Tunnel Vision

          After the last week, our Wazungu team takes a break; sort of.  One nice thing about having other Americans around is their lack of tunnel vision; or at least, different directions of tunnel vision.  They see things I don’t, like people and things that don’t necessarily involve rape.

          We spend a day doing Neurolinguistic Programming exercises that Sarah has brought with her.  It’s strange focusing on myself and thinking about what negative emotions or limiting beliefs I need to work through, even just for a day.  It feels good but odd here; it’s the job I’ve chosen, but it’s also easier to focus on other people’s problems.  And other people are easier to help.  But the day is enjoyable and I do feel a little bit lighter after imagining people whom I need to forgive for something on a far off hill, mentally bathing them in different colors of light, and letting go of whatever wrong I feel they did. 

          The next day we follow a focus of Sarah’s.  Though it is, in a sense, still a focus on sexual violence, I would never have thought to step out of my routine and seek out the common worldly thread of sex workers in Butembo. 

          Benoit is a shorter man with dark circles around his eyes that make him look strangely like The Adam’s Family’s Uncle Fester, but a lot darker.  He approached me months ago, explaining the Non-Profit Organization he started to help protect sex workers and teach them about safe sex.  I brushed him off, not having enough funds, time, or energy to help another NGO.  Only when Sarah mentions her interest in the women in this line of work do I remember the Association of Women Living Alone.

          We meet with the women in a small concrete room like any other here.  They’re sitting in a half circle facing us; it’s like walking into a royal court made up of some of the most strangely beautiful women I’ve ever seen.  They’re beauty comes in all sizes.  Maman Kaghoma is the heavy-set President of the Association of Women Living Alone; an association that consists of 6,000 women in Butembo alone.  Something about all of the women is comforting and I find it much easier to communicate with them.  They’ve seen everything, and are slightly wary of our presence but also open to our varying personalities and the possibility of kindness.  It’s refreshing; I immediately feel like we are among friends.  Sarah sets up her camera and I begin asking questions.

    -How did you get into this line of work?

          We start with Maman Kaghoma.

    -I used to live in Goma, she says, speaking directly to Sarah’s camera with an assertive force that’s empowering and intimidating at the same time.

    -I had to flee because of the war.  I used to be married, but my husband was killed.  You cannot survive here without a husband, not in this place.  I didn’t want to start doing this work but I saw that I could not survive without money and this was the best way for me to make money for my family so that I could feed my children and myself.  When you need food and you have nothing, and a man says here is this money for this act, what will you do?

          After Maman Kaghoma finishes, each of the other women speaks.  All of the stories are more or less the same.  No work, no husband, hungry children.

    -Do you have trouble with men being violent with you? 

          I may try to shift my focus but it’s difficult to completely remove my blinders.

    -Yes, we have problems with that.  All the time.

    -Do you have problems with rape?

    -All the time.  Men see us on the route and they think they can just take us.  And they do.

          The woman speaking currently is a skinny woman with a very bright smile, big white teeth, and a little gap in the middle. 

    -It needs to be something you decide on and consent to.  Both people.  A man needs to say I want to have your body in this way, and the woman also needs to say, I want to have your body in this way.  And then, okay.  But when they come and we refuse and they force us it is not okay.

          I’ve always had a soft-spot for women forced to sell their bodies.  It’s a complicated profession and problem involving radical power plays and insecurities in the greatest extreme.  Insecurity and self-doubt are what bring the devil out of humans.  I can’t imagine anyone sees this more than women who sell the physical manifestations of themselves. 

     -Do you use condoms in your work?

    -We used to, we’d like to.  But we can’t afford it.  One box of three pieces costs $2.00.  HealthNetTPO gave us some funding for our own health center, our own Doctor, training classes on safe sex and HIV/AIDS but the contract ran out and there’s nothing anymore.

          All of the women are listening attentively, some slightly nodding their heads.

    -Are there any women in your Association who are positive for HIV and still work?   

    -Yes, there are many.

          All of the women break into Swahili and Kinande chatter before seemingly coming to a conclusion.

    -Probably 20/100 are positive.

          A woman on my right cuts in.  She’s slightly chubby, beautiful, and angry. 

    -Some of the women are hidden and some are known.  But all of them work.  What are we going to do?  Do you think I like doing this work?  I have three children I can barely feed because I can’t find regular work anywhere.  When you have nothing, what can you do?

          I nod my head in agreement and tell them I understand.  I see their perspective but I’ve never actually known what that’s like.  We finish up and the women move outside as Sarah packs up her equipment. 

    -Would you like to promenade a little with us?  Asks one of the more voluptuous women.  Anwarite is wearing a bright red, fully sequined skirt-top combo that doesn’t quite zip all the way in the back.  She has the popular white powder on her face, making her skin look lighter but in a bizarrely obvious way.  I hate the white powder because it’s imitating my skin, when I don’t hold a candle to these women.

    -It’s the weekend, she says as she swings her hips around a little.  We must dance.

          Benoit started working with these women because he is the manager at a popular night club where many of the women work.  I set off on the motorcycle and Alana and Sarah walk down the road with the ladies.  Inside we sit around several tables, a party of 12.  Benoit orders fries with mayonnaise, tilapia and goat meat, and a beer for everyone.  Because the women have spent their entire day speaking with us and doing interviews, Sarah has agreed to treat the women to lunch and their choice of a drink. 

