The Orphans and the Octopus

          Everything starts to move and the situation quickly becomes clear. Marie, of Maison L'Espoire, is a crook and it’s a family affair. I go back to Maison L’Espoire again the day after the hospital to check on Bellevie. This time Brother Ange accompanies me. Ange is a tall, thin, monk who was in Mulo with me when I first arrived. He was one of my better friends in Congo before he was moved across the country to Kinshasa. The greatest thing about good friends is that distance in time and space don’t seem to change much.
          When we arrive at the orphanage Mama Marie Vuvu is not there. Two of Marie’s adult children are there, one daughter and one son. Marie has six grown children, all of whom live in the tiny orphanage, three of whom are men. Although her “secretary,” Reagan initially told me he’s not related to Marie, he later revealed he is her nephew and when I asked a Marie daughter, the daughter said Reagan is her brother. The lies are like phyllo dough, layered but flaky as hell. I realize quickly that the only way to find some truths is to divide and repeat. I spend several days asking the same questions over and over, to as many different family members as possible.
    -Marie, is this child an orphan? I asked at one point.
          I looked down at a little girl hugging my legs. She had braids, clean clothes and a normal amount of meat on her bones.
    -Yes, she says shaking her head. She is an orphan of mother and father but I was moved by the love of God to take her in.
          When Ange and I arrive the day Marie isn’t there, I walk immediately through the front part of the compound into the back. I arrive as unexpectedly as possible. There are always men sitting in the front part of the compound, who they are I have no idea, what they do to these children I can only imagine. Once through the second opening in the concrete wall I spot Bellevie. She’s standing alone in the corner sobbing. I walk across the compound, ducking beneath the hanging baby clothes and pick up the little girl. She stops crying immediately and rests her head on my shoulder with a few sniffles.
          All of a sudden there are children’s voices shouting next to me. I’m standing outside the boys’ bedroom and they are yelling at me through small holes in the concrete that comprise more of a ventilation system than a window.
    -It’s their rest time, says one of the men who is always guarding the front gate. He’s a short little man with tufts of hair on his face. He smiles a lot and says he’s not in Marie’s family. I don’t believe him for a second.
    -The kids have to have a rest time, don’t they? He shrugs his shoulders.
    -Yes they do.
          I think about it for a second and then push on the blue door to the room. It doesn’t budge.
    -Why is the door locked?
    -It’s not locked, he chuckles. The children put something there to block it so we can’t get in.
    -But you need to be able to check on them. Make them move whatever they put there.
    -Well...hold on.
          He walks off for a moment. I can clearly hear at least ten children in the room and through the ventilation holes I could see that they were not all the same age. American Gabe, initiator of this mission, indicated solidly that the children are sexually abusing each other. I haven’t yet gotten an idea of where they’re learning this behavior, but Marie’s various sons make my skin crawl and the cycle of violence rarely begins of its own accord. Marie's eldest son, a dark man with a Homer Simpson beer belly, walks around amidst the children in a stretched ribbed tank top, black jeans and leather sandals. He smirks at me, he doesn’t smile. He smirks at the children. Another son is tall and scrawny. He watches me from the window of a pink painted room that the many adults often disappear into. He never speaks to me, just watches.
    -One of the kids walked off with the key, says the short doorman who has reappeared on my left.
    -You mean you locked the children in the room?
    -No, it was an accident.
    -You need to open this door.
          He looks around before spotting Marie’s daughter and walks off in her direction. Within a few moments the daughter, a pretty but slightly hunched thirty-something year old walks up to the door and puts a key in the lock. I want to chastise her for locking children in a tiny concrete room with no supervision but I highly doubt it will get through to any part of her that cares; if any such part still exists. I look down at the ground and see the little girl with braids and so much more energy than the others. She’s hugging my legs again and smiling up at me.
    -She’s cute, I say and smile at Marie’s Daughter. Is she your niece?
    -Yes, she is.
          I shake my head; they’re terrible at maintaining their lies. Brother Ange has appeared beside me.
    -How old is your niece? I ask Marie’s Daughter.
    -She’s two and a half.
          I take Bellevie from my arms and lower her to the ground next to Marie’s grand-daughter. Bellevie is about four inches shorter than the granddaughter and half as thick.
    -Bellevie is three years old, I say looking up at Ange from the ground. This girl is two and a half.
          I don’t need to elaborate. Ange shakes his head as well. I pick Bellevie up again just as the door opens and about 14 children spill out. Boys and girls of all ages fall out of the room like toys stuffed into a closet. Marie’s Daughter walks off. She walks past Lawrence, the twelve year old orphan I’m here to help. There are no care-takers in the courtyard. I quickly pull Ange by the shirt sleeve over to Lawrence. Ange is also holding a tinker toy toddler at this point.
    -Please translate for me, I say.
          He nods at me and then looks at Lawrence.
    -Lawrence, I have found a foster family for you and a center with the Catholic monks and priests. You can go to school there and will have a family to spend time with on your holidays, if you would like to go. If you want to stay here that’s your choice I can’t force you to do anything. Would you like to stay here or go?
          He looks down at the ground.
    -Go, he whispers in French.
    -I can’t speak too much, but there’s something I need to know. Joshua and the others, in the States, indicated that they were being abused here. I need to know if that abuse was only among the children, or if the care-takers are also abusive.
          Lawrence looks at me and then to Ange. Ange translates quietly. Again, Lawrence looks at the ground and kicks a rock with his foot.
    -Caretakers.
          There are other boys around who are about Lawrence’s age, 12 maybe older. They haven’t heard what we’re talking about but I have no intention of continuing and getting Lawrence in trouble.
    -Merci, I say.
          I put Bellevie back on the ground. Ange does the same with the diminishing sparkle in his arms and we both walk towards the exit.
    -I’m going to come back again tomorrow, I say to the doorman. It’s important that Marie be here.
    -What time are you coming?
    -I’ll be here at eleven.
          I don’t need to show up unannounced anymore; I’ve seen what I need to see. The next day I show up with an unexpected secret weapon. Julie is a woman from Butembo who prays regularly at the Crosier house. Julie is a lawyer. I explained to her what I saw at Maison L’Espoire and she agreed to come with me to help liberate Lawrence, and hopefully give me some advice as to how I can help the rest of them.
          Julie seems annoyed with my muzungu presence, but when I tell her there is a three year old who weighs 17 pounds she agrees to help. When we arrive at the orphanage I take Julie into the second part of the compound so she can see the living conditions. As we walk in there is an emaciated two year old lying on the concrete floor. Just past the two year old, Joseph, my four year old friend who looks like he’s two, is sitting on the ground. I reach down to pick him up but stop. He has what looks like food on his face, but his shirt is covered in white paste.
    -This child threw-up, I say to Marie as she walks by.
    -Oh, that’s too bad.
          She barks something at one of her children in Lingala. We enter the reception room and I let Julie take over. She’s beautifully evasive and Marie can’t keep up. -I am here on behalf of Madame Amy, she says in the small reception office of Maison L’Espoire. Amy is here on behalf of a family that would like to take Lawrence as their dependent. He will stay in a center for boys his age where there is excellent education and will be received by a foster family during school vacations.
          After coming to the orphanage everyday for a week, my mission is finally out in the open; or at least part of it is. Marie looks immediately uncomfortable. Julie asks questions, Marie answers, and I keep my mouth shut.
    -How old is Lawrence?
    -Thirteen.
          He’s twelve.

