlets. There are three pages, two with basic information about various sexually transmitted infections/HIV/AIDS and the Geneva Conventions. One page has an image of a very ill man and an image of infected genitalia. As these men have been living in the bush with almost no access to anything, the information I’m giving is basic but most likely new. It’s a bit crude, but still informative and just the beginning.
          I walk over to the monkey cage when C—finishes taking their pictures. Rather than just one at a time coming, all 14 of the Mayi-Mayi and both of the FDLR soldiers follow me. Jay has agreed to translate for me and he and I stand in the middle of a messy half-circle. I hand out the papers to each person, and every individual reaches forward eagerly. One of the FDLR rebels reaches over the shoulder of a Mai-Mai a bit over-zealously and knocks the Mai-Mai guy forward a little. Neither seems to notice.
    -Hello, my name is Amy, I begin. I’m here to talk to you about sexual violence, but also to just give you information related to this. I know that many times you are accused for things that you do not do, and by speaking with me you can show to others that you are not the ones doing this and that you want to suppress this type of behavior.
          Jay translates and the rebels all watch me silently.
    -This information is just basic information about sexually transmitted infections as well as the Geneva conventions, to show you what the consequences can be from sexual violence, on the part of the man.
          One of the soldiers says something in rapid Swahili.
    -He says they are not allowed to do this raping thing.
    -Yes, I know this. I am not saying they are doing this or not, I’m simply trying to give them information about it. And I know that the purpose of Mai-Mai is to protect the communities. So if you will be open to working with me more, you can not only show that it is not you who are doing these things, but you can even become like teachers in your communities. That way if you know civilians who are confused about this or thinking it is okay to rape, then you can act as teachers and show them that it is very bad to rape. And as Mayi-Mayi, you are particularly good for this because women are such an important part of the community and you can further help protect your communities by learning about this and teaching others that sexual violence is very bad.
          I speak some more about the information on the papers and the Mai-Mai stand patiently, listening and looking at the pages.
    -I look forward to working with you more in the future, and thank you for speaking with me today.
          I nod at them and smile and Jay and I turn to walk away.
    -Merci, I hear several voices say behind me.
          I’m exhilarated. They listened, they were interested. They even said thank you. And I have the go-ahead to keep working with them, which was the primary purpose of this initial visit. And even FDLR elements now have some of the papers and will no doubt bring them back to their camps. The papers do not accuse anyone, they simply include information. Education is a tool, and hopefully I’ll soon be standing in a crowd of FDLR with a Mai-Mai monitor or two.
          The rest of the day consists of posing. The Mai-Mai, FDLR, and villagers all watch with the same interest and amusement. I’m even asked to step in for a few photos wearing head to toe African pagne. After a few hours the Mai-Mai’s patience is clearly starting to run out and Dusan has to inform C—that they need to leave. C— waves them off and keeps taking pictures of the villagers. He asks each one what their dreams are: a radio, cars, an education, a husband, hair like a muzungu girl, an angel as a wife. For dinner we eat Mediterranean salad complete with a type of coos-coos and olives.
         Of all of the things I imagined about the bush, not one single thing was correct.