          It’s possibly the most fun I’ve had in Congo.  The women ask about our families, where are our boyfriends, what are our lives like?  Towards the end of the meal, Alana suggests that the wazungu get up and sing.  She has been teaching Sarah and I different songs and harmonies at night when we have to stay on the Crosier grounds to avoid les bandits.  The three of us stand up and I explain in French that we would like to share something with them.  We start singing a three part harmony and the women smile and listen intently.  They clap enthusiastically at the end, ask for an encore, and tell us they think we are kind.  

           It’s such a slight attempt at a gift, but it feels good to share something of ourselves with these brilliantly vibrant specimens of humanity.  It’s humbling.  I’ve never been more honored to be in the company of a certain group of people. 

         

               

Notes

    -Plastic crutches

    -Vighumba

    -E-mail Makeba

    -Isale man

    -Vet

          The notes I write on my hand over the course of the week give a strangely complete image of what there is to be done here.  A couple of weeks ago, Maman Marie wrote up a budget for me, so I could check in on the various projects they need money for.  My contribution through donors in the States, is still rather minimal, but it’s a lot more than what they’re currently working with; that being nothing.  Gas seems to eat up the most money, unfortunately and seems to be the largest point of contention among us.  Gas and worker’s salaries.  The COPERMA team hasn’t been paid in a while.  They’re humanitarian workers, and the work they do takes courage, spirit and self-sacrifice; but they too have bellies to feed and school fees to pay. 

          When Maman Marie hands me the budget, I overlook all of these things that are just as necessary as sewing machines and petite-commerce supplies.  I see only the 28 new cases of sexual violence listed among the numbers.  Ten of the new cases are in a location called Vutondi and it’s the first place we are able to go.  Vutondi is only about 45 minutes away, which makes the day feel less stressful from the start.  A third American has now joined Sarah and me; Alana Yurkanin is a potential donor.  She has come to learn about the Congo and see how exactly she might be able to help.  When we arrive in Vutondi there is a mass of people standing outside of a few huts.  They sing and dance and laugh when they see three young muzungu women trickle out of the car. 

          Alana is from Hawaii, and has brought a ukulele and a beautiful voice with her.  She jumps right into the crowd and begins singing and strumming the tiny guitar, as everyone watches happily and the children creep closer.  For the most part, I leave Alana and Sarah to figure out their agenda.  Sarah often joins me in the “identification” of survivors, taking photos and film of those who want her to.  This is a new village for me, but the process is the same.  After introductions and many hellos, I enter a large mud hut with a chalk board at the front and a few wooden benches in the middle.  Urbain has a list of the ten new survivors and he immediately begins calling out names.  The villagers don’t know the reason for the selection of who speaks to the muzungu, and Alana’s music helps distract those who aren’t.

          One of the first women to enter is a short girl with a wide face, eyes shaped like elegant fish, and a brown hat that says FIFA on the front.  She comes in slowly, as she is using heavy wooden crutches to support her body and a twisted foot that didn’t finish forming in her mother’s womb.  Kavugho lives with her older brother.  Their mother died and dad abandoned the family prior to that.  Dad is in Oicha with another woman.  Kavugho hasn’t seen him in years. 

          Kavugho was walking home one night at around eight after buying gas.  She was attacked by one Mai-Mai soldier in November, 2010.  He raped her.  Kavugho’s brother brought her to the hospital three days after the rape and he willingly paid the hospital bill.  Her eyes tear up and she stops speaking.

    -She’s going to cry, whispers Urbain to me.

          I wait a moment as her eyes flit around the room trying to command the tears.

    -I’m noticeable in the village, she says.  My heart is tired. 

    -Why is your heart tired? I ask, even though the words in my notebook should have given me that answer already.

    -I’m an orphan, my dad abandoned us, I don’t have work, they make fun of me in the village.  After this event, I feel so tired in my heart.

          She really wants to start a small business, she says.  Her foot and the heavy crutches make it impossible for her to work a field, and though her brother takes care of her, he has a wife and three children to feed as well.  She’s fidgeting with her clothing and avoiding eye contact. 

    -A pair of plastic crutches would really help, she practically whispers.

          I look at her restless fingers and the thick, brown crutches laying across her lap.  There is no padding anywhere, and the wood is not a light timber.  It’s thicker than the sticks most of the houses are built out of.  I move my pen from my notebook to the back of my hand.

    Plastic crutches, I write, in blue ink.

          After Kavugho, many others stick out.  Thirteen year olds who are seeping anger. 

    -I was a virgin.  I received my period only after this happened.

          Anita is 14 years old.  Her mother died when she was an infant.  She has never seen her father before, as he abandoned them before she was born.  She’s wearing an orange shirt with a pink, square cloth draped across her shoulder.  She was in the field with her Grandmother.  On their way home they encountered soldiers who spoke Lingala and wore the uniforms of governmental soldiers.  The soldiers told her to carry their bags back to their camp.  Anita’s Grandmother tried to intervene, so the soldiers took the Grandmother to another place and tortured her. 

          After two of the soldiers raped her in the road, Anita was taken back to their camp.  There she was held, and the two soldiers “took turns” with her for seven days.  There were other women there, and there still are.  She was able to escape with a few of the women and girls, but not everyone escaped.

        Vighumba, I write on my hand.  It is the area where Anita and the others were held, and where an unknpwn number of women may still be.  Dusan should be home soon, and regardless of whether or not he can help me find these women, I’m going to try.  Sarah and Alana agree with me, it becomes a top priority for all of us.  But none of us know quite how to storm a soldier’s camp and liberate women being held as sexual slaves.

