A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [87]
We finally reach our destination: the very last hut in the very last hamlet before Interahamwe territory. We enter the spotless compound—it’s the kind of third world clean that comes from having nothing, the lack of garbage or clutter perhaps due to the fact anything of value has long since been taken. Major Kaycee takes careful notes on his official UN pad, as Maurice translates the girls’ brother’s account of what happened that night.
“It was Wednesday night when the Interahamwe came from the mountains. They woke us. There were six of them; three stayed with me and my wife and three others went to the next house. They took three hens, three goats, maize flour, and my two sisters. My arm was hurt with their gun, but I escaped and ran to inform the neighbors and nearby soldiers.
“The soldiers immediately came here and fired only one bullet, but the Rastas [yet another Congolese militia] escaped. More soldiers came and we followed them into the forest, up the mountain. We tracked them to where we guessed they were keeping the women, in the Rasta camp. They were speaking in Rwandan.”
This strikes me as odd. Why were the Rasta speaking Rwandan?
“We spotted my sisters. We commanded them to get behind us. Then we saw the other girl. Immediately there was the intervention of the Interahamwe. There was exchange of bullets.”
Exchange of bullets. What a lovely understatement for “it erupted into full-on gun battle.”
“After some minutes exchanging bullets, the Interahamwe ran away. The soldiers took the three women, maize flour, and goats. We ran all the way back home.”
“How long were they with the militia?” I ask.
“Twelve hours.”
I look around the compound, noting an empty metal feeding trough but no animals. I hear Major Kaycee ask Maurice, “How did you know they were Rasta, not Interahamwe?”
I circle back around. “Yeah, that’s a good question.”
“Because they were speaking in Rwandan and they are taller than Congolese,” Maurice translates.
In unison, both majors and I say, “They were Interahamwe.”
Maurice retreats; he’s been caught. Purposely mistranslating? Major Kaycee invites his translator to step in. Maurice looks me in the eye, knowing he’s been called out for his blatant editorializing. It’s the first moment in five and half weeks I’ve been angry with him. The brother continues, “Even the soldiers we were with said it was FDLR, not Rasta.”
I wander around the compound and enter the simple straw hut; inside, a fire pit is lined with logs. Straw is strewn around for comfort.
Outside again, a sweet-faced child stands in front of me, smiling with warm eyes, leaning against the fence, wearing flaming red. The hills are just beyond her. So here it is, the mythical “forest.” A two-minute walk away.
I scan the trees, wondering if I could throw a stone or spit a cherry that far. Who might be staring back at me? Does my pale skin stand out, bright like a traffic light, against the lush, green landscape? If they see me here, what might it cost this family? Does the Interahamwe operate using the simple equations that rule life in the Bukavu slums: Muzungu = Money = Attack?
I rejoin the others, trying to encourage the brother. “Tell him he is a hero!”
The brother is still, with his arms folded, casting his eyes to the ground. He nods, allowing a slight smile of acknowledgement to leak out. He bites his lip with embarrassment.
After the long trek back to the road accompanied by the girls’ brother, we load into our respective SUVs and drive up the road to park outside what in Africa qualifies as a mega-church. The one institution left standing, it