The Colonels

2011-06-15T06:32:00.001-07:00

          We gather ourselves and our things, including $50,000 worth of camera equipment, at one of the MONUSCO bases on Lake Kivu. C—explains while we eat omelets in the luxurious MONUSCO restaurant that he’s doing several things. He runs the UN Television station in Goma and is making a series on DDR/RR, Dusan’s section. He wants it to be hard-hitting, and show United Nations whistle blowers and decision makers in New York that “they don’t know what the fuck Congo is.”
          C—is accompanied by two other Americans; Aubrey, a tall, wavy-haired doctorate student, and Nelson, a fairly quiet and freckled film maker who has a large black camera constantly glued to his hand.
    -So, you’re sure that security is good enough, asks C—when he finishes explaining his project. I can’t simply replace this level of equipment.
    -Yes, yes. Responds Dusan. Not any any problem. You can to ask Amy, she was there. We Arranged The Things with The Guy and this is sure. Absolutely sure. Right Amy?
          The conversation with The Guy did end in the agreement of arranged security but it seems as if Dusan is doubting his own appraisal of the agreement.
    -Definitely. I respond. He said he’ll arrange everything.
         I don’t really trust my own appraisal either, but The Guy seemed straight forward and even a little kind.
    -And aside from equipment, we are needing to take special care of the ladies, says Dusan, turning to Aubrey.
          He has a glint in his eye that I recognize but I know she won’t be prepared for.
    -I am thinking this is good thing you are coming, Aubrey. Because in this way, Amy won’t have to be only one raped. You can split it.
          Dusan laughs, and I put my face in my hands. Aubrey looks shocked for a moment but quickly recovers and chuckles along with Dusan.
    -Wow. Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m coming, Aubrey retorts.
    -No, I am not meaning this, says Dusan. I am just liking to confusing the things. If you think I am worst person in the world, then when I’m polite you will think I am extremely polite. And I am Croatian, and I am Dusan. So I am not often polite.
    -Okay, well now I know, says Aubrey.
          When we finish our omelets, half of the table smokes 3-4 cigarettes, and Dusan has rebuked Aubrey for speaking in a man’s presence before exploding in laughter, we move into the bright sunshine and climb into the shiny white vehicles. We drive several hours along the route Dusan and I just travelled to Kirumba, where there is a parish with rooms for only $10.00 a night. We stop at a local restaurant and eat salted tilapia fish, fries, sombe, and listen to Dusan explain the nuances of Serbia, Croatia, and Bosnia.
          The next day we set out for Muhanga. On the way we stop at the Indian battalion in Kirumba, where three men were recently killed by Mai-Mai.
    -These Indian soldiers are not soldiers, explains Dusan.
          He and C—seem to agree on this point and they discussed it at length before we left even Goma.
    -They are paid much better in UN than in India, he continues. But when they are here, I am telling you, they are doing everything they possibly can to do absolutely nothing. We are to stop here and to telling them that we are to go to Muhanga and if we need help they are to come. This is stupidity, I’m telling you. You see these cars their country sends? They can’t to drive more than 10 kilometers an hour. And no possibility they are to make it through the roads to Muhanga. I am telling you, they are using every effort to specifically accomplish nothing.
          The United Nations is an interesting creature with many colors, traditions, religions, values and opinions. Dusan explained previously that one reason the UN is not as effective as it should be, is because of the extremes in cultural variations. It seems slight to me at first, but the more time I spend with UN employees the more it makes sense.
          When we arrive at the Indian battalion the entrance is blocked off with layers of barbed wire.
    -They are extremely more cautious now because of this attack, whispers Dusan.
          Inside the compound the film crew surrounds Dusan as he speaks to one of the Indian officers. I wander over to a guards tower where there are three chiseled, tan, Indian men holding machine guns and watching the camera crew.
    -Excuse me, I say as gently as possible. I heard that you were recently attacked here and you lost some men. I’m very sorry for your loss.
          The men stare at me blankly before looking around at eachother.
    -English little, says the tallest one with the most chiseled features.
    -Oh. Um. Attack. Men. Dead. I say slowly.
          They understand this much and nod their heads. A short soldier on my left holds up three fingers.
    -I am sorry. I say and put my hand over my heart.
    -Thank you. It is here, says the tall one.
          He points to the far end of the compound, swings around to the other side of the compound, and then settles on a red X painted on the ground just inside the gate.
    -Man died there? I ask.
    -Yes.
          The tall one makes the motions of chopping into his own neck with an imaginary machete.
    -Machete? I ask, taken a back.
    -Machete and guns.
    -I’m very sorry.
          The men simultaneously return to staring at the camera crew with stern faces. When Dusan has finished his conversation the cameras are lowered and I walk back into the group. On the way out we pass the red X, and I imagine the man who was killed. A man most likely with a wife and children, insecurities, ideas, habits, comforts, and fears. In the car Dusan continues talking about whatever whatever, and I silently fume next to him. With all of the talk of how this battalion is incapable, everyone is forgetting the importance of those three lives. Criticizing the men who lived, and the men who died, means nothing in the face of the empty spaces they left behind.