        A day or two later, when we are in Isale, E-mail Makeba, becomes necessary.  Makeba is a counselor and close friend in the States, and I hope she may be able to help me figure out how to help a woman who’s heart and mind were broken when her husband left and took their children with him.  For two years the woman has been a rambling spiral of excitement and confusion. 

    -What is your name? I ask.

    -You will have to ask my teeth, she says.  My name is kept in my teeth.

        She speaks rapidly, when no one is speaking to her or listening. 

    -This is where I keep my children, she says, pointing down to her left big toe. 

          She has not hurt anyone or herself, but her mother is exhausted.  Mom has other children to feed and watch, and is at her wit’s end.  She doesn’t know what she can do to help her daughter, but if I have any way of helping, she is prepared to do anything.  I don’t think I can help.  The mental health centers here are like thorazine warehouses, where patients look through you and have trouble forming words.

          There is a man in Isale who is physically ill.  Isale man, remains written on my hand for several days.  When we came upon him, he was an empty cardboard box.  His walls were so thin I’m sure they would crease if you pushed on them hard enough.  His mouth is coated with the layers of many nights without exposure to outside air.  He looks like a 90 year-old man but Kasereka is only 32.  We take him immediately to the hospital, but I don’t have much hope.  As I help him into the back seat of the car, guiding his feet, something cold and wet brushes against my arm.

    -What happened to his foot? I ask, pointing to the white cloth, soaked in some natural fluid.

    -He was delirious one night and his foot was cold, so he put it in the fire, says Urbain after asking Kasereka’s wife.  She doesn’t know how long his foot was in the fire.

          A few days after meeting the whirlpool woman, Sarah, Alana and I arrive at the office, laughing about fitting three people on a motorcycle. 

    -I brought the medication out for Kasereka on Saturday, says Urbain as soon as we walk in.  He was doing well.  Yesterday, I received a call that he was in the midst of losing his life.  And now, the man is dead.

          I sit down and translate the words for Sarah and Alana.  Our laughing immediately disappears and the room is silent.  The silence only lasts a few moments, as life picks up again; Kasereka was a foregone conclusion.  On the ride back to Vutondi, I try and imagine the flimsy man I only met twice.  I didn’t truly know him, but it’s frighteningly important for me to think about what his death means, and thus, what his life was.  It’s easier to simply let the thoughts go and keep moving forward.  In many situations it’s necessary here.  But with death, I feel like it’s a responsibility and it would hurt me more to not show the man that respect.  I may not have known him, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t exist.

          I wonder what he was like as a four year old child, playing in the dirt, chasing an old tire with a stick.  I wonder what his engagement was like with his still young and beautiful bride.  I wonder if she was nervous and shaky around him when she didn’t yet know the intimacy of their shared vulnerability.  I wonder if he was scared to ask her to marry him, or if shared vulnerability came first.  I wonder what his kids thought of their dad when he was still himself.  I wonder if they got the approval all children look for from the two pieces that put them together.

          I wonder if he was happy.  I wonder what his children thought of the skeleton he became.  How frightened were they, by the stagnant animalism exposed by imminent death?  What is more frightening for them, having that animalism around or not having anything of him at all?

          In Vutondi I watch the people move around, laughing and singing along with Alana’s voice, once again.  I think about suffering and pain and life.  I can’t force the familiar and cliché thought of, what is the point? Out of my mind.  When you ask, what’s the point of suffering, don’t you also have to ask, well then, what’s the point of living at all?  Suffering and life seem to be like Siamese twins.  In order to get rid of one, you’d have to get rid of both.  Would it be better if we just get rid of both?

          That night when I get home, I find out a baby monkey who I was trying to nurse into adulthood died during the day.  In Congolese culture, animals are not seen as children of God, simply creations like any object to be used and disposed of; even in a religious community, if not more so.  The monkey died because the head priest didn’t think it fit for a human to feed an animal too young to eat on his own.  Somehow, at the end of each day filled with suffering I couldn’t solve, the little needy form brought my heart back towards my middle like a breathing magnet.  Whether it’s a culmination of the week, or the personal connection I had to the little being, a monkey the size of my hand seems to hurt the most. 

          I think about religion, and that Christianity, at least in this community, doesn’t include animals.  Why was I always told animals aren’t allowed into heaven when I was a child in Sunday school?  Any religion that doesn’t include animals as children equal to humans doesn’t work for me.  If anything, humans are less of God’s children than animals are; at least animals follow the laws of nature. 

          They’re not the ones destroying the world. 
          I cross off the words Isale man and Vet on my hand.

 

The Commander

                Interacting with soldiers is like balancing on a weak and unsturdy wire.  Bulambo is a village located next to Isale.  It is next to Graben where the NALU rebels from Uganda are working to sink roots into the ground, so Bulambo is speckled with governmental soldiers, in order to combat the rebels.  They are walking green blotches of humanity, lost and left behind.  Rebels such as NALU have no rules, and if they were in Bulambo, we wouldn’t be able to go there at all.  Governmental soldiers have to at least pretend to be controlled, but it doesn’t mean much.

                While walking through the market of Bulambo, checking on the women starting the petite-commerce program, I take a picture of a soldier and get caught.  There’s no real need for the photo, I know what soldiers look like and I know I’m not supposed to take pictures of them.  But for some reason my hand itches and I do it anyway.  There are no other soldiers around me at the moment, but a large man in a black track suit and leather sandals approaches me.

                -You see there is a problem, he says.  You see, I am the Commander of this unit, and you are taking pictures of my soldiers without their permission.

