A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [73]
I’m in Walungu again, an hour’s drive from Bukavu. I have put out the word that I want to talk to women who have stories about recent attacks. I’ve come to the right place. The notorious village of Kaniola, about ten kilometers up the road, sits at the edge of Interahamwe territory. A handful of women volunteered.
I’ve asked for it.
Rachel: “One Thursday, the Interahamwe came and killed people. My brother didn’t believe it. He wanted to rest in his bed when other people went to hide. He heard the sound of a gun. He didn’t know it was his own son being killed. My brother went outside, they stabbed him, killed him, threw him in the bushes. They also killed my uncle. We found him. The same night, they broke into a church and killed a pastor.
“We went far away to feel safer, but I went back home after a few days. We are farmers. Kaniola is far from here. We were staying here, but we were starving. So we went back.”
“Do you feel like that’s the choice? Risk attack or starve?”
“We are not safe. When we scream at night, government soldiers are afraid of the Interahamwe. They do not come. For our security, instead of waiting for the soldiers to come, we run to them.”
Sonya: “I am also from Kaniola. Once, at night, we heard screaming. I had just come from maternity; I had a little baby. We went outside and found they had killed my neighbors, a man and his wife, and threw the dead bodies in the fire. We ran away. We came to Walungu, where we stayed at a school. When we went back to our village, we heard screaming again. We thought peace was regained. When we went to see what was going on, we found that they had locked people in their house and burnt the whole house.”
I ask, “The people were alive?”
“Yes. They burnt them alive.”
“When did this happen?”
“February. This month. Just a few weeks ago.”
The woman sitting next to her nods in agreement.
Antonia: “A few months ago, the Interahamwe took my younger sister away for slavery. She has never come back. They took me away and raped my mother. They took my husband away. I’ve never heard from him since.”
“How long was your mother there?”
“They kept her as a sex slave in the camp for one week.”
“How old is your mother?” I prod.
“Around sixty.” She answers.
“When I came to get enrolled I was not accepted, even to this day I am not a Women for Women participant.”
Hortense jumps in to say, “Today is enrollment day. She has not yet been enrolled.”
My mind is fogging up with the weight of the stories. I need to shake off this malaise with an infusion of hope. As if busting out the defibrillator, I say, “I’ll be your sister. I’ll sponsor you.”
Next.
Aksanti: “The war burst. We escaped, but they shot my grandchild who was on my daughter’s back. Shot intentionally. The baby died.
“We ran away, left our village and came into Walungu, where we took shelter in a church for a month. We went back to Kaniola. We thought peace was recovered. It wasn’t the case. Last Saturday they came to my village and killed two people, a man and a woman.”
“Last Saturday?”
“Just Saturday. They wanted beer. He was a beer seller. When he said he had no beer to give them, it was finished. They killed him. They killed his wife. They poured petrol on the house and burnt it down. The dead bodies of that couple were inside. Mushisa is the name of the man.”
I ask, “Interahamwe?”
No translation needed. She nods.
“Have you been hiding in the bushes this week?” I ask.
“We run away to the center of Kaniola to escape atrocities. There is a military camp where we can be protected by government soldiers. We are afraid. People are not stable. We cannot work as before. We are starving because we are afraid.”
“There’s a military camp in the village and Interahamwe are still attacking the periphery of the village?” I ask.
“We are in serious trouble,