          After about an hour we stop and pick up Jay, a member of Dusan’s team and a translator. I gladly allow him to take the front seat so I can organize and calm my thoughts. The road turns from potholes and dust to overgrowth and craters. C—‘s car gets stuck three times on the way in, but Dusan tightens something on the front wheels and they unstick easily.
    -This is best weather I have ever seen for this route, says Dusan. Can you imagine this after raining at night?
    -Absolutely not, I respond shakily as I’m thrown around on the seat.
          After about five hours, and a brief pause to buy cow meat, beans and a live goat, we arrive at a small wooden shanty covered in dried banana leaves. Dusan stops the car in front of a long wooden barrier across the road. A boy runs down quickly from behind the hut. He’s wearing army green clothes and carrying an AK-47.
    -Mai-Mai, mutters Jay.
          Within seconds, three more individuals who can only be called boys, show up next to the shanty. Dusan and Jay both get out of the car and talk to the first Mai-Mai, who is now standing by the barrier. After a few minutes Dusan pounds the soldier on the back and I hear him yell, “thank you my friend!”
    -How old do you think those guys are, I ask as we pass under the barrier.
    -All underage, responds Jay.
          I remember the demobilized Mai-Mai I spoke with a while ago. At the time it seemed like such a frightening idea. Yet somehow, actually seeing the boys in action, despite the guns, seems almost normal. I lose track of the time and focus only on the cratered road and the car handle I’m clinging to.
    -Hold onto handle like you are to take it with you back to United States, exclaims Dusan whenever we hit a particularly large hole.
          Finally, the brush opens into a little village, and just as the sun is setting we pull up to an L-shaped brick house where a plump little muzungu woman is waiting for us. Conchetta is a beautiful elderly woman from Italy. Dusan calls her a “nannie,” meaning nun, but I find out that she’s just a woman who wanted a simple life and so moved to the middle of nowhere Congo almost 40 years ago. Father Giovanni runs the parish but he is in Italy for a medical condition.
          There’s a make-shift metal merry go-round with toddlers dripping from it.
    -This little compound is for the kids, says Jay. Don’t tell them what to do here unless they’re hurting each other. This is their space.
          Six hours off of the main road, in a place marked with gold and diamond mining, where Mai-Mai and FDLR rebels live side by side and not always peacefully, the Muhanga parish has 24 hour electricity, internet, two security cameras, and walls painted with brightly colored ocean scenes and rainbows.
    -You two women, Conchetta says quickly in a mix of French, Swahili and Italian. You can share this room and then you will share the bathroom with me.
          We follow her to a clean room with two beds and then into the main house. In the bathroom there’s hot water and a washer-dryer machine. I smile to myself as I watch the little woman with dyed black hair point out the various things we ladies might need. In the kitchen there’s a large wooden table with a lazy-susan ready to spin.
          Maman Conchetta quickly places a bag of Kit-Kats and a bag of Snickers on the susan. Someone else quickly adds a bottle of J&B whisky. Dinner is ready shortly after our arrival. Maman Conchetta grills up the cow meat, fries potatoes, brings cheese and fresh bread, and places six cold Heineken beers on the table.
          In the morning, there’s freshly made Italian espresso that tastes like gold. When I sit at the table, I notice a man wearing a clean black and green track suit who I hadn’t seen before.
    -Colonel V, says Jay, noticing my confusion.
          I reach out and shake the young man’s hand. He nods courteously but doesn’t say anything.
    -Mai-Mai? I ask.
    -Yes, Colonel of Mai-Mai, says Jay.
          Colonel V picks up his fork in his left hand, his knife in his right and begins carefully cutting a slice of cheese and bread on his plate. His back is straight and no elbows on the table.
    -He’s tres chique, adds Conchetta a little later.
          The Bush Bed and Breakfast: The Most Comfort You’ll Find in Any Rebel Territory!
          After breakfast, C—and his team get the camera equipment ready. We have a meeting with the Mai-Mai. Their camp is not far from the Muhanga parish but we can’t go directly there, we have to be invited. Colonel V gets into the back of Dusan’s car and I climb in after him. On the road we run into Colonel S. I’ve met Colonel S. before and he greets me enthusiastically. Colonel S. was extracted from the bush as part of a larger program, but when the program fell through Colonel S. fled the MONUSCO camp and ran back into the bush.
          Colonel S. climbs in and sits next to me. As we drive I ground myself in the fact that I am sitting sandwiched between two Mai-Mai colonels, both of whom are innately fugitives from the state. Colonel V has his arm stretched over the seat behind me. All I can think about is how fresh his arm pit smells and how clean both Colonel’s clothes are.
    -So, when you speak with the General, you must to tell that this is not documentary, says Dusan.
          Colonel S. speaks French, Swahili and basic English but Jay translates to make things smoother. Colonel S. interrupts Dusan and Jay starts laughing.
    -He says, they are not worried about this movie thing. They are afraid of Aimé.
          I turn quickly to Colonel S. and then re-steady my gaze out of the front window.
    -He says, even the General L.F. is saying he is afraid of what this muzungu woman wants to do.