                My adrenaline spikes immediately.  The man is more or less 3 feet taller than me.

                -I can erase the pictures, it’s really no problem.

                -No, you will not erase the pictures.  You will not even touch your camera, do you understand?  Do you understand that you cannot do this?

                -Yes, I am truly sorry, I really can simply erase the pictures.

                -No, come with me.

                We start walking down the main road.  Urbain, one of my COPERMA colleagues, was standing with me when I took the photos and he is asked to come as well.  I look around and don’t see Maman Marie or anyone else anywhere, and hope that she has decided to hide herself and the others.  I hope they’ll all pile into the car and simply leave.  There’s also another American in town.  Sarah Fretwell is a professional photographer who has come to work with COPERMA and do some pro-bono work to help them with fund-raising, possibly score a grant.  She has about $10,000 worth of camera equipment and I hope she’ll stay hidden as well.

                -You are from which country? He asks as we walk.

                He’s speaking sternly, but he hasn’t grabbed my camera yet and thrown it on the ground, and he’s not carrying a gun that I can see so I relax and start trying to work with him.

                -I’m from America.

                -You can’t take pictures of American soldiers ever.  So why do you think you could do this here?

                -Actually, you can take pictures of American soldiers and governmental buildings.  It’s really not a problem.

                -No you cannot. 

                I’ve never understood the whole problem with taking pictures of governmental assets in third world countries.  They seem to think that if I take a picture of a soldier talking to someone I’ll have immediate access to the inner circles of knowledge within the ranks.  The Commander has never been to the States, and I’ve definitely taken pictures of American soldiers before, but I let it go.

                We arrive at a concrete box of an office where there is a short, plump man sitting behind a desk.  The Commander enters immediately and motions for me to sit down on a wooden stool against the back wall.  Urbain sits next to me.

                -This woman was taking pictures of my soldiers without permission.  And she did not come to this office to get permission to take any pictures at all, he says to the squat man at the desk, before turning back to me.

                -In this village you must register with this office before you can take any pictures of anyone or anything in this area.

                -I’m sorry, I really didn’t know, I say. 

                I say it as kindly and docilely as possible.

                -It is not your fault, says the Commander, still speaking sternly.  It is really the fault of the person with you who knows the rules.  He’s looking at the ground in front of him motioning with his hands, signalling emphatically from Urbain to the ground.

                -I can erase the pictures, I say again.  It’s really not a problem.

                -Who do you work for? Asks the Commander.  Why were you taking those pictures?

                I think he thinks I’m a spy.

-I’m a humanitarian and a teacher, I just took them to amuse myself, because I’m interested.  I really have no problem erasing them.

I want them to let me erase the pictures and go on my way but the Commander won't even let me touch my camera.  He has placed it on the wooden desk, but I don't get the feeling anyone is trying to steal it. 

-Write a letter, apologizing for the pictures, says the Commander. 

He stands up and gets a pen and a piece of paper and hands it to me.

-Write it in French and in English.

Not one of these men speaks English, but I do it anyway.

I am sorry I took a picture of soldiers without permission.  It was not my intention to show disrespect to the Commander or the community of Bulambo.  It will not happen again.

I feel like I’m in fourth grade getting caught by the teacher, except this teacher can determine the outcome of the rest of my life, in a drastic way.  I don’t feel unsafe; I’m mostly worried about Urbain and COPERMA in general.  Maman Marie and Helen show up at the opening of the concrete room and my heart sinks.  Them being involved in any way will not only increase the risk, but increase the amount I’m sure I will have to pay to smooth things over.  Maman Marie steps into the dark office and starts explaining to the Commander that she’s with me.  I have never wanted so badly to strangle someone.

-No, I stand up.  I’m not with them at all.  This guy is my translator, and they gave me a ride but they’re not actually associated with me.

-Yes, Amy! Maman Marie says, you are one of us.

I am grinding my teeth and glaring at her.

-No, I am not.

I need her to agree and leave.  I can handle getting Urbain and myself out of the situation, but the more people they connect with me, the more lives are at stake, the more people I’ll have to pay for to keep safe. 

-Bring the other American in, says the Commander.

-No, really, she doesn’t need to come in, she wasn’t taking any photos of soldiers.  She doesn’t even speak French it will be useless to have her here.

-It’s okay, just bring her in so you will feel more comfortabele.

The Commander gets up and gives an order to one of the soldiers standing in the doorway.  Urbain leaves as well, presumably to help Sarah understand what’s going on.  They all arrive within a few minutes.  Sarah is a tall, thin woman with dirty blonde hair and a lot of traveling experience under her belt.  I’m not worried about her, but also want as few people involved as possible.  She sits down next to me.

-Don’t worry, I say in English.  They just brought you in to make me feel more comfortable.

-Can I take pictures? She asks.

I almost laugh.

-No!  Don’t even try it.  That’s why we’re in here.  I took a picture of a soldier and got caught.

-Oh, these are soldiers? 

She looks around and chuckles.

-I thought they were the men we were going to be interviewing.  Damn, I really wish I could take pictures now.

-Maybe you should smoke a cigarette, she says, watching the Commander pull one after another out of his bag and inhale the grey smoke.

When we arrived in Bulambu I bought a pack of cigarettes in case of exactly this type of situation.  The idea is more to give them out to soldiers to break ice and create bridges.  I slide a cigarette out of the pack in my bag, lean forward and casually ask for a light.

