A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [88]
We pull up a hundred yards down the road. A few minutes pass and the brother, two girls, and a man in a shiny green sports jacket slip into our unmarked car and encourage Serge to gun it before their friends notice.
While we drive, I’m introduced to Chantal, fifteen; Nadine, seventeen; and Christophe, their quiet-mannered father. Both girls are plump, with a healthy glow, but with the skeptical aura true to teenagers the world over. They are not remotely anxious to impress; instead they watch me, the white lady, with the detached reserve one would expect of American kids with Converse tennis shoes and nose rings who smoke clove cigarettes at the local café. A girl may live in the worst place on earth, but she can still be cool, after all.
As we stop and settle into a private field off the main road, dark clouds roll in and thunder crashes in the distance. (That’s more like it.)
Chantal picks at the grass as we talk. Christophe gives his permission for the girls to talk to me on camera. “We know you will film, and whatever you film will maybe pass on television, and this will help end the situation,” he says.
The situation.
The girl’s story is identical to their brother’s. “They used belts to tie our hands, like cows. After they got our neighbor, Rahema, they looted whatever they found in house goods—hens, maize flour—and took us with them.” Chantal, still picking at the grass, looks down as she tells the story. “After we climbed up the mountain they realized we had forgotten our clothes, so we went back. We got all our clothes and climbed the mountain again. We didn’t know our brother had gone for help.”
I don’t have a clue why Interahamwe would care if the girls had forgotten their clothes, but it was critical because it allowed the army enough time to catch up with them on the seven-hour hike through the forest towards the militia’s camp. They did not know they were being tracked.
“We stopped to rest, the soldiers slaughtered a hen, and they sent us to get water so they could prepare food.”
The father stops us to say, “Excuse me. Here is their friend.”
The third girl joins us. Rahema is also fifteen and a bit more shy than the others. We continue, as Chantal holds a bandana over her mouth. “Rahema was carrying the maize flour, so she stayed behind when we went to get water. That’s when we heard the guns. We saw the Congolese soldiers. They ordered us to get back. The militia guarding us ran away. We hid behind them while they shot towards the guys who had Rahema. The militia released her and ran into the forest. We recovered Rahema and all the things robbed from the village. That’s when we saw our brother with the soldiers.”
“How do you feel about staying in your village now, after this has happened?” I ask.
“We would like to move, but we don’t have family in another place. We are frightened.”
Christophe interrupts. He is quiet and direct, if not desperate. “I would like to add something. The militia knows everybody, everywhere. So even if we move from Kaniola to another place, we are sure we will find militia in that place. So we prefer to stay at home.”
The father looks broken by his inability to protect his girls.
“Is the militia interested in these three girls in particular? Or do they just take anyone?” I ask.
“They are always interested in women and animals.”
“Did they hurt you?” The girls shake their heads no.
“I have one more question. But I’m wondering if all the men can go for a minute.”
The men leave, but the brother and father stay. I have to ask them again to give us a minute alone. Chantal tries to leave with