          I realize how strange it must actually be, having a young white woman, requesting an audience with the Mai-Mai. I’m a rogue party and they don’t know what my intentions are. I smile to myself.
    -Stop here, says Colonel S. in French.
          We pull over on a stretch of road that’s completely vacant of anything but trees, dirt and children. Everyone climbs out of the cars. Now it’s C—‘s turn. Colonels V and S stand in a circle with C--, his translator Horeb and Nelson and Aubrey circling. They have to discuss what C—wants and what he’s going to give in return. The conversation doesn’t interest me much so I watch the accumulating children. Suddenly, there’s a commotion.
    -You’re just a fucking murderer, C— shouts at Colonel S. I’m not going to play any of your fucking games.
          I look quickly to Colonel S. who looks startled but in control. He's very hard to read. The little party separates as Horeb tries to calm C—and smooth the disrespect thrown at the Colonels. Dusan looks a little nervous. He walks between C—and the Colonels trying to calm the situation as well. C—is eccentric and not a coward, but he’s also not stupid. And his reaction is histrionic, even for an artist. He’s acting. But he’s definitely taking a risk.
          Only a few minutes after the commotion begins, C—walks over to Colonel S. and apologizes. He explains a miscommunication that I don’t fully understand, and effectively gets Colonel S. completely on his side. Free pass, as long as the General gives permission. C—really does know what he’s doing.
          We get back in the cars and drive to a school on a hill. All nine of us begin hiking up a path to a little wooden bench where now and then there is reception. We’re joined by a few more Mai-Mai soldiers, younger and less confident than the Colonels. As the Mai-Mai and Jay stand with their hands and cellphones in the air trying to catch a ray, Dusan speaks to C—and the cameras. I sit on the little wooden bench with Horeb. He’s a light skinned Congolese man; very intelligent and has a good sense of humor.
    -So, what I don’t get, I say squinting through the sharp sunlight. Is how and why are FDLR and Mai-Mai just living next to each other? I thought they were enemies.
    -They are, sometimes, he says. But right now they have a common enemy.
    -The governmental forces? I ask.
    -Exactly. And besides, the Mai-Mai aren’t actually strong enough to chase the FDLR from here. The Mai-Mai are equipped with weapons but they can’t actually win against the FDLR.
          Horeb turns his head quickly towards the clump of Mai-Mai and cellphones. He yells something in Swahili and Colonel S. responds immediately.
    -I just asked him if the Mai-Mai ever beat the FDLR, he says turning back to me. He says yes they have beaten them many times. The problem is that when they do win, the FDLR begin pillaging the villages and raping the women in order to get back at the Mai-Mai and reestablish power.
    -Oh. That’s terrible.
          A half-siren rings out from behind a neighboring hill. At first it sounds like a loud bird, but as the rhythm continues it becomes clear the sound is machine made.
    -That’s a signal to the Colonels, says Horeb.
          The Colonels don’t seem to even notice the bird-like alarm. After about 40 minutes one of the cellphones finally gets through. Angry sounding Swahili explodes through the speakerphone. I hear my name mentioned several times. Horeb walks over to C—and translates quietly into his ear.
    -The General is refusing Amy to speak with his men. He says she can be present for our work but she cannot speak to them or mention sexual violence.
          I nod my head and look back to the screaming phone. All I have brought for this initial trip are basic pamphlets about sexually transmitted infections, HIV/AIDS, and the Geneva conventions. One pamphlet simply includes an image of a bubbling, infected penis, and the words IF YOU RAPE YOU CAN BECOME SICK, in Swahili. The pamphlets are very little; the primary aim was to gauge how open to working with me the rebels would be. Even a refusal gives me information.
          Jay quickly weaves through the Mai-Mai and speaks into the phone. I can understand enough of his Swahili to know he’s explaining what exactly I want to do. The screaming voice gets softer and I understand an affirmation.
    -Thanks Jay, I say as he walks passed me.
          He gives me a low high-five and a fist pound.
    -He just thought you were coming to accuse them of raping and he can’t have that. I explained that you want to do education and that it can show to UN that Mai-Mai want to suppress sexual violence. So he agreed.
    -Fantastic. Will I speak with them tomorrow?
    -We will either go to their camp today or you’ll speak tomorrow.
          I walk back down the hill glowing with intrigue. The Colonels are well-educated, but will the lower soldiers even listen to me? Back at the house Conchetta pulls cold Coca-Cola’s from the refrigerator and hands them out to everyone. Colonels V and S sit outside of Dusan’s room laughing with the translators and sucking on the cold clear bottles. I watch the kids running around in the courtyard and try to figure out how I feel about the day.
         Colonel V stands up and starts walking across the sand lot. A little girl, about the height of his knee, picks up a pebble and tosses it to him. Colonel V catches it dramatically and tosses it back to the girl, who tosses it with laughter back again. The Colonel catches the pebble and pops it into his mouth like a peanut. I see the pebble sail behind the Mai-Mai Colonel’s back but the little girl’s jaw drops open for a moment before emitting squeals of delight. She sees only a grown man in a green and black track suit chewing happily on a pebble.

