Speaking Engagements

          Dear Readers,

    Unfortunately, the United Nations project was extremely time-consuming, thus, I was not able to spend time in the prison or much time with COPERMA.  The trip is not presently something I can post about.  I'm planning another trip to D.R. Congo in a few months but until then, I am speaking about issues in Congo in Baltimore, MD at:

          -Goucher College, March 1st at 7 pm (with a panel discussion)
          -Johns Hopkins School of Public Health, March 6th from noon until around 1:30 p.m.

    If you are in the area and would like to attend, please do so!  For specific information as to location, either ask at any University building or contact me at amy.ernst114@gmail.com.  I have several scheduled engagements at the end of March in Minneapolis, MN, and I will be posting details as those dates approach.
      
          Thank you as always for your support and interest in the D.R.C.
               Amy Ernst

No Place Like Congo

          I hop on the back of a motorcycle in the grey Goma morning.  As the city slowly wakes up alongside the sun, the air is a freshly cut orange, both crisp and soft.  I love this place.  When I left in December I had a knot of frustration in my chest that made it hard to breathe.  Sometimes taking a break is like getting a fresh pair of eyes, a new heart, and wiping the grime of futility off of your brain.  Coming back, it’s nice to remember that it didn’t always feel hopeless.
          Now, as we speed through the yawning city the word “muzungu” feels like a personalized greeting again rather than a targeted attack.  The stares of people turning their heads at the flash of weird looking white skin feel welcoming rather than hateful and heavy.  I chuckle at a man peeing directly into the road, respectfully covering part of his penis with his left hand though for some reason not simply turning away from the road.  Even the FaRDC soldiers who try to pressure me into buying them sodas at the United Nations airport gate make me smile.
          On the small, 1970s style puddle jumper, a large Congolese man across from me starts up a conversation that inevitably leads to the question of me giving him a job.  I’m unemployed too, I explain honestly, so if you find a job let me know maybe they’ll take me too.  He smiles but doesn’t believe me and continues listing off his skills and experience.  He lives in the U.S. but wants to come back to Congo. 
    -In the U.S. I have to work three jobs just to stay afloat it’s too tiring, he explains.  Here, with my experience, if I can get a good job I can work hard and live comfortably.
          The closest I’ve come to hearing a Congolese person say this was when a half-American, half-Congolese friend of mine explained why he moved back to Congo after twenty years in the States.
    -In the United States I was in a cage, he said.  Let me go to the poor country where at least I can feel free.
          Though, freedom inevitably depends on wealth.  In Butembo I retrieve my motorcycle and fly across the potholes, trying not to choke on the gritty dust which is as thick as fog.  The rainy season is over; the daily build-up of suggestion-to-foreboding-to-threatening-to-a-dark-and-forceful-climax seems to have disappeared with the elections.  The elections were simply one day during a rainy season and now that the rain has passed it’s as If it never happened, save for a bit of mud.  As predicted, construction on the roads stopped abruptly after the results.  Kabila’s a manipulative child, behaving only long enough to get what he wants.
          Once I’ve reacquainted myself with the city I pull up to the little cement COPERMA office.  Hangi greets me enthusiastically outside.
    -The chair is there, he says pointing to a chair when we move inside.
          Although it’s a cultural translation, I used to find this statement irksome; alongside the greeting “you are there.”  Now I smile, thank him graciously and sit down. 
    -I sent in the grant proposal, I say with a smile.  Sorry I kind of waited until the last minute.
          COPERMA is constantly working on grants and I help with the English.
    -You were going to kill me!  Hangi exclaims clutching his heart.  My heart was beating so hard thinking that it would not be sent in.
    -Well, Hangi you didn’t give me a whole lot to work with, I say laughing.  I’m sorry but you sent me an annual budget with six lines and a total of 1,483,000 USD!
          Hangi starts laughing.
    -If you guys have a budget of over a million dollars you better start paying me!  I continue.
    -It was a misunderstanding, he says.  I thought they wanted to know what our ideal budget would be to fully finance all of our projects.