    -When did he come here?
    -He was only eight years old.
          He was ten.

    -Is he in school right now?
    -Yes, he is by the grace of God.
          No, he i s not.

    -What grade is he in?
    -Sixth.
          You pulled him out in fifth.

    -How did he come here?
    -A priest brought him here. Lawrence was abandoned in the Church. Can you imagine? Abandoned in a Church.
          You told me the priest was friends with Lawrence's father and both parents died.

    -The thing is, Marie says, cutting off the questions, Lawrence is already being taken care of by two people and I don’t know if he’ll want to leave. He’s being taken care of by a French woman and an American woman, already.
          Marie is either really frazzled or thinks I’m really dumb. She just handed me her scam. She doesn't want to let Lawrence go because he's a money magnet. His gentle demeanor and situation of suffering make him a prime rib dinner for the Vuvu family. The first day I was able to speak privately with Lawrence, he told me that he used to be in school but no longer is. He has two International people paying his schooling fees; paying for food, paying for clothes, and not a cent actually makes it to Lawrence, or any of the kids that aren't related to Marie, for that matter. All of the orphaned children are a meal ticket as long as they're here and as long as they're suffering. The more they suffer, the more they bring in.
    -Lawrence! Marie suddenly yells out the window into the courtyard. Lawrence come here!
          She turns back to us and smiles.
    -We can ask the child.
          Lawrence walks into the room, shakes my hand and greets Julie.
    -Lawrence, Madame Amy would like to take you on as her charge. Who would you rather be the one responsible for you.
          She holds up a hand and begins ticking off names on her fingers.
    -Madame Somebody –the French woman I presume--, Madame Elena—the other American--, or Madame Amy.
          She holds the three fingers in the air and stares unflinchingly at Lawrence. I look over at Lawrence and he looks terrified and confused. We sit there silently for a few moments, but of course Lawrence can’t respond. This is all such a ridiculous show, it’s infuriating.
    -We can work this out ourselves, I say.
          Marie puts her hand back on the table and then shoos Lawrence out of the room. He leaves quickly without saying a word.
          Marie picks up her broken record again. I watch her squinch her face and wave her hands pleadingly as she talks about how God called her to protect children but she doesn’t have the means and she works for free and the children are so desperate. I can see purple arms like Octopus tentacles, rising up around her reaching into the blind pockets of International do-gooders. I’ve been struggling to find a way to get all of the kids out and also prevent her from simply replacing them with more. With almost no judicial system and an extremely corrupt police force, getting justice has seemed impossible. As I watch her slimy tentacles wiggling and swinging in the air, my plan of action becomes clear and I smile to myself.
          I am going to ruin this woman.
    -The parents of the kids who were adopted promised they would still help us and send money, but there is nothing. You see how we are all suffering here.
          Marie is still blabbering on. I can’t imagine people actually fall for this act.
    -You should talk to Maman Melanie, she’s American like you and she helps us. She just adopted one of our orphans and she’s still here in Kinshasa.
    -Can I have her contact information?
          I need to warn this woman, and convince her to stop supplying money to Marie. I might as well get started with Project Destroy Marie Vuvu & Family. Marie gets up after some roundabout blabbering and leaves the room. She comes back a minute later with a piece of paper in her hand. -Here, this is her address and information.
          She hands the paper to me and I have to hide a gasp. In less than a second my body is filled with adrenaline.

Melanie D. 1344 Lakebane Drive, Anneheim, CA.


Panit, Dido are crooks. I have a great Congolese attorney, he’s honest. He is doing class action/individual lawsuit against same. Orphanage has received nothing. Panit will lose license. Say nothing to Panit, Dido, or Reagan.

Beneath this there is a phone number.
    -Did she leave this paper for me? I ask Marie.
    -Yes, I told you that I told her about you and she wants to meet you.
          I don’t recognize all of the names mentioned, but at least this Melanie woman knows there’s something fishy going on here. It seems it may go deeper than I originally thought. I look around at Marie who is standing behind me. She's chattering away to Julie. I feel like I’m getting caught stealing, but nobody in this orphanage speaks a word of English. They have no idea what the note says.
          I’m slightly relieved by the written words. Marie’s initial resistance at transferring only Lawrence worries me, mainly because it reveals what a big task it will be to transfer all 25 of the kids and shut Marie down. I have one week left and a lot more detective work to do. After Julie tries to see Lawrence’s file and is shut down by Marie, we make a meeting for the next day. Julie indicates that Reagan must be here and the file must be here as well.
          I call the number on the paper as soon as we leave the orphanage. Melanie’s translator picks up and we arrange to meet at their hotel in one hour. I hope she has funding, more information, a team of lawyers, and maybe an honest policeman friend; or ten.





(Comments prior to removal) 6 COMMENTS:

Tashmica said...

Amazing....

MARCH 5, 2011 3:32 PM

calafia said...

so horrifying. Thank God you are there. I hope Kristoff links to your page again. Is Bellevie going to be ok? Did she get medicine?

MARCH 5, 2011 7:10 PM

Hanne said...

Amy you are amazing. I'm a friend of Sarah's and have been following your blog for quite a while. I want to help you shut down this horrible women. Please email me at hreng@hotmail.com if you have time

MARCH 5, 2011 8:09 PM

Ivana said...

This post is refreshing! I hate the way this Marie Vuvu uses religion to justify why she's 'helping' those children. I know, religion being used as a way to make money is not new, but then, again, they're not only taking away the donations made for the children, they're also sexually abusing them. I know there is no hell, but boy I wish there was one just for her to rot in! You go, Amy!

MARCH 6, 2011 3:31 PM

Sarah Fretwell Photography said...

This post has been removed by the author.

MARCH 8, 2011 4:17 PM

Sarah Fretwell Photography said...

Amy! Thanks so much for your last two posts. I so wish I could go with you in person to shut this woman down. Thanks for sharing you passion and your heart!