Goma, The Guy, and the Mai-Mai

2011-06-11T07:34:00.000-07:00

    Dusan and I don’t see eachother for two months, and then suddenly, and as out of the blue as always, he reappears. We meet in Ivatsyro hotel, a four story hang out for FaRDC, local police and Internationals. The concrete building is lit with every color neon light making it feel permanently like a red light district or Chinatown.
    -We are to go into the bush, to Muhanga. We will stay there about three days and we are to also go to Kirumba and to Goma, says Dusan over a double whisky and a Pall Mall cigarette.
          I have been trying to get Dusan to take me into the bush since the first time we met almost a year ago. Finally, with plans for a rebel sensitization project, it is hopefully coming to fruition.
    -We are to pick C—in Goma, he is movie maker and he is making some film, whatever whatever, and he is to travel with us into Muhanga.   And you can do your soldier project.
          He pauses and moves his cigarette away from his face.
    -You know what I am calling this actually? This what you are doing?
    -No, what, I ask, knowing the response can only be slightly offensive or full of doubt.
    -I am thinking you are vivisectionist. Dick-cutter.
          He doubles over in laughter.
    -Okay, I guess you can call it that. I have a question though, unrelated.
    -What? His face immediately snaps back to serious.
    -I was thinking, with Kabila the father, he was assassinated supposedly because he was indicating he was going to do deals with the Soviet Union. Of course, the western world can’t stand for communism or any hint at communism, and they helped arrange this assassination. Now, Kabila the current president has just made a deal with the Chinese government for however many millions of dollars. Do you think the western world will still consider this a big threat and arrange Kabila’s assassination?
          Dusan puts his whisky glass on the table and nods his head quietly, but not as an affirmation.
    -You must to understand. First of all, you are not genius like me. But, okay, you are junior genius so we can speak a little. This is all political issue, this is all international relations. It is not so simple as support or not support or communist contract. Every government who does not have a lot of power, must to play the games. They must to play the games always, always with two sides. Because if they play the games with only one country, then that country will be in power of their government, not them.
          He pauses and puckers his lips contemplatively.
    -You know, I think Rihanna has nicest ass in the world. In The World.
          I laugh and figure he doesn’t want to talk politics, so I let him move on.
    -But, he continues. Rihanna has no tits. And a woman with the nicest ass in the world but no tits, is still not a woman. For me.
    -I’ve never studied Rihanna’s ass or her tits before but okay.
    -FaRDC governmental forces have some men. But they have not any effective artillery, weaponry, there is almost not any structure at all. Out of ten, FaRDC has maybe one point. So, they are like Rihanna.
    -FaRDC has an ass but no tits, I say laughing.
    -Yes. Yes it is true. It is not so difficult thing for International government to overtake Kabila and this FaRDC. They have no tits.
    -Okay, I’m catching your point. That’s a nice parallel. I don’t think Rihanna would like it very much but I like it.
    -Yes, but she does have nicest ass, so it is okay.
    -So when will we leave for Muhanga?
    -Today, of course. You can pick your things and we will proceed to Lubero after dinner and tomorrow morning we will proceed to Goma to pick C—and after that we will going to Muhanga.
    -Great. I’m ready.
    -Yes, you think you are ready. But, you are only dumb American so this is just thinking.
          He breaks into laughter that sounds like a ten year old boy.
    -This is true.
    -Yes, but this is enough. Maybe you can still become genius.
          That night we drive to Lubero and in the morning we stop at the United Nations DDR/RR office in Lubero to pick-up a woman Dusan has extracted. She is the wife of an FDLR officer, and the rebel has agreed to allow her to leave and join her parents in Rwanda. She’s 20 years old but looks 17. We greet each other in Swahili but she speaks no French. Dusan explains that she is from Rwanda but has lived her whole life in the bush. Even though her Father was the President of a secondary school and her Mother a teacher in the school, Eugenie doesn’t speak any French. When Dusan asked her why she did not benefit from her parents’ knowledge she responded, “Because we had to eat.”
          On the drive we pass through Kirumba and Virunga national park where there are scattered sentries of FaRDC soldiers. All are wearing new-extremely tattered army digs and carrying mostly tattered machine guns. I wonder what they would do if they knew we had an FDLR commander’s wife in the car. The scenery changes from fertile mountains to fertile plains. I give commiserating looks to Eugenie as we’re tossed around in the white metal vehicle. Dusan talks the entire way about this and that and this and that.
          N’ Yuck’n ya n’ yuck’n yoo.
          We reach the perimeter of Goma after dark, though we should not be on the road at this time.
    -I think we are okay, says Dusan. There was an attack last night and civilians were killed. Some drunk civilian I’m sure causing problems and then another drunk civilian wants also to cause problems to counter problems of first drunk civilian. And then people start yelling and whatever whatever. FaRDC come and instead to arrest they start shotting. And so for some drunk idiot two people are killed. Stupidities.
          He nods at me.
    -Stupidities. All. And you are black cat so this is making me extra little bit nervous.
    -I’m a black cat? Why?
    -You remember first time we drove this road and we pass Indian battalion only few hours before attack there and soldiers are killed. And you are my responsibility. I know you are not wanting this, but this is how it is.
    -If I’m a black cat that’s a big responsibility to take on, I say.
          He shrugs his shoulders.
    -I am genius. I simply must to think twice.   Look there is Nyragongo, he adds.
          I look to the right and see a smoldering red light hanging in the air. As smoke rises from the lava it carries the light on its back making it look like a floating ridge of burning trees, or the end of a simmering cigarette in the night. I’ve never seen anything so ferociously, naturally beautiful.
    -Eh, and look on the left there is Rwanda. Eko Rwanda, says Dusan.
          He switches into basic Swahili and points to the left of the car where there are tiny pricks of light. Eugenie leans into the window and stares at the black mountain where she is from; a place she has no doubt heard about all of her life. She turns back to the front of the car and her smile hangs in the air like the Cheshire cat. Nyragongo doesn’t hold a red candle to her excited hope.
    -And there ahead is Goma.
          Dusan slides his hand across the front windshield.
    -Eko Goma.
          The lights of the city spread before us like a spider web after a rain and for a moment the car is silent.
    -She has never even been to a village the size of Kanyabayonga, says Goran breaking the silence. Can you believe? This is crazy. This must to be crazy for her. I flew over New York city once, not land just fly over. First time I am seeing light like this. It is like one big light and then you fly 30 kilometers closer and it becomes even bigger and bigger light. You cannot imagine this, what it is like.
        It’s true, I can’t. I grew up just outside of Washington, D.C. and lived in Manhattan for a year. The change from village to city and the fears and novelties that must come with are out of my reach. We leave Eugenie at a UN camp for ex-combatants where she will go through a 45 day repatriation program and hopefully, be reunited with her parents. She has no children, somehow, and she has the status of being married so maybe fortune will be with her and whatever life she has left will be overshadowed only by the good of this next one.
          Dusan and I spend a few days bouncing around Goma greeting people and Arranging The Things. I meet C—and his film team in the UN café perched on Lake Kivu. C—is an eccentric, slightly cynical, but kind and hilarious individual. He spouts ideas as if there’s a bomb exploding in his brain, but one that feels good, and he can’t keep his excitement to himself. There is another muzungu woman traveling with us, along with 50 thousand dollars worth of camera equipment so Dusan must be sure security is okay.