          I purse my lips and and raise my eyebrows at Hangi.  He laughs.  COPERMA is very serious about their budgets and having transparency but the standards and ideas are different when dealing with western world organizations.  Hangi and I spend a lot of time arguing about the importance of details, accuracy, and what the west wants.  Communication across cultures is still our largest problem. 
    -When will we go to the prison to continue the work?  Hangi asks.
    -Hopefully this week, I say lighting up.
          I can’t wait to get back inside those walls which once terrified me.
    -I’m helping with a United Nations project, I continue.  So we’ll have to schedule it when I have some downtime, but it’s definitely a priority.
          Hangi nods with a big smile on his face.  He loved working in the prison as well.  Something about it makes you feel like you’re in a secret society, even though it’s one neither of us would ever actually want to join.
    -Eh, eh, eh!  I hear to my left.
          Maman Marie struts into the room in all of her glory.  She’s just as stately, goofy, beautiful and kind as ever.  She grasps me in a bear hug and throws me to her left cheek, right cheek, then back to the left.  Thankfully, everyone stopped trying to do the culturally normal forehead taps with me since I normally end up awkwardly bashing into their head or almost kissing them.
    -Comment-ca-va?  She exclaims, separating each syllable for emphasis.
    -Ca va bien!  Ca va ici?
    -Yes, she says.  Things are good.  How are your parents?  Did you greet them for us?
    -I did, I respond.  They send you their greetings as well.
          Even though nobody in Congo knows my parents, everybody I know is extremely diligent about sending their greetings. 
    -So, how is the work and the situation here?  I ask, once we’ve finished our hello.
    -The work is going well, she responds and sits on a bench next to me.  We’re having a play this weekend!  In Kavingu, the girl-mothers have put together a teatre.  It’s part of the psychosocial program to help community integration.
    -Wonderful, I say.  And in terms of rape and banditisme has it diminished at all?
          I had hope that the remnants of Kabila’s electoral manipulations might include a slightly more disciplined army.
    -No, she says immediately letting all light flood out of her face.  In Isale now they’re abducting women.  The ADF-NALU (Ugandan rebel group) take a woman and keep her for four days or so.
          My face drops to match Maman Marie’s and I my shoulders droop.
    -I didn’t want to tell you over internet, Hangi says looking at me sadly.  Our neighbor just down the road went to Isale to check on her field.  The NALU came to her field and took her to one of their camps in graben where they are many.  They said, no,no, if the Maman doesn’t want to be killed she needs to call her family and get 50,000 dollars.
          I snort before I can stop myself.
    -Where on earth do they think she would get that kind of money?  I ask.
    -The NALU think that people who leave Butembo and go to the fields are rich.  The Maman called and then told them, no, no, maybe it’s my time, you must kill me.  But finally, she was able to find 7,000 dollars and then they freed her. 
    -How did she get even that much?
    -She asked many people in Butembo to help.  We helped the little bit that we could.  It’s an old woman of 60 years. 
    -Is she okay?  Did they hurt her?
    -She doesn’t speak about it, Hangi continues.  If you ask her she begins to cry.
    -Did she go to the hospital?  I ask.
    -Yes, she did, Hangi responds.
    -The NALU are trying to finance their group now by taking the local people hostage, Maman Marie cuts in.
          I shake my head.  Aside from rape and pillaging the villages for a few chickens and goats, now the rebels are reaching deeper into pockets that don’t exist.  We all mull over the matter for a few moments, frowning into space until Maman Marie changes the subject.  She has been invited to participate in a gender inequality event in Brasil and is giddy with excitement.  Maman Marie has only been to Uganda.  I imagine her trying to navigate a European airport and tell her to ask people for help anytime she’s confused so she doesn’t miss her plane.
          I need to arrange things for the U.N. project and Hangi is free for the rest of the day so we go on a scavenger hunt around the city for several hours.  I’m greeted in the streets by people I know and people I don’t and by the end of the day my cheek muscles are exhausted from smiling.  There is no place like Congo.
 

The U.S.A.

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

Gender Inequality

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

Recent Post, NYT Guest Blog

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

A Congolese Democracy

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

Sticks

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