A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [100]
Fifteen years into this mess and the international community still has no plan to deal with the Interahamwe.
But there’s still something I don’t get. I ask André, “Why kill the villagers? Why torture them? One woman I know, they cut off her leg and fed it to her children. They cut out villagers’ eyes or nose. Why? What’s the logic?”
André bites his lip. “What you heard about, it is true. This is only to show the hard conditions in which the Interahamwe live. Even a child of ten years old—or less—was raped. I saw with my own eyes victims of cutting—breasts, nose, mouth. It is only to show the Interahamwe are no longer persons like us. They are like animals.”
“It’s because Interahamwe are bitter for being stuck in the forest?” I ask. “It’s like revenge on humanity?”
“That’s it. A kind of revenge. How can some people spend a good life when others spend a bad life in the forest?”
“How many people do you think you’ve killed?” I ask him.
“When we talk in terms of killing, I was under orders. We were sent to ask for money. To ask for salt. Because salt was precious. Whenever you do not have salt and you do not give us money, I have orders to kill you. And really, I killed.”
Because salt was precious.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Hidden Face
ALEJANDRO GREETS US anxiously. He has been calling around, trying to track down the only UN guy who was stationed here in Kaniola at the time of the massacre. But it’s turned out there is no such person; none of the foreign UN officials stationed in Walungu at that time is still in Congo. So Alejandro has taken the initiative of asking local UN staffers if they know anything about it. Frankly, I’m not sure it’s worth the effort. I’m only looking for a few details that weren’t included in the report, plus the names of anyone affected. Alejandro has run into another roadblock. “Everyone is acting very strange. Even the cleaning lady, when I ask her, is like this.” He imitates her by hemming and hawing, avoiding our eyes. No one will talk.
“Of course, I want to help you,” he says. “But now I want to know why everyone is acting this way!”
Alejandro calls for another UN staff member, Joseph. He is a short local man, reserved and precise, who speaks better English than almost any Congolese person I’ve met. He worked closely with Major Vikram and Major Kaycee. I chat him up about Major Vikram, mentioning the emails we exchanged about that day. Joseph is evasive. “I think I remember something like that in 2005.”
“No, this was in May.”
“I don’t know. Talk with others maybe.”
“If Major Kaycee and Major Vikram went to the site of that attack, you would have gone with them,” I say. “Right?”
“I would go with them, of course.”
“Surely if you were there, if you saw seventeen dead bodies, you would remember, wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe,” he answers. “I don’t remember when exactly. Maybe if you look at the daily security reports. . . .”
When did this turn into an interrogation scene? I didn’t come here looking for intrigue. I just want to know if the people I met that day are okay. “I don’t understand why this is so secret. It was an international news story. So what’s the big deal? I just want a few more details about what happened.”
“Do you have clearance?” Joseph asks.
“Of course,” I tell him. “The Pakistani Battalion is taking us to Kaniola.”
Alejandro jumps in. “I have told you, you are free to talk with them.”
Joseph sticks to his guns. “Do you have written permission?”
“No,” I fess up.
Alejandro pushes him. “You are free! Help these people help your country!”
Joseph is growing frustrated. “Look at the report. I think you will find . . . especially in that spot—”
Alejandro cuts him off. “Yes, but as we say in my