          We meet with The Guy, The Guy who must not be named, in a back road of a back road in the darkness of a small concrete house. Inside, The Guy is sitting on a couch drinking a Vitalo—a soft drink that tastes like Grenadine. The Guy is a fugitive and a Mai-Mai Colonel, so the curtains are drawn. He has a kind but intelligent face and a white, faux-Louis Vuitton t-shirt stretching across a small pot-belly. He greets Dusan with three taps of the head and bows his head in respect when he shakes my hand. The walls are covered in posters of the Holy Mother, a Jesus calendar, and a large poster of American rap stars. Jesus, Marry Ludacris, and Biggie stare down at us as we speak.
    -I am needing to arrange the things, this is not so good that you are in Goma because I think it is best if you are in the bush, says Dusan immediately.
    -I am to bring myself along with a film crew to Muhanga, as well as Amy here and one other woman. Because of this I am needing to be absolutely sure that security is good. The film crew is not doing a documentary, I must stress this. They are doing a film that is like art, and it is also about DDR/RR and this work that I am doing. So it is not to be a problem for Mai-Mai and your faces will be hidden and blurred.
    -Why you to cover our faces? Asks The Guy. Maybe you are showing FaRDC faces and you hide our faces and this makes like we are ashamed or doing something wrong and want to hide.
    -No, not any problem. It is not like this it is for art it is not something to say who is doing what. You understand? It is not this documentary type.
    -It’s a film utilizing fiction mixed with reality to show a point, I say in French.
          The Guy nods his head and leans back.
    -And as you see, Amy is to go with us into Muhanga, Dusan picks up again. She is doing very important work this sexual violence stuff and she is collaborating with DDR/RR as she is doing very important job. If you work with Amy, she can give report saying that you cooperated to learn about sexual violence. It can show that you are not committing that what people are saying you are committing. That you are wanting to suppressing this.
          The Guy lifts his eyebrows and juts out his lower jaw in agreement every few seconds, a common Congolese gesture of active listening. When Dusan finishes, The Guy looks at me and remains silent for a moment.
    -You know, it is not us who are doing these rapes and such, he says to me in French. It is mostly civilians who then blame it on us because they know they won’t get in trouble if they say they are Mai-Mai.
    -No, I understand this fully, I say.
          It’s impossible to get an idea here for who’s doing what and who’s simply blaming it on each other. Rape was once a weapon of war here, maybe. Now, it’s a weapon of politics, a smear campaign, and collateral damage.
    -You will speak with the head of the civilians, he continues. He will tell you things and you will see.
    -I would like that very much. My aim is not to blame anybody, simply to give information about the consequences.
    -I will have to be in Muhanga, otherwise will not be safe, says The Guy turning back to Dusan.
          Dusan reaches into his pocket and takes out a few bills.
    -Here, use this to take picky-picky and we will meet you there. Can you to be there before we arrive on Friday afternoon?
          The Guy takes the money but keeps talking.
    -I think I can to go with you in your car, he says.
    -No, this is absolutely not possible. I am telling you, please believing me in this. It is idea that will end in disaster. I cannot do that. You must to understand, I would like to transport you but it is simply not possible.
          The Guy doesn’t look too happy but he tucks the money into his pocket.
    -Okay, I think I can get to Muhanga before you.
    -Great, thank you my friend. We must go to arrange the other things.
          Dusan stands up and picks up his packet of cigarettes and the black Manchester lighter. Finest Virginia Tobacco. The Guy walks outside with us and chats with me in basic Kinande. Like everyone else, he finds it hilarious that I speak even a few words of his local tongue. As we leave the house, I see several FaRDC soldiers walking only a few meters away from the house, completely clueless that the fugitive they're searching for is right behind a thin veil of flowered sheets, hanging as curtains. Drinking neon red grenadine from a bottle.
        If all goes well, we'll be seeing him next out in Muhanga. Where Mai-Mai and FDLR are allegedly "co-habitating."