Weight

             There’s nothing like the sight of an amputated spirit.
                                        -Scent of a Woman

          I fly to Kinshasa in order to help a man help a boy. Gabe recently adopted a four year old boy from Congo named Joshua. When Joshua arrived in the States he was severely underweight, suffering from a variety of illnesses, and indicated that he was sexually abused. Joshua lived in an orphanage called Maison L’Espoire under the direction of one Mama Marie, not to be confused with the larger and less difficult Maman Marie Nzoli of COPERMA. Others were adopted from Maison L’Espoire by families in the United States. Several of the children expressed an extreme dislike for Mama Marie and all of the children reported being sexually abused.
          Gabe has asked me to find and help a boy who tried to protect Joshua when he was still at the orphanage; a boy who was vulnerable, but saw that another was more vulnerable than he and tried to protect rather than use like the rest of humanity seems to do. I’m kind of like a mercenary, except I’m trying to save a life rather than erase it. Gabe doesn’t know the boy’s name and he doesn’t know where the orphanage is other than the Ndjili district of Kinshasa.
          Kinshasa is a city like Washington D.C. except that there are no lane markers on the eight lane highways, police can stop you at any time and ask for money, and plump women sit on the sidewalk making omelets all day. The humidity is a jacket you can’t take off; it’s a cage, an overbearing lover. I don’t understand how people get anything done when the air itself is bearing down on them.
          It takes my taxi driver and me about one hour to find the orphanage following a map of pointed fingers. We know our living spaces better than we know ourselves. The taxi pulls up to a grey concrete wall and building in an alley filled with sand. On the side of the house MAISON L’ESPOIRE is written in large block letters with the address and telephone numbers painted beneath it. I walk through the small metal door next to the monstrous letters on a tiny house. Just as I walk in a woman with an infant propped on her left hip walks up to me.
    -Who are you? She asks right away in a slightly hoarse voice. She looks confused at the random appearance of a muzungu in her doorway.
          The woman is Mama Marie, the head of the orphanage. She is a little shorter than me, wearing a blue African print dress and suffering from Harry Potter syndrome. Most of her relaxed, chin-length hair is brushed and calm but there are several distinct pieces that clearly won’t be tamed. They shoot off in different directions making her look more frazzled than the rest of her implies.
    -Hi, I’m Amy. I’m here to visit the orphanage.
          I reach out my hand to shake hers and she warily reaches out in return.
    -Are you the one Reagan said would be coming?
    -Maybe.
          I need to be vague so that the boy I’m here to help doesn’t get bullied by the others being jealous of muzungu attention. I need to be vague because I need Mama Marie on my side but I don’t trust her yet.
    -I’m here on behalf of a family in the States. They can’t adopt now but they asked me to look into the possibilities.
          It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie.
    -Who sent you? She asks.
          Although my friends in the UN joke that I am a C.I.A. agent since I don’t technically have a job in Congo and I flit around like a wannabe Fairy Godmother, I’m not used to answering this sort of question.
    -Uhh.. Jatukik Providence foundation, I say listing off the name of an organization I know works with Maison L’Espoire.
          Mama Marie’s face lights up and all of the skepticism falls from her face.
    -Jatukik! She exclaims as she takes her hand off of the child again and slaps me on the arm. They adopted out five of our orphans recently.
    -Really? That’s great, I say smiling and acting impressed.
          I know this fact well; three of the four who were adopted out indicated sexual and physical abuse.
    -Where are the other children?
    -Through here.
          She turns around and walks towards the back of the small entryway where there is another concrete wall with a space in the stone. I follow her into a compound made of sand and children.
    -There are 31 orphans here who we take care of, she says starting the relative tour. This is the boys' room.
          She peeks in one of 5 doors attached to 3 small block buildings. Inside are seven or eight cots, all covered with clean white sheets. I find the cleanliness confusing. In the courtyard there is a web of string covered in drying baby clothes and a woman hunched over a bucket and a pile of clothes in the corner. I look down at the moving beings beneath me. Some are bouncing around grabbing my hands and plucking at their belly buttons. Their bowling ball tummies make outtie belly buttons even easier targets.
          But amidst the prancing children there are also dolls; they are children but the life they exhibit is so slight it could be in my imagination. Mama Marie keeps talking about needs and how Jatukik hasn’t helped them as much as promised. At first she says the kids are all in school, but when I subtly indicate my connections to potential funding she changes her tune and says the orphanage can’t afford the school fees. She’s predictable in a money-seeking kind of way but I can’t figure out if she actually wants to help the kids or simply turn them into the equivalent of welfare checks.
          For about an hour Mama Marie speaks to me, with interspersed demands for money. I look at the doll children sitting listlessly in this monstrous sandbox. They look like tinker toys with massive joints connected by straws. I pick up a little boy named Joseph who pokes at my leg without seeming to realize it’s human. When I lift him up he opens his limbs like wings and then snaps closed against me.
    -I do have news of one of the boys who was adopted, I say cutting off Mama Marie. Let me speak more openly with you. I’m here on behalf of the family who adopted Joshua. They wanted me to come to tell you how well he is doing in the United States.
    -Oh, that’s wonderful!
    -I’m also here to check on one of Joshua’s friends because Joshua has been asking about him.
          I take out a picture Gabe sent me of the boy and we determine the boy’s name is Lawrence. Lawrence is at church for the whole day, but I can come back tomorrow. I place Joseph back on the ground and help him sink to the floor since he doesn’t have the energy to stand on his own, and I leave. I’m in On-Off mode; my body moves around, my mind asks questions, I weigh options, I see things, I make decisions, but the emotional component is off. It’s something I’ve gotten quite good at switching into but never notice until after I’ve switched back to human.
          The next day I return and I meet Lawrence. He is twelve years old, they think, and he is timid, intelligent and kind. To be kind when you’ve known kindness your whole life is one thing. Finding let alone maintaining kindness when all you see is cruelty is a level of courage I can’t begin to understand. I take him out to lunch but one of Mama Marie’s many adult children joins us so I can’t speak openly with him. Afterwards, I sit on a plastic chair with Joseph clasped to my body once again. Another little doll, just as high as my knees, walks up to us and positions herself between my legs. She has the same straw limbs and zombie gaze as Joseph. I watch her pour water from one plastic cup into another with her mouth hanging slightly open. She moves slowly as if the air is made of Jello.
          This is what it looks like when a human is separated from their soul.
   -What’s this little girl’s name? I ask Mama Marie across the courtyard.
          She looks at the little girl, squinches her face and tilts her head like a dog trying to hear.
    -Bellevie, she says suddenly.
          Bellevie--Beautiful life.
          Bellevie turns her head to look at Mama Marie and I cringe. A stream of milky pus is dripping out of Bellevie’s right ear. It looks as if her nose is running from her ear and the flies are doing their best to turn it into a meal. It takes me a moment before I am able to wipe the goo from the little girl’s ear.
          I come back again the next day, this time with a Crosier brother. The Crosier’s have a small orphanage of sorts that I would like to at least temporarily transfer Lawrence to, but they respond to my questions with doubt and fear of a boy brought up in cruelty. They don’t seem to believe that kindness in cruelty can survive. When we arrive there is a young woman lying on a bed who Mama Marie tells me is very sick. I insist we go to the hospital, on the condition that Bellevie come as well. Mama Marie jumps at the chance. I still can’t tell if she actually cares. I pick up Bellevie and we all climb into the taxi. Bellevie doesn’t snap closed and cling to me like Joseph. She simply goes limp and lets my body catch her. She’s so tiny I feel like I’m trying to hold a bird as if it’s a baby.
    -Give me the baby, says Mama Marie across the young woman who is sitting in between us. The woman smiles to herself randomly but doesn’t say anything.
    -Do you mind if I hold her? I ask.
    -Of course you can hold her but I want to change her clothes for going out clothes.
          I carefully hand Bellevie over to Mama Marie. Mama Marie rapidly pulls the girl’s arms out of one shirt and sticks them into another. She puts Bellevie into an Easter pink cotton shirt and pink plaid baby shorts with the Arizona Inc. tag still attached to them. I wonder if one of the adopting parents brought a bag of clothes when they came to pick up their new family member. Mama Marie gives Bellevie back to me with one hand. Bellevie collapses against my chest once again. She hasn’t made a single sound.
       