Everyone in the room turns to me and looks at the Commander.  He stands up as if he has just received the most important order in his life and says something in Swahili or Lingala to one of the soldiers in the doorway.  Within moments matches are procured.  The Commander takes out a cigarette of his own, lights it and then offers it to me.  Within the span of seconds, the tension in the room deflates.

-You are becoming truly Congolese! He says, laughing.  You even smoke our brands.

-Yeah, it’s my favorite, I say, puffing on my cigarette.

I don’t mention that I hate this brand and only have it for schmoozing purposes.

-You know, I am the Commander of this unit, he says.  Unfortunately, I’m out of my uniform.

-Oh, don’t worry about it.  You don’t need a uniform I can tell you are strong.

I feel like slapping myself in the face for such obvious and gross ego boosting, but it's necessary.  Insecurity is it's strongest among men who deal in war  He eats it up.  The room explodes with laughter and he puffs out his chest.  The situation seems to be winding down a little.  I should be a spokesperson for cigarette companies.  Smoke Cigarettes, Save Yourself From Soldiers.

-So, the squat man behind the desk says.  In this letter you say that you are asking for our pardon.  I think in order to give you that pardon, maybe you can help us some.  Give us a little something.

-Something like what?  I ask, pretending not to know exactly what they’re indicating.

-Something, he repeats, and everyone chuckles.

-I’m sorry, I’m not from this culture I don’t really understand what you’re saying.  I can give you cigarettes and maybe buy you some sodas?

The entire room laughs again.

-That’s not what we mean.

-Well, what do you mean?

I want him to say it outright because this is totally against the rules.  Everything the Commander has done has been a façade of proper action, following the law.  Now they’re trying to squeeze a bribe out of me to ensure the safety of COPERMA and nobody wants to actually say it because they’re all still trying to pretend this is legal.  At one point The Commander even says that this is a "professional army."  If I had my way I'd ask him how professional included rape, stealing, and now, a miniscule but entirely unprofessional bribe. 

-You know, you can give us something to help out.

This is taking too long.

-Since I wronged the community and the soldiers, maybe I can give twenty dollars to each of you.

Again they laugh.

-That’s too little.

The Commander walks outside again and seems to pull Maman Marie aside.  We’ve been sitting in this room chatting about my errors and apologies and cigarettes for over an hour.  It has to end soon.  I follow him outside to make sure the repercussions land on my shoulders and not on Maman Marie.  When I walk up to them the Commander casually walks away. 

-He wants you to give them $200.

-What? I don’t have that much money.

I have three hundred dollars tucked into my bra, but I have no intention of paying them so much.  I have no intention of doing so, but in the end there’s nothing I can do; there’s no higher authority to go to, this is the higher authority.  I know that if the situation doesn’t end in a fully closed circle, the soldiers won’t create problems for me but they could and would be a serious threat to COPERMA. 

                The Commander is speaking quietly with someone on the other side of the office.  I walk up to him directly, I don’t want Maman Marie or any of COPERMA to be anymore involved in this than they already are.

                -I hear you want me to give you two hundred dollars.

                Put so bluntly, the Commander can’t deny it without denying wanting the money.

                -Yes, I think that would be enough.

                -That’s a lot of money.  I don’t have the means to pay you that. 

                -You’re American of course you have the means.

                -No, I don’t.  I can’t afford to give you two hundred dollars.  How about one hundred?

                He looks at me skeptically.

                -One twenty.

                I look to Maman Marie.  She looks uncomfortable.  Sarah has wandered outside and is picking up on the conversation; the body language makes everything apparent.

                -If you have any money, don’t even mention it or start to pull it out, I say to her.  They’ll just ask for even more.

                I know she has only large bills and giving them a fifty and asking them to change it would simply mean we’d be paying 150, or who knows, 300.

                -There’s twenty dollars in the car, says Helen.

                Maman Marie gives her a nod and Helen ambles off quickly.  Helen was just telling me how much she hates soldiers, they terrify her.  I’m such a shit.

                I turn back to the Commander.

                -Done.  She just went to get twenty dollars from the car.

                The Commander looks down at my letter of apology and asks me what I actually do in Lubero. I explain that I’m a teacher there.

                -You’re too young to be a teacher, you can’t have finished school.

                -I finished school two years ago, I say, trying to keep the conversation light.

                -Why don’t you put your phone number on here too, to be complete.

                I pull out a pen and write down an inactive phone number on the paper.

                -You know, I’m single he says.  I have four kids but I’m single, and I think you’re single too.

                I laugh to inflate his ego, and completely evade the question.  When Helen gets back with the twenty dollars I hand over a hundred dollar bill as well. 

                -I want to make sure this means there will be no problems for anyone in the future.

                -Don’t even worry, says the Commander.  You are leaving as friends and in good spirits.

                -Thank you so much.  I am sorry again to have disrespected you, it was nice meeting you.
                In the end they make me erase the pictures from my camera but they don't keep it; The Commander even shows me his ID and lets me take down all of his information, even though he just took an illegal bribe from me.

                I feel so disgustingly dirty.  I can’t believe this guy is absorbing all of the transparent shit I’m throwing at him.  We all leave the office and start walking back towards the car.  I think we’re going to leave right away, but now that we have permission from the Commander and the squat guy, Urbain and Maman Marie say we can keep working.  When we finish, an hour or so later, we walk back to the car.

                Sarah sees a hanging leg of some sort of animal hanging from the outside of a hut and goes off to take pictures. 

                -Urbain, I really am sorry for getting you caught in that situation.