Following Up

2011-05-25T04:54:00.000-07:00

          My house on a little hill is perfect. During the day I can watch the panoramic of a large other hill that’s far enough away to see the entire thing, but close enough to be able to see the specks of children running home from school and the women carrying bundles up the steep central road. It’s a sculpy playground with dollhouses scattered among the trees and it’s breath-taking. At night the sculpy hill becomes a mound of black, dotted for a few hours with pinholes of light as if it’s a piece of black paper and there’s daylight on the other side.
         It takes me a few days to adjust to the new darkness and the sounds that fill it. I have to learn how to filter out the sounds that are normal in this new place; the dogs that bark all night, the roosters at 4 a.m. that are not the screaming children they sound like. Whoever came up with the idea of “cock-a-doodle-doo” has never heard a chicken in Congo that’s just waking up.
And work continues as usual…
    -There were 50 women raped thus far in the month of May in the villages of Katolu, Isale, Bhulambo, and Magherya, says Maman Marie in her small office.
    -In this month alone? I ask.
    -Well, those are the confirmed cases that came forward and went to the hospital for the PEP Kit.
          PEP kits are Post-Exposure Prophylactic Kits containing STD medications, emergency contraception, and more.
    -Have we spoken with all of them and identified where they are in their treatment? I ask.
    -No, but we have to do follow-up right now. I have to write a report soon on where we are and what we need and I can’t write that without going out to make sure that I’m correct. So today we’re going out to Kavingu and then tomorrow we will go to Magherya.
          Kavingu and Magherya are the two most developed centers run by COPERMA, and the two being minimally funded by Finn Church Aid. On the drive to Kavingu I think about the kids at Maison L’Espoire in Kinshasa. Lawrence is doing wonderfully well; he’s excelling in school and has gained a normal amount of weight. He’s friends with his brothers and his sister and apparently is quite the joker. But over the past few weeks I haven’t been able to get the images of Bellevie and the rest of the kids out of my mind; their spindly little legs that looked too weak to hold up their little kid smiles.
          Papa J submitted a statement and I submitted what I found and what I wrote; the government is doing investigations as we speak but I don't know how long they will take. Bellevie and her sister were supposed to be adopted by my Congolese friends but apparently are in the process of being adopted by a family in Belgium. I still don’t know what is true and what is smoke shrouding greed. And in the meantime, my mind does not fail to present me with the various possibilities of horrors the kids could be living. The world is much harsher than imagination. I feel terrible for having left them behind, but I still can’t figure out what more I can do without the Congolese government spear-heading the project. At the same time, if knowledge is power and power brings responsibility, simply knowing about those kids makes them my responsibility. I just don’t know what to do with it.
          When we arrive in Kavingu there is the normal group of eight to ten raggedy children playing in the sand. I follow Maman Marie to the room with the sewing machines. It is dark inside, but I can see the silhouettes of the machines hanging in the air like elegant cameos.
    -The girls are on their way but the teacher is already here, says Maman Marie before turning around and walking to the next little concrete room.
          Through the window I can see about 30 children all wearing the navy blue and white uniforms of school kids. I duck once I realize they’re in class, since I know my white face will interrupt the entire lesson. Maman Marie and I walk to the mud hut where the rabbits and guinea pigs in the breeding project are kept. Maman Marie pushes open an old door made of wooden planks practically stapled together and then glued to the mud doorframe. In the darkness inside, the room is packed with large wooden cages.
    -Wow, how many rabbits do we have now?
          Jean-Marie, a young and handsome COPERMA worker turns to me from the corner.
    -I counted 29.
          I nod my head approvingly. We only started this program a few months ago with about seven rabbits. We started it in order to help the people in Isale who are being terrorized by the FRDC battalion stationed there. The rabbits had to be kept in Kavingu in order to avoid starting a project that would simply feed the enemy.
    -When are we bringing them to Isale? I ask Maman Marie through the cool darkness.
    -In about a month, she says immediately, I’m taking all of the rabbits who are pregnant and bringing them to Isale to distribute. Then we can keep breeding here and they can start breeding on a small scale there and still be able to hide the rabbits from the soldiers.
          I hear chirping and look down. There are guinea pigs running across the floor under the cages, picking up the food dropped by the rabbits above. I don’t ask about the guinea pigs; they multiply and die so quickly I’m pretty sure COPERMA has been regularly carting them out to Isale. I walk back outside into the sandy courtyard where most of the kids in the classroom have now escaped to. There are boys of about four and five years old building a second sand pile from a first using a shovel twice their size. All of them are wearing tiny pants that are still too big and that sag as they walk and run, showing tiny little butt cracks.
          A few feet away from where the boys are playing there is a group of only girls. They’ve tied what look like pieces of rope together to form a jump rope. It’s the first time I’ve seen anyone jumping rope in Congo and these girls are professionals. They’re playing double-dutch and can often get three of their little forms through at the same time.
    -I used to play that when I was little in the States, I say to Laurentine who has just walked up beside me.
    -Really? With the banana leaves dried and tied together?
    -Oh, no. We used a long rope made out of a different material. I was actually terrible at that game I could never do it.
          Laurentine chuckles and walks off to help Maman Marie. I walk over to a group of toddlers sitting in a huddle and sit down next to a little girl with her back to me. She turns around and immediately shrinks away, her eyes growing from nickels into silver dollars. Within a minute she has scooted a full foot away from me. When I don’t bark at her or bite she gradually turns back around to watch the giggling girls dodging the swinging banana leaf rope. There’s a baby sitting in front of the little group of toddlers. The girl who was next to me, who can’t be more than five years old, reaches forward with a blue piece of cloth and wraps it around the baby to shield him from the sun. A boy of about six walks by carrying an infant and carefully places the infant on a soft spot of grass.
        The parents are nowhere to be seen, most working in their fields, a few working on manioc root outside of a hut several meters away. The kids take care of each other and they take care of themselves. And when they leave the dirt courtyard, I’ve no doubt they’ll pick up a bundle that would be heavy for me, sling it over their heads and carry it home. One thing about the people in and around Butembo is how unfathomably hard they work. Materially they are poor, but in countless ways they are much wealthier than anyone I know. I often envy the happiness I see here. When war isn’t present, happiness thrives in this struggle. They say idle hands are the devil’s playground; maybe they’re just the breeding ground of discontent.
          The next day when we get to Magherya the room is filled with young-mothers working the black and gold machines. Magherya is high in the mountains and you can see other mountains covered in fields and huts. All of the huts are made out of mud, some with straw roofs that make the huts look like little bran muffins. The rest have tin roofs that toss around the daylight like laughter. Inside the sewing room, one of the girls I’ve known since my first day at Magherya holds up the little baby shirt she’s working on and laughs. I sit in the room for a while as the girls chat in Kinande. Sometimes, I can understand suggestions to add a zipper or to make the bottom of a shirt bigger for a little round belly.
           After Magherya we go to Butungera, a much less developed COPERMA site. I’ve promised the kids a soccer ball and its one promise I can finally keep.   Butungera is a small mud school building with one of the walls almost completely ripped off by the wind and another large expanse of sand. I throw the soccer ball to a group of boys doing half-cartwheels in the sand and they immediately start to play. The school building, if you can call it that, sits atop a plateau overlooking valleys and other mountains all around. It’s flat and it feels like I’m standing on the sternum of the earth; if I began digging I would hit the heart of the world. As Maman Marie speaks to the two school teachers in the mud hut, I sit in a pool of shade under a tree with a group of young-mothers, most of whom are survivors of rape. We sit quietly, watching the boys clumsily chase the soccer ball. One of the girls spreads her pagne on the ground next to me and places her rolly polly baby on the cloth. We all laugh as the baby tumbles around, giggling and flailing his chubby little arms. The heart of the world is not beneath the ground, it’s right here beating on top.

