A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [70]
As we leave, I ask Mama, “Do you have everything you need?”
She replies, “I need sugar so I can make tea.”
I laugh it off, uncomfortably. “Maybe tomorrow.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
El Presidente
I’M IN A PACKED SUV, cruising along a rural road, Congo landscape flying by, sandwiched between a Congolese friend and a guy by the name of
René. The front seat is occupied by another carsick friend, who needs to look out the front window. It doesn’t matter where we are or where we are going. Why René is along for the ride, and who invited him, isn’t the point. Sometimes questions of safety far outweigh the desire to spill all the details.
René speaks with a high-pitched voice that sounds like a woman’s, but his baseball cap and sweater vest say “suburban dad.” The whole ride, he’s been touting his feminist credentials and long history working for a variety of international NGOs. He’s angling for a job. “You should hire me to manage Run for Congo Women in Congo!”
I smile politely, but my mind is elsewhere. I’m unhappy with my friend and the “translation” issue at the meeting we’ve just come from, which involved talking with rape survivors.
As one woman spoke, I caught the words Mai Mai. I was surprised she was being so direct about a Congolese attacker.
My Congolese friend translated, “She says they violated her.”
“Who?”
My friend added, “She said Interahamwe.”
“What did she say about the Mai Mai?”
My friend responded vaguely, “She did not say anything about Mai Mai.”
What? I may know fewer than twenty Swahili phrases, but Mai Mai is one of them. “Yes, she did,” I say. “Was it the Mai Mai who raped her?”
My friend was quiet.
I pushed harder. “Can you please ask her.”
My friend asked again, then acquiesced. “Yes, she was raped by Mai Mai.”
Now, fried after an exhausting trip on this long, bumpy road, I’m thinking about the meeting when I spot soldiers on the side of the road. As is now the routine, I ask, “Congolese Army or Mai Mai?”
It’s quiet for a minute. Then my friend says, “I don’t know.”
They all stare forward, eyes on the road. “If you want to know about the Mai Mai, ask the man sitting next to you. He is the President of the Mai Mai for South Kivu.”
There’s no time to let it land, to shoot my friend a disapproving, “What the hell are you thinking?” look or to calculate the ramifications of what this might mean.
I feel the fear slip around inside me as I try to convince myself this is a great opportunity. The undeniable fact has settled into my stomach: In spite of all the paranoia floating around Congo, this guy really is dangerous. I need to tread lightly.
I flash a thumbs-up smile and say, “I’d love to talk with you more about the Mai Mai!”
As it slips out of my mouth, I think of the woman I just met, so frank about her Mai Mai attackers. El Presidente was standing right behind me when she said it. Then I pushed. Then I emphasized the Mai Mai raped her. Announced it. As if there is such a thing as “safe space” in Congo. As if after a few weeks here, I would know exactly how it works, fully grasp Congo’s version of right and wrong, what needs to be said and what is better left alone.
I’ve only consumed rolls and Fanta so far today, so I’m wired on a sugar high and crashing fast. I raise my hand off my lap, trying to see if I’m shaking. It’s impossible to tell on these roads. I try to ignore the murky, polluted feeling that comes when being deceitful, closing my eyes. The bouncing and bumping and pothole jumping feels like the worst airplane turbulence.
My friend graciously explains, above all else, that René is organized. He was brought on to help the Mai Mai develop into a proper organization, to raise their profile and their efficiency. To be their public relations machine. I work overtime to get him talking, forcing my tone of voice to keep it