A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [84]
Oh, right. Those Who Kill Together. Never mind.
Yet it is still impossible to imagine anything bad happening on this quiet, lovely Sunday afternoon in this pristine African countryside. My tension drains away, the soft breeze and sun luring me into a familiar stillness that masquerades as calm. Like the stillness of a room after the respirator has been shut off. Or the calm that descends when you’re staring into the eyes of a sociopath and he doesn’t look crazy. Or the peace I was feeling on a sunny, early autumn morning in Manhattan, after my first summer with Ted, before he rushed up the stairs to our loft, steaming coffee and toasted bagels in hand, and burst in the door to announce that the World Trade Center was on fire. I had suited up for my daily run down the West Side Highway; I planned to run to my turn-around spot, the World Trade Center. But I was feeling lazy, and Ted had gone to pick up breakfast, so I blew off the run. We scrambled to our roof with a clear view of the North Tower’s gaping hole. My first thought spilled out, unfiltered: “That doesn’t look like a coffee pot fire.” Without commentary, without a newscaster framing the event’s significance, we didn’t know what was happening. An hour later, with naked eyes, I saw the North Tower fall. From two miles up the West Side Highway, it simply looked like a cloud of smoke. And then nothing.
Major Vikram and I fill the space with loud chitchat, as though we’re hanging out at a local pub. We chat about Oprah. Debate the varieties of bananas that grow in North India. I pitch him a long-buried screenplay idea, about a man searching for his daughter, who disappeared in Major Vikram’s Himalayan home state.
I talk about running. “I’m out of shape! I haven’t been able to run here.”
Major Vikram asks innocently, “Why?”
“Uh, I’m not sure it’s safe,” says the white girl going for a casual Sunday stroll next to Interahamwe territory.
“Don’t worry about safety.”
We both laugh. Don’t worry about safety.
A woman passes us; she’s wearing a bright green African dress, with her hair done and full makeup. I look her in the eye, “Jambo, Habari!”
She looks at me and nods, “Bonjour.”
As we walk down this path into the valley, passing villagers, there is no “I’ve been touched by terror” evidence like I saw in Manhattan on September 11; I remember seeing a dazed bike messenger walking through Union Square, his dreadlocks caked in ash. Here, everyone looks clean and neat. We pass a tall guy, so thin, in a blazer that squares off his hollow frame. Then comes a slim older man in pressed, belted khakis, a blue oxford shirt, and lace-up dress shoes. Wait, isn’t that the uniform for the legislative aids who grab quick power lunches on Pennsylvania Avenue before heading back to a long afternoon on Capitol Hill?
This is officially odd. What’s the deal with the well-groomed people of Kaniola? Then I remember: It’s Sunday. They’re dressed for church.
Generose comes to mind. What is the first thing she said to her children after her home was attacked, burned to the ground, and her family assassinated in her front yard? Thank God. I’m alive.
A group of young women sees us and steps to the edge of the path, doing their best to avoid us. Major Kaycee calls a command to Maurice. “Papa, ask them if they know about those incidents of the ladies kidnapped.”
Maurice approaches them in his mild-mannered way and speaks in a soft voice. The major shouts from behind him, “Ask any of them!”
Before Maurice can finish, the Major asks another local and calls out, “Okay! They are up there.”
The girls watch suspiciously, as we continue up the path. Only months later, when I review the video, will I see that one of the girls we were looking for was among them—tense, trying to be inconspicuous, hoping her friends don’t rat her out.
After hiking for a half hour we are in the middle of