                -No, it’s okay.  It’s totally okay.  Fortunately you had money!

                -I know, I went to the bank today just because I had extra time, but I’m so glad I had that.

                -The Commander told me that because I was the person who knows the area, I was responsible and he was going to keep me overnight and torture me.  So thank you for being so supple and quick with the money!

                -He said that?

                -Yes, but now it’s okay.

                I do something small like push a button on a black box and I put everyone I work with and care about at risk.  My skin is a slight protection, but the Congolese people are walking muscles, completely exposed. 

                -I’m so sorry.

                He laughs and punches me lightly, he seems completely comfortable with the entire situation, even though I almost caused him to go through a potentially irreparable trauma.  I think of the two little girls and the wife he has at home and am infuriated by my stupidity. 

                Sarah finishes and we climb back into the car.  The women in Isale are still waiting for us and we stop in the little courtyard for about twenty minutes.   None of the COPERMA workers seem angry at me or especially uncomfortable, I guess they’re just more used to this than I am.  By the time we get home I feel like four days have passed in the span of six hours.  I’m shaken by the experience, not because of my personal safety, but because of the devastating effect my actions can have on everyone else here.  The money ended the situation, I don’t think there will be more problems for us.  But everything here is a chain reaction.  Maybe the soldiers will be able to get drunk tonight with the money, and every human in the Bulambo region will be at risk.  Maybe the Commander will keep all of the money for himself, the lower soldiers will continue to feel frustrated and unsupported, and thus deserving of destroying other human beings.  The images in my camera are gone, but the effects remain.

Recent Post, Guest Blog

Please check out my most recent post, Notes from a Young American in Congo: A Good Man.., for Nicholas D. Kristof of the New York Times.

Women of Musienene

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

          In a tiny mud room with orange coals glowing next to me like Christmas lights, the women file in two or three at a time.  The group of women Maman Marceline told me about is a puddle of humanity outside of the dark cave I am sitting in.

          For a few minutes I sit silently in the room with two very elderly women.  They don’t speak French so we simply flick our eyes back and forth, trying to inspect each other inconspicuously.  Maman Marceline is speaking with one of the women outside trying to organize the little crowd and make sure everyone is present.  When she finishes she enters the womb-like room and sits on a tiny bench next to me; we begin.

          Maman Marceline begins speaking with the two elderly women.  I expect her to ask them politely to step out, but she asks them questions instead.

    -Are these women survivors? I ask.

    -Yes, they are.  They are some of the vieilles who were raped.

           I’m caught off guard and it takes me a moment to collect myself and regain my composure.

    -What is your name? I ask in Kinande.

    -Jacqueline.

    -How old are you Maman Jacqueline?

    -Seventy five.

          I thought Maman Marceline might be exaggerating when she indicated previously that there were women this old who had been raped.  Every wrinkle in Jacqueline’s face makes it clear there was no exaggeration.

          Jacqueline was trapped on the road by soldiers, two years ago.  She was 73.  She went to the hospital but she became very weak and sick after the rape. 

    -Do you feel better recently?

          She shakes her head no, immediately.

    -She is still weak, says Maman Marceline, but she has forgotten her anger.

          There is a six year old child on Jacqueline’s back.  She says the child is her granddaughter, and also a child of rape.  Jacqueline’s daughter is outside waiting to come in.

          Jacqueline finishes and I turn to the next woman in the room.  Christine is slightly smaller than Jacqueline, but looks just as old.  She is 78; she was raped by the Interhamwe a few years ago.  They killed her husband with machetes.  Yes, she was there.  Yes, she watched. 

    -At that time, they raped me and left me there. 

          She has sad eyes as she speaks, but she seems confident in her words.  Her voice doesn’t tremble or hesitate. 

          Because of this suffering she has become weak, she says.  She stays in the house, she doesn’t know what she can do. Maybe she can sell something like fish, she says.  If you can find something to help, she will be so happy.  She doesn’t have her own house and she can hardly find food.

          Emilia is 76 years old.  She was trapped by “bandits” while going for water.  It was three years ago, when she was 73.  She’s almost twitchy with enthusiasm and she is the first to laugh, but she shifts uncomfortably when I ask who attacked her.  It was soldiers, but she’s feeling a little better now.  She feels weak, she is a widow, she had to take lots of medicine after the rape.  But emotionally, she is feeling better than before.

          Janette is 40 years old.  She was trapped returning from the field looking for sweet potatoes.  She was raped by two civilians.  It was three years ago.  She gave birth to this child.

          She pats the little bottom sitting on her lap.  His name is Kambale.  After the rapes her bones began to hurt and she feels very weak always.  When she goes to the field alone and sees a man she is very afraid.

          Little Kambale is whispering quiet nothings to himself as his mother speaks above him.

          Aimee is forty years old.  She was looking for sweet potatoes to feed her children.  She was raped by three civilians.  Four years ago.  After the rape she became pregnant with the child in her lap.  He’s a handsome little boy with bright eyes.  Her husband fled the home because he said, “you were taken by the Interhamwe.”

          Arnestina is 55 years old.  She was never raped but she is considered a vulnerable because she was never able to have children and was never married.  Florida is incomprehensibly old, she says she’s 80.  I breathe out a sigh of relief when she says she has never been raped.  She’s too old to cultivate, she suffers a lot because she can’t find food.

          Goretti is 24 years old, the same age as me.  She’s soft-spoken and has soft eyes to match.  She was raped in 2004, she became pregnant. 

    -Ten soldiers. 

    -I’m sorry, two? I ask and hold up two fingers in the air.

