A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [103]
I dive in with my questioning. “You were there that day.”
He is calm and direct. “Yes.”
“What happened?”
“They cut out the eyes, nose, and mouths of all those people killed.”
“So it was the Interahamwe.”
“It was almost obvious it was meant to look like the Interahamwe.” That’s a pregnant way to put it. What a stunning thing to say.
“What do you mean, ‘almost obvious,’” I ask him. “Meant to look like the Interahamwe?”
“The disfiguring was like an imitation of Interahamwe signature attacks,” he says.
“How can you tell the difference between the Interahamwe and an imitation?” I ask.
“The Interahamwe does not kill eighteen people for three goats and cell phone. Understand?”
No. I don’t understand at all. “Why would someone imitate the Interahamwe?”
He’s quiet for a moment, squirming. “There are tensions. Sabotage actions. Different brigades behave like rivals.”
“You’re saying it was a Congolese perpetrator? The Congolese Army?”
“I am confident.”
I look at the notes on other attacks which read: “Comment = probably to create illusion” and “Global context of the incident: troop units shifting in and out.”
He continues. “Brigade Y was handing over the area to Brigade X, under Commander X. There were subsequent confrontations between the rival units, under the command of a certain Commander Y. Once Brigade Y was transferred away, the disturbances ended.”
Is he telling me this just to be dramatic? My gut tells me no.
Even in this anything-goes place, I am astounded.
The Congolese Army mutilating and murdering civilians, staging their actions to make it look like the Interahamwe was to blame, for the benefit of rivalry?
His story is not so far-fetched. Months from now, the New York Times will report high-level collaboration between Interahamwe leadership and top-ranking Congolese military officials. Satellite phone records will show lengthy, frequent conversations between the two. As it turns out, collaboration between the Interahamwe and Congolese government is common knowledge.
“The people were promised an investigation would be carried out,” he tells us now, in the dark hut. “But the locals wait and wait. There was no investigation.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Furaha
FROM BEHIND MY sunglasses, I watch the sunlight reflect on my eyelashes, forming little rainbows. I’m sitting in a patch of sunshine while the cleaning guy mops the otherwise empty Orchid terrace with citronella. Old-world French accordion music drifts in as I sip my tea. For a moment, the moldy corners disappear and the patio borders on elegance. I shut my eyes. Why are we all here?
Henry Morton Stanley—the real one—comes to mind. The mining guys, the aid workers, me . . . aren’t we all trying to live one of those “create-your-own-adventure” books we read as children? Pick option A, B, or C: do you want to help rape victims or child soldiers, rake in the cash as a mining guy, or take down a warlord?
A European mining guy sits down in the next cluster of chairs to sop up a cigarette and a juice. He’s looks like a frat boy lost in Thailand, wearing floppy shorts, prayer beads around his wrist, and well-worn flip-flops. As he smokes, he watches me as if he’s watching a traffic accident or street fight from a distance; he’s cool and detached. He’s staying in the room next to mine. I wonder if he heard me crying last night.
An hour or so later I’m still on the terrace, though I’ve shifted to the table in the corner. French-lady aid-workers smoke and laugh loudly, as if to draw attention to themselves, while keeping an eye out for anyone worth talking to. A collection of blasé Scandinavian businessmen in jackets, pleated khakis, and blue striped or checkered oxford shirts sip wine. I’m not sure any of us belong here, sucking the marrow out of Congo. I keep my eyes down and watch the tiny flies flailing around on my dinner plate. It’s a bad day in Congo. The kind that leaves me haunted by futility and failure,