          There’s a broken starling wearing pink plaid in my lap.
         
          At the hospital the pediatrician weighs Bellevie. Eight kilograms = 17.6 pounds. A chart on the wall shows that Bellevie is a healthy 5-8 month old baby, if you leave out the fact that she is three years old. She cries softly when the Doctor listens to her heart and sticks a tongue depressor in her mouth. I try to console her but nothing can until her shirt is back on and she is once again limp against my torso. I wonder if she’s been sexually abused. Considering the circumstances, I wouldn't be surprised if she has. I went into this originally joking with friends about playing Detective for a week but this is no game.
          Bellevie, Joseph, and the rest of them weigh almost nothing, but these little birds are the ones carrying the weight of the world. I’ve figured out how to help Lawrence but I can’t just leave the rest of them. One of these days their little tinker toy limbs won’t be able to bear the burden anymore and they’ll break. I don’t know what exactly I’m going to do, but as we leave the hospital I make a plan to extend my stay in Kinshasa.





(Comments posted prior to removal) 2 COMMENTS:

Annalise said...

you go girl. keep it up. your posts have a way of creating motivation and compassion in so many different aspects of my life. the work you're doing transcends the boundaries of the progress and kindness you're contributing in the Congo in so many different ways. AMY ERNST-you are an incredibly special person in my life. Your work, your passion and your dedication are constant affirmations for me of how powerful a compassionate attitude in this world can be.

MARCH 2, 2011 10:05 AM

Ivana said...

We know women victims of rape isn't something new, (still horrible and tragic, but not new), but when I think of the idea of children, young children being sexually abused, my stomach turns and my hands make fists as if they had any way to reach out and hit the monsters who are doing that in the face. I cannot begin to comprehend how it feels to actually SEE these poor children, their blank gaze, their underweight bodies. I think I would just break down crying. Who could possibly be in the orphanage doing that? that maman Marie (a woman sexually abusing children? not impossible but uncommon); is she selling the orphans for sex? are the older children abusing the younger? Please tell us more. And I will definitely be donating to COPERMA so that you can find a way to help those children too.

Recent Post, Guest Blog

Please check out my most recent post for Nicholas D. Kristof of the New York Times, Notes from a Young American in Congo: Sex Workers, a version of Tunnel Vision.

Cup of Noodles

          Driving south from Butembo to Kanyabayonga on the back of a moto-taxi is breath-taking, contemplative, and probably the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever done in my life.  I imagine it would be similar to sliding down a set of stone steps on a thin piece of plywood.  For five hours.

          Dusan is called urgently into the bush, where there are 12 dependents that need to be extracted.  Dependents are family members of ex-combatants.  When a demobilizer is able to arrange the extraction of a militia general, lieutenant, or soldier, his family must be extracted as well.  The original plan was for me to travel to Kanyabayonga with Dusan, but I can’t go with him to extract the family members and I’d like to get to Goma without paying $200.00.

          I pack my things and leave Musienene quickly.  I’m supposed to go into Butembo before I leave in order to bring funding for a petite-commerce project and to try and see Anuarite.  I convince myself I don’t have time.  Hangie drives out on the COPERMA motorcycle for the money and I leave.

          It’s pure cowardice.  I’m afraid to see Anuarite.  I tell myself there’s nothing I can do but I know that’s not true.  Anuarite would appreciate it even if all I did was show up, ask how she’s doing, show her I care.  But I don’t do that.  What exactly I’m afraid of, I don’t know.  Between the two of us, she’s the only one who owns the right to be afraid.

          On the motorcycle ride I work on letting go of all the things I’ve been holding onto.  I imagine sand falling off of my body, a gritty veil streaming behind me as we speed across the mountains. 

          I arrive in Kanya just as night is falling.  Dusan would have been furious if I arrived any later, the road is not safe and I’m meeeting them in Kanya to join a UN security convoy that will continue down to Goma.  In the past week the UN worker was attacked, Dusan received a message indicating the attack was meant for Dusan and one of his team members.  It turns out Sean, a friend of mine and UN worker, had a price on his head because of various shifting political factors among the rebels. Then a few days ago a car full of German humanitarians was attacked on this road and one man was shot in the shoulder.  Speculations about which rebels are doing this move around like puzzle pieces.  It’s said to be part of FDLR, but it’s also possible it was soldiers sent by Kagame from neighboring Rwanda.  Kagame is big brother here, and a cruel one at that.

          In Kanya, the UN base is full.  There are now six UN workers total and when Dusan gets back from the bush we all sit down to dinner.  We make an interesting little melting pot of a family.  Anoch is from India, Harris-Bosnia, Dusan-Croatia, Major Mamadu-Mali, Hammid- Tunisia, Major Johanna- Kenya, and then little ol’ American me.  I’m the only woman and the only non-military.  They talk about things going on, 30 women reported raped in Bushalingua; German guy shot while working in the field; seven raped in Kanya the last week.  I listen but try not to let any of it touch me.

    -Do you ever eat coos-coos? Dusan asks Hammid from Tunisia.

    -Yes, and I will be very happy to make it for you if you will come again.  For you too.

          He leans around Dusan and smiles kindly at me.  The men pass everything to me first and beg me to eat some pineapple for dessert.  I put my elbows on the table as I eat before realizing I am the only one doing so.  I don’t know how it works, but it seems the more hardened the men, the more kind and respectful.  They share stories from war, but mostly talk about simple things like what they like to eat most when they are at home and that the word for pineapple is the same in French, Hindu and Croatian --ananas.  How is my culture different from yours and how are we the same? 

    -We have four continents here at one table, says Dusan.  This is thing I like about UN. 

    -Yes, you meet such an array of people and everyone is so interesting, says Anoch, a skinny Indian man who moves as if he doesn’t have enough muscle to keep his bones in line all the time.

