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Poised to burst, Joseph spits out, “I have plenty to say.”

He reins himself in, retreating to a more officious tone. “Read the report and you can ask me questions.”

The UN doesn’t turn over the report. It’s classified.

WE GO TO Women for Women’s Walungu center, where a few participants from Kaniola agree to talk with us. “The family with seventeen people killed are my neighbors,” says a young woman with a red dress and cornrows. “The Interahamwe came, started cutting people, killing them and burning houses. We spent the night here in Walungu. In the morning we went back to Kaniola. There were government soldiers there already. We felt safe and remained. They were burning dead bodies.”

“You saw that?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last attack in Kaniola?”

Another woman offers, “February, when they took my two nieces.”

They’re all in agreement. It’s been three months since the last attack. And that’s actually an improvement, compared to the twice-weekly attacks that were happening before.

“It’s the government’s Commander X who masters security in Kaniola,” someone says. “Whenever he’s there, nobody dares attack because he is strong. When he goes to Bukavu to visit his family, attacks happen.”

I present my white binder, as though I’m conducting a one-woman war tribunal and each blurry, pixilated eight-by-ten video print will immortalize its subject. They crowd around the white notebook, flipping page by page, looking at their friends and neighbors. It might be a silly exercise. Watching them scan the pages, I realize that I have no idea what I want to do with my notebook full of fuzzy video printouts. I just need to know.

“Do you know that little boy?”

They shake their heads.

“I know four of the children,” another woman says. “The militia killed their grandfather.”

“What about these little girls?” I ask.

“ I recognize that one,” another woman answers. “They got into her compound, killed her father, and burned people in the house next door. Burned them alive. About a year ago.”

They point to a photo of a man on the roadside, waiting next to the children with the plastic water tubs. “He disappeared. It’s as if he was killed. His sister went a year ago to the bushes for sex slavery.”

“This one died,” a woman says, pointing at another man. “The Interahamwe killed him nine months ago.”

The women gather in closer. They are pointing at someone, discussing her among themselves. It’s the first woman I passed on my Sunday walk in Kaniola; she was on her way to church. She wore a beautiful dress and had pretty hair and makeup.

“Do you know her?” I ask.

“After a week of marriage, she was taken in the bushes. It was less than six months ago.”

As the women watch, I scrawl notes across the bottom of the photograph, like my video log has somehow preserved time. As if I could go back and stop her on that trail. Warn her. Give her money to take her groom and move far away.

“Has she come back? Has she been seen since?”

“They killed her.”

I gasp. I only said jambo. I didn’t know her. But I feel sick, the same way you might feel upon learning that someone at work just died, someone you used to joke with around the water cooler.

“Any of these?” I show them a clear photo of the three girls with Christophe.

“She’s there, the girl in the blue scarf.”

“They are still in the village?” I say.

“The one in green is a schoolteacher.” She’s talking about the girls’ father, Christophe.

“But is he okay?” I say, pressing them

Pointing to Nadine, someone says, “This one was taken to the forest, and she has never come back. She escaped the first time. When she thought it was quiet, she came back. They took her that time.”

I mumble, “I met her once.”

They start to back off, straightening their dresses, gathering their things. They’ve grown tired of the exercise.

“These children, they’re okay?” I say, anxiously trying to rope the women back in.

“Some children were taken to the forest. The parents were charged a fine.”

“These children?” I say.

“None