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“Yes, hero . . .”

“Like someone you look up to. Do you understand? Someone you admire.”

I’m not sure they get it.

I turn to Kelly, “I feel embarrassed to make a speech, but they’ve been waiting a long time. It’s expected. You should talk too.” Yet Kelly stands back, as though an unspoken rule was made a long time ago, maybe in D.C.: I’m the one who does the talking.

“Okay!” I turn to the crowd, puffing myself up with a strained cheeriness. I almost flinch at how much I sound like a cheerleader, one who is calling her troops to attention. I try to gauge the crowd. Some are focused on weaving plastic baskets; others are looking at me skeptically. “I’m happy to be here to visit Panzi Hospital. Thank you for waiting for us.”

The gregarious nurse, clearly used to rallying the troops, knows the right tone—the “how-you-talk-to-rape-victims” tone. Maurice translates English to Swahili, and the nurse adds the extra filter, a safety net.

“In the U.S., I learned about Congo when I was watching television one day, and my life changed . . .”

As it’s filtered through two translators, I scan the crowd, wondering how this is going to land. I suspect not well.

The crowd claps and I catch a few smiles. Emboldened, I speak more passionately, using broad hand gestures to minimize the language barrier. “I know you probably feel really alone here, but more and more and more American women are learning about you and they’re trying to help. You aren’t alone, because we care and we are doing everything we can.”

They applaud. I smile at Kelly. It’s working.

“Thanks for the applause! But I want you to know Congolese women are my heroes, our heroes, because to live through what you have lived through takes so much strength and inner beauty. I can look around at every single one of you and see something beautiful that no militia can ever touch.”

They cheer!

I hold my hands up and join the clapping, pointing back at them, declaring, “We’re clapping for you!”

No translation necessary! They love that! Erupting into applause, smiling, some even shout out, “Ndiyo! Yes!”

The translator leans over to me. “Your presence really affects them.”

As the crowd settles down, I ask them, “Is there anyone here who feels strongly about saying something to American women?”

A modest young woman with a raw aura, wearing a bulky pink sweater and headscarf, steps to the front and speaks directly to the camera.

“I do. Thank you for the two of you who came to visit this place. Please tell other American women to continue thinking about our bad situation. And that program you have for Congolese women, don’t let yourself fall by the way, but continue up until the end.”

She clasps her face, trying to hide the oncoming eruption, then bursts into tears.

I put my hand on her shoulder, trying not to choke up. She keeps talking through her sobs, repeating “Mama Ah-meh-ree-kaah.”

The translator simply says, “She’s crying for help from American women.”

She cries out through the tears. “We came to be cured because we were raped! But if we go back to the village, we could be raped a second time by four men, five men, six men!”

Instinct takes over and I embrace her, cradling her while she cries.

The nurse interrupts and says, “In order to get out of this psychological problem, let’s sing a song to make us happy.”

The girl retreats to her place as the nurse beats the table as a drum, leading the women in a song, repeating a word even I could make out: “Amen.”

A MEMBER OF THE STAFF ushers us to Marie’s private room, off the fistula ward, to talk with the raw-faced girl in pink who spoke at the meeting. She is twenty-two and unmarried, soft-spoken and shy.

“How was it you came to Panzi Hospital?”

“To be cured,” she answers.

“Of what?” I ask in a tiptoe tone of voice.

“Urine.”

“How did you come to have a fistula?” I ask, as gently as possible.

“I was sleeping in my house when those negative forces came. They woke my parents and brothers. In a family of eight,