          Three continents leave the table to step outside and smoke.  Dusan is, of course, the initiator of this transcontinental exodus.  As we chat in the darkness in the hum of the generator and fluorescent lights, the men talk about communism, revolutions and the negative impressions they have of Americans. A group of Americans was just caught in the bush arranging mineral trafficking.  They had six million left over from their purchase, which was all absorbed by the FaRDC.  I hope each one of them was hit in the face with the butt of a gun, just once; no less and no more.

          In the morning we leave at zero eight hundred hours.  I ride with Harris and Major J as Dusan’s car is filled with the twelve people, mostly children, he extracted from the bush.  Dusan driving a car full of young children is a wonderful sight.  He opens all of the windows before driving off to combat the smell of vomit he is sure will occur. 

          Sandwiched between two trucks full of baby blue helmeted UN soldiers and machine guns, we make our way south.  I watch the back of Dusan’s car as we drive and think about the turning pages within.  Not tabula rasa, because you can’t erase the past, but at least maybe a new chapter.  They are all from Rwanda and will be put through a 45 day repatriation program with the UN before being given small support so they can restart their lives.  If Dusan didn’t extract them they more than likely would have been killed.  Their simple connections to men once in war make them a useful weapon.  Kill wife and kids, injure husband. 

          Halfway to Goma we have to stop at a bridge that is being repaired.  It is in the area where the UN worker was just attacked, but there are more blue helmets and hats around than banana trees so I feel totally comfortable.  FaRDC troops are there as well, watching angrily, like little children who’ve been told to stay in time-out.  Standing in the hot sun I watch the river flow under the bridge as UN workers weld the metal above.  The water is perfectly calm on the right of the bridge and furious on the left.

          Everyone, except my group and me, is carrying a gun longer than his arm, even people in plain clothes.  Some FaRDC soldiers are carrying rocket propelled grenade launchers or satchels full of grenades with plastic feathered tails.  All of them stare at me distrustfully, even though I’m the only one not carrying a weapon. 

          It takes six rather than four hours to get into the city.  Goma is a different world for me; brown turns to grey, mountains to lake, Kinande to Kiswahili, locals to a plethora of wazungu.  Last time I was here I didn’t like the stew of NGO workers and UN, all seeming to try and prove who is making the biggest difference.  This time, I have a little family.  Dusan takes me to the house where he normally stays.  It is a two level mansion overlooking the lake and filled with some of his countrymen.  Milosh and Dragan are from Serbia, Harris is still here, Antonio from East Timoor, a Russian guy who never speaks to me but walks around all day drinking and smoking with no shirt on; and then there’s Ivannah.  Ivannah is a Croatian woman and quite clearly the Queen of the household.  She’s about my height with strawberry blonde hair and a forward but very kind demeanor. 

    -Eh, sister girl, what are you doing here?  Go home, marry a rich husband and make lots of babies, she says immediately after Dusan introduces us.

          I laugh at what she’s saying even though she’s being completely serious.  We are sitting on a white linoleum patio looking out on Lake Kivu. 

    -I am not joking, baby.  What is this stupidity you are doing?  I don’t’ know why anyone would ever choose to be in this place.  You are too young and too pretty.  I can arrange for you a rich husband. 

    -No thank you.  I want to be here, if you can believe that.  And I actually like it most of the time.

          She looks at me like I just said I enjoy licking the floor of a public bus.

    -This is stupidity, sister girl.  Let me tell you.  I will pay for ticket home and you will be in New York tomorrow.

    -You’ll pay for my ticket?

    -Yes, if you will go home and make babies with a rich man.

          I laugh.

    -That’s very kind of you but I’m not quite ready to pursue that aim.

    -Okay, but this is stupidities.  You let me know and I will buy you that ticket, and arrange for a rich husband to meet you.

          Her initial negativity throws me off for a minute but then I realize she’s just caring; and maybe a bit tired of being away from her home.  She has work to do so she takes an old IBM lap-top inside to work without distraction.  I stand up and look out at the lake and think about nothing, simply stare.  You can lose yourself in a lake.  The mountains ring the other sides of the water, always hovering on the horizon like evening or dawn.

          For two days I fend off jokes about taking group showers, while drinking either Heineken or whisky, Red Label and going to UN “happy hour” parties.  Dragan is intimidating at first, a large, slightly gruff Serbian.  But when I ask about the lake he walks me down and explains the problem of gas under the water from the volcano.  When there’s water in the tank Milosh and Dragan tell me to take a shower first so I can have hot water.  Ivannah concurs, so that the “premadonna” men won’t use it all up. Nobody will let me pay for anything, no matter how much I insist. 

          It’s wonderful.  Ivannah wants to make me homesick enough to leave so she makes me a Cup of Noodles for dinner and gives me her last two roles of Charmin toilet paper.  The Cup of Noodles is filled with chemicals and tastes like home.

    -The simple pleasures, sister girl.

          One day at lunch I explain to Harris that I felt like a rubber band twisted a little too tightly.  It feels good to unwind.

The Octagon

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

          At 6:30 a.m. I receive a text message from Baloti, the Founder of the Association of Women Living Alone in Butembo.  I’m asleep on a wooden cot in a medium-sized UN house where there is a Military Observers base.  Dusan and I drove down to Kanyabayanga the day before, in order to celebrate the 100^th anniversary of the city soccer team where he’s from.  We bought a live goat on the way out, for which I resisted my usual impulse of naming, and the plan for the day is to roast her on a spit, drink beer and be among friends.

          I always answer my phone and check messages when people call too late or too early.  I always expect the news to be urgent and ugly and for the first time it is.

          Anuarite was attacked in her home by three men who wanted to rape her.  She called police, men were captured.  She was left naked in front of her children.

          The nightmare I was just having involved soldiers and the things they can do to women, so it takes longer than normal to separate dream from reality and wake my brain up enough to translate the French.  

          Was she raped?  I respond.

          Three men wanted to rape her.

          His response is too vague.  Did they want to and then do it or did they want to and not make it that far?  I put my phone back on the wooden table next to my bed.  Further texting won’t clarify the situation.  I need to speak with him but it won’t be a productive conversation if I attempt it half-awake.  I roll over and go back to sleep, thankful the sun is starting to come up so I won’t have nightmares.  I never have nightmares once I can see daylight seeping its way up my window.

          When I wake up fully I call Baloti.  He’s still vague about what actually happened and simply reiterates what he already said through text.  Anuarite is a woman in the Association who met with Sarah, Alana and me a few weeks ago.  She had lighter skin than most and wore white powder to push it further in the muzungu direction.  She was wearing a red sequined outfit that made her sparkle but her sadness also shone through.

    -Are the men in prison? I ask, looking out at the hills of Kanyabayanga over the stick fence around the UN compound. 

    -Yes, they are.

    -How is Anuarite doing?

    -She’s a little calm.

    -I will pay the fees if necessary to keep them in prison, at least for a while.

