A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [81]
My new friend and I look at each other with resignation. She still smiles, amused, but struggling to hold the weight. Embarrassed for offering help I can’t deliver, I offer the obvious explanation. “I want to help, but you are stronger than I am.”
We continue up the hill. Our moderate pace quickly leaves her behind, struggling step by step with her load. I walk in silence the rest of the way up the hill, contemplating the visit and the last few years. How I’ve let my business slide. How I’ve traveled here to run around foolishly . . . for what? Most NGOs haven’t taken me seriously enough to even return my phone calls.
Maurice reads my pensive mood and attempts to encourage me. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, Lisa.”
I try to hide the welling tears. Maurice can see he’s getting to me, so he continues, “You make me want to do something else with my life. I want to work helping other people.”
It’s not that I’m not touched. It’s that his praise rings painfully untrue. I think back on the last five weeks: the endless hours at the hospital, the cheerleader speeches, driving up and down South Kivu. All the time, doing nothing but, what, collecting stories? Hugging women? Silly stunts. Paltry presents. Who am I against Congo? I feel ridiculous; my hurling antics at this country’s problems has been like tossing teaspoons of water on a raging fire.
I AM BACK ON the terrace at Orchid, having a late-afternoon tea, when Zainab enters. I met her once, in D.C., but I’m not sure she’ll recognize me. Despite all the public speaking, I’m often shy and reserved when I meet new people, especially those I greatly respect. Zainab is certainly one of those people. She glances at me, so I wave hello.
“Oh—I didn’t recognize you!” she says and gives me a big hug.
Ebullient as ever, gracious to her core, she joins me for tea and a long talk, which meanders from topics like self-care—an essential ingredient to the work—to her childhood in Iraq. She explains that in Iraq they have women who attend funerals with the specific function of coaxing the grieving to cry. Zainab says she is like one of those women, only she coaxes women to tell their stories. Not only in war zones, but even after public talks in America, women often approach her and spill their life histories.
“Congo,” she says, “is one of my favorite places on earth. You have the worst of humanity and the best of humanity. It’s raw, but it is real.”
Alice and her filmmaker friend Prathiba join us. Alice is much what I have imagined. In gray dreadlocks and loose-fitting, natural clothing, she is quiet and has a piercing gaze that makes me feel transparent. Even if I met Alice Walker poolside following a month-long relaxation retreat at a high-end spa, I would be inclined to not say much. But under the wear of Congo, I clam up and just observe. I’ve never spent time around this breed of women: self-possessed, comfortable in their skin, nothing put on, nothing to prove. I cannot imagine her spending a moment on anything petty. She has the aura of a visionary.
They invite me along for dinner. Alice says little through our meal. I’m quiet too, aside from a comment about my decision to not cry around Congolese women. At the end of the meal, Alice looks at me directly and, as though confirming that I am, in fact, transparent, says, “It’s okay to cry with them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The End of Logic
I’M NOT SURE why I told Maurice to come today. He needs a day off and I have nothing on the agenda. My time in Congo is nearing its end. I have and I have nothing on the agenda. My time in Congo is nearing its end. I have left messages all week for the country director of an NGO who said he had planned a trip so that I could tour their facilities up north. But we were supposed to leave yesterday, so the silence has turned into a brush-off.
I feel like a fifth-year high school student, or