    -No, she says.  Ten.

          She holds up both of her hands and extends all fingers to be clear. 

    -You were raped by all ten?

          The question sprouts from pure horror, I don’t mean to ask it.

    -Yes, all ten.

    -I remember when this happened, says Maman Marceline.  Goretti was in the hospital for at least a month.  She was very very sick.

    -How are you feeling now?

    -I am afraid and I have constant pain still in my uterus.  My headaches most days; because I was raped there is no one who will marry me.  They are afraid of us.

    -Do you want to get married? I ask.

    -Yes, unfortunately there will be no candidate.

          Blandine was raped by two soldiers who spoke Kinya Rwandan, her husband fled after she was raped.  He was angry with her.  She has fear in her heart. 

          Devote is 25 years old.  She was trapped in the field and raped by five soldiers who spoke Lingala. 

          Kavira C. is 40 years old, she was raped three years ago by three soldiers.  Her husband fled because of the rape.  He was mad because of the pregnancy so he left.  She suffers a lot. 

          Jeanine was raped in the field when she was 35.  It was four civilians.  She had a man but he fled.  After a pregnancy men always leave.  They don’t want to pay for hospital bills or food so they always leave.  She needs help feeding her kids.  One already died.

          The youngest girls are 15 and 16 years old.  Diana has beautifully smooth skin and a toddler in her arms.  She was raped by one soldier when she was 12.  She became pregnant.  She was in school but she had to leave to take care of the baby.

          Albertine was 14 when she was raped.  Her baby girl’s name is Naema, meaning grace.  It was two Mai-Mai soldiers.  She always has headaches and she had to drop out of school as well.

          The list goes on.  I leave the mud hut in the early afternoon after four hours of speaking with the women.  My notebook is a little staircase of stories extending across the pages.  At the house I smoke a cigarette and contemplate the fact that I’m not processing any of it emotionally anymore.  It’s the first time I’ve heard so consistently about husbands leaving because their wives were raped.  It makes me furious and sad.  But the rest of the stories are just words at this point.  I decide not to delve into it and go any further; I know I want to help them, I know they’re important, I know it hurts.

Follow-Up in Isale

          It takes at least four break-downs and several hours, but we finally make it back to Isale with les petites-commerces.  The women are all waiting.  When we pull up even the eldest eagerly jump forward to help us carry the heavy supplies down to the dirt clearing where we now always meet.  As I walk down the thin path covered in rocks and stray roots with a large bag of salt on my head (which, inevitably provides a substantial amount of entertainment), my heart jumps at one of the most shockingly beautiful smiles, directed at me.  The woman's face is glowing and it takes me a few seconds to realize it is Kavira, one of the two eighteen-year-old survivors I spoke with the last time.
          While we were sitting in a dark room the week before, Kavira couldn't look anyone else in the eyes.  Now she is laughing at my apparent surprise and the goofy muzungu smile I give her in return.  There's a flash of neon pink behind her and I see Kahambu, the other eighteen-year-old survivor.  She too is smiling at me, in a pink matching track suit with the word OBAMAA on the front.  Both of them look slightly abashed but are giggling together.  They look like different people.
          When we get down to the clearing, Hangie, a woman who was victimized by rape four years ago, starts singing a prayer.  She seems to be a village pastor of some sort, as she starts off our meetings in this way every time.  The women clap and say Amen! to Hangie's Hallelujahs.  When Hangie finishes, Maman Marie immediately starts handing out the supplies to the various groups.  Kavira and Kahambu are glued together.  If one of them is called forward by Maman Marie, within moments they gravitate back towards each other like giggling magnets.
          I ask Urbain if he can quietly ask all of the survivors who spoke with me previously to come into the little room.  Although I already gave them my speech about the possible consequences of publishing their stories, images and names, I've been worrying all week that I left something out.  I want to reiterate to make sure they understand.  I would never hurt these women again or take the power of choice from them.  All seven quickly file into the room curiously.  Urbain stands in the middle of the room staring at me, with the women behind him.  I reach forward, pinch his shirt in my hand and slowly drag him next to me so he's facing the women.  Everyone laughs.  I go through the speech again, elaborating extensively to make sure that they understand the concepts of publishing.  They don't know what the internet is but they do understand what it means to share their stories with the rest of the world.
          They respond emphatically, making me feel stupid for even bringing it up, but I'm glad that I am.  I want to make sure they understand the distinctions between aid and jorunalism, public exposure and privacy, etc.  After they have said Yes, we know and We agree, several times I stop blabbering.  Sifandiwey looks up at me immediately and says something in Kinande.  She looks straight at me without breaking eye contact at all.  I look back at her as Urbain translates next to me.
    -She says she wants you to release it and share it everywhere, so people will know the level of their suffering.
    -Okay.  I say, still looking at her.  I'll try.
          Sifandiwey breaks our eye contact and gets up to go back outside.  Again we make the transition from thick darkness to blinding sunshine.  I pull aside one of the survivors, who has a familiar little bundle hanging from her back.  It's the little girl we met last time, who looked like she had already moved onto the next adventure; the next life.
    -How is she doing, is she better?  I ask Mom.
          Mom nods and shifts her bundle so a little face pops out.  The baby girl's eyes are slightly tired, as if she just woke up from a nap, but there is a little piece light and life behind them that wasn't there before.  I touch the girl's cheek with my finger and she smiles at me.  Her name is Mbambu, and she's back.
    -Is she eating and going to the bathroom okay now?
    -Yes, explains Urbain as Mom launches into an explanation.  She's eating very normally and is not having diarrhea anymore.
    -That's absolutely wonderful.  I'm so happy to see her doing better.
          I pat Mbambu's curved little back and for some reason am overwhelmed with a feeling of love, and the thought that this little girl is more special than any other little girl in the world.  I'm just so happy to see a little person behind those eyes again.  I check on Kasuera and Kahambu, the two women who came to Butembo to go to the hospital.  Kasuera's arm still hurts but is feeling much better.  I still can't tell if it will be usable but at least the pain is decreasing.  The infection in Kahambu's finger was excised and is healing very nicely, so she will no longer need to have the digit removed.
          Before we leave I notice little Mbambu again.  Mom has swung the little girl around front so she can breast-feed.  Mbambu is darting in and out of the cloth sling from boob to open air, playing a little game with herself.
          All in all, it cost $112.00 to save an arm, a finger, and potentially, a life.