          One of the main reasons impunity is such a problem here is that anything involving governmental structures costs money and most survivors don’t have the means to pursue even the smallest level of justice.  I would offer to pay Anuarite’s hospital bills, but if she wasn’t raped I know it wouldn’t help.  She knows better than I do, I’m sure, that band aids and needles can’t heal shame.

          I spend the day watching Dusan and a Bosnia UN worker, named Harris, concoct a make-shift fire pit and position the now dead and skinned goat on a long pole.  There is also a Kenyan UN worker, Major Johanna, and we sit around drinking rare Heinekens and talking war.  Major Johanna worked in Sierra Leone during the brutal conflicts there.  The men bounce between the wars like hardened metal balls caught in a short loop in a pin ball machine; Sierra Leonne, violence in Kenya, the devastating war for the Former Yugoslavia, Congo.  I tune them out for the most part, reentering only when they return to the Congo pin, or ask me a specific question. 

    -This war is so complex, says Major Johanna in a heavy accent, while Dusan and Harris speak in rapid Croatian.  In Sierra Leone it was the government and the militia groups that supported them and then the rebels; two sides.  Here it’s everyone.  FDLR Foca, FDLR Rud Mai-Mai, NALU, government, CNDP.  There are too many sides!

          I have the image of an octagon in my mind.

    -I think the Congo may never see peace, he says shaking his head.

          Congo isn’t just complex, the problem is a spurious creature born of pain and greed.  Major J has only been here for a few months and he’s already lost hope.  Even Dusan told me on the drive down that he cannot see the end to this problem.  I don’t say anything in return.  I don’t think I could easily explain my theory of idealism within realism to these hardened war generals.   I’m uncomfortable, I feel like there are rats in my body trying to get out; something’s not right.  I remember Anuarite.  I feel stuck in this village four hours away from home talking about the bigger picture when I’m used to working with the pieces that comprise it. 

          I step outside and look at the mountains again.  The rolling slopes look like the body of a beautiful woman.  Every time I look at the mountains here, even the ones right in front of me, I feel as if there’s a glass window covered in mist between us.  I don’t know if it’s because of the fog that clings to them like hungry toddlers, or if the thickness of their beauty is simply unapproachable, in a divine decision sort of way.

          I know there’s nothing I could do for Anuarite even if I were in Butembo.  It’s not my place to console her or give her advice.  She knows much more about this world than I do.  But something about it is hurting me more than normal.  I’m used to these stories; they’re just words at this point. 

          On the drive back to Butembo with Dusan I realize what’s making Anuarite feel different.  I knew Anuarite before this happened.  With most of the survivors I meet, we build up an acquaintance from the baseline of what has already happened.  With Anuarite, it’s a cut rather than a baseline.

In Butembo, Dusan and I drink a couple of whiskys in Hotel Butembo and talk more about the bigger picture.  A UN worker was attacked on the road to Goma, things are shifting in the FDLR and Mai-Mai groups due to the elections, and it is “not good.”  Dusan is furious about things seeming to get out of his control and is saying maybe he’ll transfer to South Sudan.  I wonder if he really has lost hope. 

          The next day I head to the COPERMA office.  Hangie, Jean-Marie (a COPERMA worker who looks like James Dean but darker) and Laurentine are the only ones in the office.

    -I’m going to Goma and then to Kinshasa, I tell them when I walk in.  So I may be out of town for up to two weeks.

    -You’re going out of town?  Hangie responds and leans on the table.  Didn’t you hear about the violence 95 km from Butembo?  ADF-NALU are active in Oicha, eleven are dead.

    -No, I didn’t hear about that.  What happened?

          I ask, but it doesn’t affect my trip. 

    -I don’t know, I just know that eleven people were killed on Monday.

          ADF-NALU are supposedly rebels from Uganda who’ve recently begun creeping their way across North Kivu, trying to get their fingers in the cookie jar too.

    -There were people in one of the big camion trucks and the NALU shot them all, he says.

          I remember the images of a similar event that happened last year.  The images online were devastating.  I still remember the striped shirt and braids of a girl of about 12 with a hole in her head.

    -Also, you heard there was a case of rape here in the city center?  He continues.

    -No, I didn’t. 

    -The Maman trapped the rapist and she came here for help.

    -Was she lighter skinned than normal? I ask, almost with excitement.

          It would be wonderful if Anuarite had come here, but would also mean she was actually raped.

    -No.  It was a 7 year old girl.  Her mother caught the man with the girl and trapped him.

    -Oh, jeez.  How old is the man?  I ask, imagining a confused teenager.

    -Fifty.

          Disgust reaches out a skinny hand and wraps its fingers around my esophagus.  It clenches for a moment, disappears, and I can breathe.

    -How did the Maman trap the man?

    -The Maman went to go to the bathroom, it was during the day.  The store where they sell things, attached to the house, was closed and she went inside and then she came across the man raping the girl.  The mother screamed and the man said he was guarding the child.  The Maman went to the owner of the store and told him and she started to cry.

    -After that, they spoke with the girl and found she was raped, Laurentine cuts in.  The girl started crying when they asked her what had happened and she said the man held her mouth shut so she couldn’t scream and he raped her.

          I can imagine perfectly the little girl’s tiny form; skinny arms with bird-like bones, a smile and skin innervated with the fresh excitements of childhood.

    -Where is the man?  I ask. 

    -We took him to prison, responds Hangie.  When the Maman first went to the police, the police officer told the rapist to say that the Mother had splashed water on the girl’s vagina to make it look like a rape so she could get him in trouble.  Then the police officer told the Mother to give him her telephone.

    -What happened after that?  That's horrible.

    -When the Maman came here with the girl, we took the girl to FEPSI.  And we said, that’s not okay that he took your phone and said that.  We went to a different police office, and now the police man and the rapist are in jail.

    -Thank God.  Which jail? Can I speak to the rapist?

          I don’t even think about this before I ask it.  I know I need to see the man; I need to speak with him and ask him where his heart went.  I need to ask him if he has daughters.  If he does, has he hurt them in the same way?  If he hasn’t hurt them yet, what makes this little girl different from his own?  The police officer is simple scum, but the man who raped a 7 year old girl is on the other side of humanity and I need to know what that looks like, in detail.  There’s so much hope here, in the strength and spirit of survivors and the people in general.  But in terms of the problems, I can't see it yet.  I need to find where that hope lies because I know it’s still here.

          I leave COPERMA and speed home on my motorcycle listening to Nina Simone sing Sinnerman and feeling like something is chasing me.

               

Time Bombs

          The other Americans have both left; I find that I glide easily back into the solitary and relatively silent process of everyday.  I’m around people constantly, and speaking most of the day.  But there’s a difference between being around people who understand where you’re from and speak your native tongue, and the perpetual mistranslations and conscientious awareness with another language and culture.  Friends change the molecules of the air, though the molecules’ structure and composition remain the same.              