Jaded

2011-05-17T08:57:00.000-07:00

          Dusan told me a while ago never to let anything here touch me too much, but I don’t think that’s really possible. The thing is, seeing women with brilliant smiles, laughter and kindnesswho are hurting and unable to look me in the eyes does touch me. And not being able to really help them touches me more. There are days when I truly feel like a piece of this quilted country; I’m made more vibrant by the beauty of the pieces around me. And then there are days when I move through villages, over the patchwork mountains, through people’s homes, and I see and feel nothing. I interact with people as if there is a foggy window between us. It becomes harder to keep my heart open and I become more and more afraid of how it’s going to hurt to keep it open.
          But then I remember that I’m being hurt by stories of things people have actually experienced and the dark, thudding hurt I feel becomes nothing compared to the depth of what they must live with for the rest of their lives.
          There’s an area near Butembo that’s referred to as Graben. It’s a valley that’s a monster in a closet I can’t open, but one which many Congolese women have seen. It’s over-run with governmental soldiers and, allegedly, ADF-NALU rebels from Uganda. In Isale-Bhulambo, a village repeatedly attacked by the governmental battalion stationed there, many of the women and girls have also been attacked in Graben. It’s an area of fields for cultivation. Women walk to their fields and stay for several days before bringing their goods home, but recently, the women in the area have had to abandon their fields.
    -There are 27 survivors of rape in Katolu near Graben and we brought in 11 to get treatment at FEPSI, but we haven’t been able to help the others, says my colleague Urbain. We sent out some supplies for petite-commerce but it wasn’t enough to help all of the women.
          There are two yellow jugs of palm oil, several blocks of hand-made soap, and a sack of salt that still needs to be taken out so we all pile into the car and head out to Katolu. Katolu is three hours away in a car, plus a 30 minute walk by foot to the top of a plateau.
    -Look, you can see Uganda from here, says Urbain as we get out of the car. And there is Graben.
          I stare at the valley extending below us and try to imagine how such beauty can contain such horror. The land is so rich the greens and browns glitter like wet paint in the sun. Maman Marie and Urbain lead the way through a small village to a thin path. There are more people floating around in the village than normal, and when we arrive at the end of the path I see why.
    -Oh no, I say turning to Urbain.
          The path opens into a soccer field and the field is filled with at least 200 people.   A few meters from our small group is a small black box battery connected to microphone.
    -We can’t help all of these people, I say again. Why are they here?
          Maman Marie has been doing this a lot longer than I have. She confidently walks up to the microphone and launches into a speech.
    -Here, we don’t need to stay we can go and speak with the survivors.
          Urbain stands up and starts walking back towards the path. I shield my eyes from the blinding sun and follow him to a mud hut with a stick cross spreading into the sky. Inside the air is cool and damp, the room is filled with small wooden benches. Within a few minutes women start filing into the tiny church. I count twelve women but they are still filling the room.
    -All of these women are survivors? I ask Urbain who has taken a seat on a wooden bench to my left.
    -Yes. Some of them went to FEPSI already and some of them haven’t though.
   -Okay, let’s try and separate the two groups so we can focus on those who haven’t yet been treated or talked to anyone.
          Urbain speaks to everyone in Kinande and immediately the women stand up and start switching seats and sides of the room.
    -Everyone on the right has already been to FEPSI and everyone on the left has not received treatment.
          I look at the group and don’t know what to do. There are too many to speak with individually in one day but I don’t know how to do identification in a group.
    -Raise your hand if you have been to the hospital, I say in French.
          Everyone on the right and about a third of the group on the left raise their hands.
    -There is a woman who has a baby who is deformed and she wants to show you the child, Urbain says suddenly.
           A woman has already stood up and is moving towards the front of the room. I brace myself and realize I am afraid of the child. I’m afraid of how his little face and the nothing I can do will hurt me. When the woman reaches me she lowers the little bundle and moves a blanket away from the baby’s face. The baby is only a few weeks old and still not dark enough to match his mother’s skin. I recognize a bilateral complete cleft lip and palate immediately.
    -Does he have trouble eating? How old is he?
          I’m amazed the child can eat anything at all and is still alive. I don’t know much about the condition but it looks incomprehensible to me that the child could be alive.
    -He cannot eat milk from his mother’s nipple but he can drink some milk if they give it to him carefully. He’s three weeks old.
          I start to tell her to take the child to the hospital, but I doubt there is a Doctor who can do the surgery.
    -We need to research if there is a Doctor in the area who can perform this surgery, I say to Urbain. I nod to the woman and smile; she walks out the door of the hut into the sunshine. I look back to the group.
    -Is there anyone who has physical pain in their body?
          Urbain translates and over half of the room raises their hands. Urbain points to a woman in the front row who is raising a strangely crooked arm. I stand up and walk over to the woman, my heart beating quickly. Her arm is broken in the same place that Kasuera from Isale broke her arm, but the break and the swelling look twice as big. It looks like someone took a golf ball and tucked it under her skin.
    -Can you move your hand at all?
          The woman looks at her hand and a couple of her fingers move about a centimeter.
    -When did this happen?
    -Six months ago, Urbain translates.
   -Oh jeez, okay. Well she’s an urgent case. We need to get her to the hospital as soon as possible.
    -Okay, we will ask her. I think we should speak with them individually, Urbain says.
    -Yes, I agree. But only to the women who haven’t been identified yet. The women who didn’t go to FEPSI already.
          Urbain translates and the women stand to leave. I point to the woman with the broken arm and ask her to start. We all move to chairs in a small circle and when the rest of the women are outside and the door is closed, Kavy begins.
          The soldiers came into the field, she explains in Kinande. A group of them came, they tried to kill her after they raped her but she used her arm to block the blow of the gun to her head. She doesn’t know how old she is, maybe 37 years old. She was raped in November during the confrontation in Bhulambo. The soldiers spoke Lingala and wore uniforms of the governmental soldiers. She went to find food to eat in the field and when she started to leave with the food three military came and raped her.
          Kavy has slightly slanted eyes that make her look perpetually sad.
    -After that day, I feel very tired always and I stay in my bed, she says.

          After Kavy, Masika comes in. She has a round face with a shockingly white smile. She’s 31 years old and she has a problem with her feet. She points down to her feet and I see that her skin is peeling off as if it were a thin sock.
          Masika went to the field to work. A group of military came and trapped her. One of them raped her but the others saw women working in the fields nearby and one of them said, “we should go to take the others as well.” The pain in her womb is calm now.
          As Masika I watch Masika speak I feel my heart open up a little bit. I’ve been focusing so much on the suffering that I’m helpless to fix I’ve been forgetting to focus on the beauty and strength that is pervasive here. I wish others could see this young woman so they could understand how beautiful she is. Even though I’ve just met her, kindness emanates from her and I feel comfortable in the softness of her presence; her voice is like wind chimes.
    -There is still fear in my heart when I think of it, she says.

          Kulemba was working in the field when the group of soldiers came. The leader was a fat military, when the others left, he stayed and said “I am going to sleep with you.” She refused and so he forced her. He beat her before he raped her.
    -I had been working very hard and I was tired. That’s why he succeeded.
          I tell her it’s not her fault. Since then she doesn’t work. When she tries to go to the field or do hard work her back begins hurting and she has pain in her abdomen still.

    Kyakyimua is 34 years old. In March she was in the field alone. The 3 military came and she tried to flee but they caught her. They said, “since you wanted to flee we’re going to do what you were afraid of.” She went to the hospital afterwards but she was too ashamed to tell the Doctor she was raped.   She feels weak.

          Wena is 39 years old. She smiles at me shyly before looking down at her feet. Her husband is dead. Three months after he died one soldier raped her. She went to the hospital and they told her she contracted an infection; gonorrhea and syphilis.
    -You have syphilis? I interrupt her.
    -Yes, that’s what they said at the hospital.
    -Did you receive treatment there?
    -No, I couldn’t afford the medications so they would not let me take it.
          I make a note in my notebook.
    -She also needs to get treatment, if she wants.
          Urbain asks her in Kinande and she shakes her head.
    -She refuses, he says.
    -Why?
          Urbain asks her and her response is soft and deflated.
    -Because she says she can never feel better.
    -Explain that physically, syphilis can be treated. But if she doesn’t treat it, it can be fatal.
          Wena smiles again and then nods her head.
    -She accepts?
    -Yes, she accepts.
          Wena looks at the ground again but there’s still a trace of a smile on her face. I wonder as I have many times, how anyone can hurt these women? I just don’t understand it and I can feel the tightening around my heart; frustration and anger wrap like rubber bands around my throat and it's difficult to breathe. But their strength is inspiring and their kindness is this world's salvation. I watch Wena, smiling shyly, and the rubber bands loosen and I can feel why this is all so important once again.