Another Week

          Maman Marceline cancels at the last minute.  The plump, middle-aged woman who sells me phone units and a beer now and then had been telling me for months about the girls and women in Musienene who have been victims of rape.  I told her I would speak to them, but I've avoided going.  Partly, because Musienene is my home and it frightens me and partly because I have no idea what I can really do to help.  There is no COPERMA center in Musienene and no Maman Marie explaining what to do.
          I made it clear to Maman Marceline that if anyone else is victimized to let me know immediately, so I can help them get to Butembo for free medical care.  After months, we decide to go on Sunday at 2 p.m.  She says, as everyone does here, that even if I can't do anything the girls will be happy just to speak with me.  Being such a rare occurrence in this area, I've begun to see that in a way, maybe I can make the girls feel special and important.
          I drive my motorcycle to the little wooden hut where Maman Marceline conducts her business.  She is waiting in the tiny doorway with her ever present smile.
    -I can't go today, it's Sunday.  And today Johnny Christmas was given his status as an official boy scout, she says as soon as I pull up.
          Johnny Christmas is her oldest son, in his early twenties, with just as big of a grin as his mother.  He told me a while ago about his activities as a boy scout; I didn't quite believe him, so a couple of months ago I went to one of their after-mass meetings.  Johnny was the only one wearing a tattered, old, boy-scout uniform complete with a scarf draped over his shoulders and pinned together in front.  The rest of the scouts were middle-age to elderly men and women.  Another man with a scarf over his shoulders but no uniform began their meeting as soon as I arrived.  With a whistle in his mouth, they rehearsed synchronized marching in three straight lines; two tweets--right turn, three tweets--left turn, single long note--stop.  It was more than a little odd watching sixty year old women in African print marching in a courtyard like untrained soldiers.
    -I'm sorry I wasn't there, I say still straddling my motorcycle in the afternoon sun.  I didn't know about it.
    -Oh, that's too bad.  Johnny must have forgotten.  I know he wanted you to be there.
          It's kind of a good thing that he forgot, I sometimes get the feeling Johnny Christmas is on the verge of asking me to marry him; fortunately, he always seems to chicken out.  He is one of the sweetest people I've ever met but I don't think we'd stand a chance as any sort of couple.
    -How many women are there who were victims that want to speak with me?  I ask, returning to the subject.
    -Twenty.
    -And how old is the youngest?
    -Eighteen, I think.  But there are old women.
    -Old as in how old?
    -Seventy five is the oldest.
          I slide the motorcycle kick stand into place so I can lean back on the seat.
    -There's a seventy five year old woman who was raped?
    -Yes, there are five vieilles.
          The image of Kyakyimua Wenderaki comes into my mind.  She was only 57 but her body was so tired and depleted she looked twenty years older.  I can't even fathom anything involving a 75 year old woman.  Maman Marceline watches me staring at the ground for a minute before breaking the silence.
    -When they are coming from the source they are attacked on the road.  The source is not close to here, it is very far.
    -The source meaning where they get their water, right?
    -Yes, they walk far to get the water and on the road is where the men attack them.
          If only there were more cars here and drivable roads.  So many women are attacked on the way to or from somewhere; it makes transportation seem more vital than shoes. 
    -When will you be able to go with me to speak with these women? I ask.
    -Whenever is good for you, I am free.  Although, not Sunday.  Sunday is never a good day.
    -I'm going to Kighali tomorrow and Isale on Tuesday, how about Wednesday at 2 p.m.?
    -Nope, Wednesday I have to work at the market.  Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday I cannot go.
    -Okay.  How about Thursday?
    -Thursday is perfect.
          I hoist my bike back up to standing and roar up the engine before driving slowly home.  Yesterday we went back to Isale to bring petite-commerce supplies for the women but when we arrived we were told that four people had died the day before and all of the families were at the funeral.  Cell phones and cars... those will be my new line of work.  Two men passed away who were sick, along with a nurse from the hospital who died alongside her baby during birth.
          We were also informed that there were three new victims who needed help from COPERMA.  They were raped in the valley and fled to a small village called Kighali where COPERMA is trying to start a new center. We have to go in person to check on their medical condition and find housing and food for them.  Tuesday we are returning to Isale to try, once again, to distribute the various supplies.
          It's a full week and although the work is work I wish was never necessary, I find myself looking forward to it.  Each of these women has not only become an inspiration to me, but in some ways, a friend.  I would rather us never meet at all and have them never experience sexual violence, but I guess I'm starting to feel the good of trying to help and the strength that shines through them, rather than simply focusing on the horror of it all.