          After Sarah boards her plane and departs, I spend a few days doing more or less nothing and speaking as little as possible.  Translating takes more energy than I expected.  I arrive at COPERMA, after a day or two of relaxing, and am greeted with the usual update.

    -There’s fighting in Kiondo and Kasungu, says Laurentine almost immediately.  The fighting is just past Kagoma.

          Kagoma is a small village where COPERMA is starting a center.  It’s an interesting village because it’s not just a center for survivors, but also demobilized child soldiers.  I went there a few weeks ago after three young survivors fled their villages and were absorbed into the community. 

    -Who is fighting? I ask.

    -Mai-Mai and the police and military.

    -Why?

    -We don’t know yet, since they’re still fighting.  But two people are dead, one police and one civilian.  He tried to get into a car to flee the bullets and he was shot.

          The concept of Mai-Mai is still confusing to me.  It’s a great concept in theory;  Mai-Mai simply means community based, it’s like a neighborhood watch but with children, machetes and guns.  The groups originally started in order to protect communities from the mercurial wars of the region.  But when you give children guns, or men with no training or education, what can you expect but a bit of chaos?

          COPERMA has been asking me what I’m going to do to help three demobilized Mai-Mai child soldiers whom I spoke with in Kagoma.  I keep avoiding the question.  The child-soldiers are like a lagoon and I don’t want to touch the surface because I’m terrified of what’s underneath.

          It’s extremely difficult to find or speak to demobilized soldiers, as they are constantly being sought by the groups they left.  COPERMA has a complex system in place to conceal the boys, and move or hide them when any group of soldiers moves through the area. 

In Kagoma, I sit on a stranger’s bed in a dark hut to speak with three boys who want to talk to me.  Jeremy is clearly the leader of the trio, and he makes me uncomfortable as soon as he starts speaking.  He’s a skinny fifteen year old with patches of facial fuzz and spots of acne.  He started fighting with the Mai-Mai when he was 12. 

    -Why did you join the group?  Were you forced? I ask Jeremy. 

          The three boys are sitting on a small wooden bench, all facing me.  I’d rather speak to them individually, but they say they only want to talk if they can stay together. 

    -I was influenced by my friends, Jeremy responds.  They said it was cool and that I should do it.

    -What did you think once you got there?

    -I didn’t like it, because I was abused by my Superiors every day.

    -Did you engage in fighting while you were with the Mai-Mai?

          He chuckles a little.  He doesn’t seem upset or uncomfortable talking about his past.  The boy next to him, Gregoire, is also 15 years old.  He’s wearing a baby blue jacket and he has the bone structure and eyes of a model.  His eyes are soft and pretty.  He doesn’t seem uncomfortable either, but Damien, a 17 year old sitting on the end of the bench won’t look at me.  He’s hunched over, leaning away from Jeremy and Gregoire, looking at the floor.

    -Killing wasn’t the problem, continues Jeremy.  That was the job.  I used stones, the machete and knives [to kill.]  If someone hurt me or bothered me in the village, we killed them directly.  That wasn’t the problem.  In full on war I’ve killed women, children, elderly, all categories.  If an old person is a sorcerer, we must kill them.

          I was expecting a sense of morality to have motivated demobilization, not this.

    -Why did you leave then?

    -They were beating me.  It wasn’t because I didn’t like killing, it was because of the superiors.  I wasn’t a superior. 

    -Were you afraid of being killed?

    -No, the tattoos protect against that.

    -What tattoos?

          He pulls up a tattered sleeve and shows me a small scar on his left hand  It looks like a tiny bundle of sticks etched into his skin.

    -With the tattoo, you are safe from bullets.

    -Do you believe that?

    -Yes, he says with no hesitation.

    -Have you ever known someone who was killed who had this tattoo?

    -Only if they did something wrong.  There is Mai-Mai law, and if you break this law the tattoo will no longer work.  If you rape someone, it doesn’t work anymore

    -So you never raped anyone while you were a Mai-Mai?

    -No, then the tattoo wouldn’t work.

          He says this forcefully, and for some reason I believe his “no.”

    -If you have the tattoo and you don’t break a law, you can get hit by a bullet or a bomb and you won’t be hurt, he continues.

          I want to point out the flaws of this belief but there’s no point.  And if the potency of the tattoo actually does prevent Mai-Mai from raping it would be foolish of me to even hint at otherwise.

    -If you were given a promotion, so you were a superior, would you go back? I ask, not wanting to hear the answer.

    -Yes.  If I was a superior I’d go back, when I’m an adult I think I will go back.  But if I was a regular soldier I’d never go back.

    -Does this effect you in a bad way?  Do you have any problems with remembering what you’ve done and what you’ve seen? 

    -I see people I’ve killed in my dreams.

           He looks down at the floor as he says this and for the first time he seems a little uncomfortable.  Gregoire explains his situation to me next.  He started when he was 10, it was voluntary. 

    -I was curious.

         He says he’s killed many people with a gun, other Mai-Mai and villagers.  If someone is a sorcerer or a rapist they must be killed. 

    -Do you have problems now with remembering what you did with the Mai-Mai?

    -I think about them, the people I killed.  But to kill someone is good.  It was their fault for getting eliminated.

          His words make me sick and filled with a dislike I have to control.  I have to constantly remind myself that they were, and are, children.

         Gregoire is very obviously the last in the pecking order within the three boys.  Damien is still staring at the floor, shaking his head from time to time.  As Gregoire answers my questions he constantly smiles and looks at Jeremy for support and approval.  I can’t tell if any of them are being forward with me.  I have to watch Jeremy and chastise him from time to time as he whispers things to Gregoire, or nudges him when he seems to be going into too much detail or certain territories. 

          Damien is different.  Although his words seem to be herded by Jeremy’s body language and snickering, he doesn’t smile and he continues to watch the floor.  He started with the Mai-Mai when he was 11 and was with them for five years.

    -Did you like that life?

    -No, he says and rubs his face in his hands.  There were difficulties.  You don’t know where you’re going to sleep; when you go to fight you don’t know if you’re going to leave there or not.

    -Did you kill people?

    -I only killed soldiers.  If it wasn’t a stray bullet, I didn’t kill people in the village.   I was always afraid, even after the tattoo.  When I went to combat I thought, I can die, I don’t want to die.  I don’t believe in the tattoos for protection.

          He continues speaking to the floor, covering his eyes with his hand.  He says he thinks about the people he’s killed all the time.  He doesn’t ever want to go back to that.

          Damien is more of what I was expecting in terms of child soldiers, but I get the feeling he’s relatively rare.  How can anyone expect children who are raised with essentially no rules and the immense power of a weapon to develop any sort of moral foundation?  Morality isn’t a human instinct, it’s learned.    I can’t imagine how uncertain and frightening it is for Kagoma to have these boys in their midst.  Yes, the boys need help and yes they are children, but with their learned knowledge that violence is unrestrained power, in the end, they’re walking time bombs.  I realize that it’s not just that I don’t know how I can help them; I still can’t figure out if I want to try.

                 

Political Play

          Soldiers are filtering into Butembo and the surrounding areas like green smoke seeping under the crack in a door.  The Presidential elections aren’t until September, but things are already starting to shift.  A few weeks ago the current President, Joseph Kabila Kabange, announced that he would be changing the structure of the electoral play from a two part voting system to a single act.  Word on the street is that his "Popular" Party comprises 60% of the Judicial committee, and with a little monetary motivation, voting the change through became incontestable in any official sense.

          On public television, the entire Parliament and Judicial committee broke out in a fist-fight, in an attempt by the opposition to stop the pre-determined “vote”.  The scene would be comparable to Colin Powell punching Hilary Clinton in the face while Nancy Pelosi is kicking Rahm Emanuel between the legs.  It would be funny, if the implications weren’t so grave.  People want a democratic election; having only one vote removes any real possibility of representation of the people.

          When we arrive in Butembo one day, shortly after the physical filibuster, I ask a friend named Kambale if our mutual friend, Justin, was able to meet up with survivors he knows, who are currently at FEPSI.  Kambale responds by pinching his eyebrows together and looking anxiously at the floor.

    -Justin is still at home.

    -What happened?  Is he sick?

    -In his neighborhood it is not okay.  I called you last night at 8 p.m. to tell you the FaRDC are attacking the population there.  Since 5:30 p.m. last night, even until now.  They are shooting there.

          The evening before, Alana, Sarah and I went to one of the fanciest hotels here.  It has walls around it and the only billiards table in Butembo.  We went to play a game of pool , have some sodas and salad, and relax.  When we arrived the compound was dotted with soldiers and there was nothing relaxing about it.  Next to the billiards table, about 20 green uniforms were holding beers and AK-47s.  They left at around 5:20 p.m. nice and tipsy.

    -Is he okay?  I ask Kambale.

    -I spoke to him last night but not today.  He is probably hiding under the bed still with his family.

          He laughs a little, trying to make light of the situation. 

    -Why are the soldiers there?  I ask.

    -The Governor heard of malice there and so the army attacked the people.

          The story comes out piece by piece and changes with every telling.  Sarah suggests I send a message to Dusan asking if he has any knowledge of what’s going on, or advice.  He rarely deals with conflict or politics out of the bush, but I don’t like the image of Justin and his family hiding under a bed while soldiers toting machine guns and flimsy rules run amok. 

          Alana and I walk down the dusty road to a small, white kiosk that sells phone units.  As we wait for the boy behind the wooden window to pull the units together, a round-faced man walks up to us.

    -Hello friend, he says. 

          He reaches out his hand to shake mine, and I recognize a traffic officer who has chided me before for driving three people around on a motorcycle; infraction.  He was friendly, didn’t ask for money, and let us continue on our way without transferring one muzungu to a motor-taxi.

    -Hi, I shake his hand.  How are you doing?

    -Oh, we are not doing so well, but we are okay, he says.  There is insecurity in Furru.

          He points in the general direction of Justin’s neighborhood.  I’ve been to the little suburb of Butembo several times to have dinner or a drink with Justin and his wife.  It’s a beautiful little area of dirt paths, mud huts, and families.

    -That’s what we are hearing, I say squinting against the sun.  What’s happening?

    -The people started to rise up in rebellion and attack traffic officers and police, he says.  They began throwing stones.  News of this got to Kinshasa and so they sent in military to calm the uprising.  The young people got together and burned a kiosk.

    -And so now the FaRDC are all there?

    -Yes, they will help.

    -You don’t think they’ll steal and rape people too?

          No matter what I teach my tongue, it doesn't seem to listen.

    -No, he says staring straight at me, almost as if I’ve hurt his feelings.  Governmental authorities never do that kind of thing.  Whoever told you that was lying, that is completely false.

          Just as he finishes saying this, a wiry man in the dark blue uniform that signifies Police strolls up to us and starts speaking in a language I don’t know.  The hungry grimace on his face and the way his eyes dart across our muzungu bodies make the subject clear.  The traffic officer looks uncomfortable and seems to be trying to get the policeman to continue on his way.

    -Lingala? The dark blue smear of negative intention asks, staring at me.

    -No, Kifranza, I say not smiling.

    -J’aime m’amuser avec les blanches, he says, baring his teeth in a sickening smile.  I like to amuse myself with white women.

          I cross my arms and look back at the traffic cop. 

    -You were saying? I ask accusingly.

          The traffic cop is very obviously uncomfortable and he speaks rapidly with the uniformed police officer.  The officer looks over us one last time and walks off.

    -I have work to do, he yells in French and waves his hand at us.

          Alana and I head back to the office.  Over the course of the day we find out another side to the story.  Locals indicate that there was unrest as a result of the change in the voting structure.  People were going to the “parliament” office that is set-up for local complaints and questions.  News of this did get to Kinshasa and the FaRDC were sent.  But the local people say it was the FaRDC who burned the parliament kiosk in order to blame it on the “young people.”

          When Justin finally makes it into Butembo, he looks completely drained.

    -How is your family?

    -We are okay, he says.  But they were pillaging and raping women last night.

    -Can you identify the survivors and help them get to FEPSI? I ask through the window of the car I’m sitting in. 

           I’m on my way to Vutondi with COPERMA, since there’s nothing palpable I can do to help.  Any action we might attempt would simply put us in danger with no reason or positive results.  Justin explains that nobody will come forward because if they aren’t married yet, being raped will make them unfit to wed.  If they are already married, social pressure will push a man to leave his now “ruined” wife if the community finds out she was raped.  Our hands are completely tied.

          Over the next few days things go up and down.  Justin’s little family of mostly females stays with friends for two nights, but things seem to be getting slightly better so they go home once again.  There are soldiers everywhere and then only a few.  They are shooting at night and pillaging, or shooting and entering homes but not doing anything illegal.  When they enter Justin’s home his family is already back.  He doesn’t crack jokes like he normally does when he tells me what’s been happening.

    -Did they hurt your family? I ask.

    -No, they just looked under the bed and in the armoire to see if we had any guns.  And then they looked through all of our photo albums to see if we had pictures of soldiers.

          My experience with the Commander in Bulambo pops into mind.  I guess pictures of soldiers indicate reconnaissance and rebel activity.  Not surprisingly, Justin has not been participating in either.  The soldiers seem to fluctuate from pretense of just action to letting the façade go and taking advantage of the power their weapons provide.  Sort of like the Commander in Bulambo, following all of the rules and then threatening to torture one of my co-workers if I didn’t pay a bribe.

          The elections have the potential to be a turning point for this country, which has been immersed in war for over a decade.  More than likely it will be just like the Rwandan elections of last year, staged, and like spreading icing over a crack in a cake; either way, there will be serious repercussions for the local people and the International world will barely be watching.