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“Did they . . . Maurice, you know what my question is. Can you think of a delicate way to put it?”

Maurice nods, and asks them.

“They did not rape us,” one of the girls says. “The problem was time. We were running. But on the way, they kept telling us once in the camp, we will be their wives.”

“How did you feel about that?” I ask.

“I was afraid, but really, what could I do?” Nadine responds.

“Is there anything you would like to tell people in America?”

“Help us, so we can put an end to the situation. Help us to help fight militias, so we can live in peace.”

“And you, Chantal?”

She is so done with this conversation. “I don’t have anything to add. Maybe my parents know what to say.”

I realize Rahema, who joined us late, has said nothing. I turn to her and ask, “Is there anything you would like to tell me about what happened that day?”

“After they separated me from the other girls, the militia began to touch me . . . wherever,” she says without affect. “Immediately, Congolese soldiers appeared and they ran away.”

AFTER THE INTERVIEW, I stand above the road, watching the three girls casually walk away together, like teenage girls anywhere. They are laughing, talking, maybe gossiping. Major Vikram leans over to me and says ominously, “They are safe . . . for now.”

We all know. We all feel it. But he says it anyway, “Now the Interahamwe know where they live. They will definitely be back.”

Christophe stays behind, standing with arms crossed next to the UN majors, ready to talk man-business. He addresses Major Kaycee, asking, “What’s next? What will you do?”

The sinking feeling is palpable. Now that he’s had their ear, Christophe thinks the UN is going to actually help. Major Vikram and Kaycee squirm with the awkwardness; it’s like each is being asked, after a casual hookup with a woman, “So will you call me?” Collecting the report was the pinnacle of action, the big event. Followed by the brutal truth. What’s next? Get real. Nothing’s next.

I dig around in my purse for paper and find an already-scrawled-on envelope. I rip it in half and scribble a note in bold block letters, as though emphatic handwriting and exclamation points could tip the scales.

PLEASE ENROLL THESE GIRLS. I WILL PAY. IF YOU HAVE

QUESTIONS, CONTACT HORTENSE OR CHRISTINE IN BUKAVU.

THANK YOU!!!

LISA SHANNON

FOUNDER, RUN FOR CONGO WOMEN

Christophe nods, despite his confusion, as Maurice tries to explain Women for Women. I picture the girls carefully following my instructions, walking eight miles into Walungu’s town center.

They cannot be enrolled, but I won’t learn this until tomorrow, when I visit the Women for Women office to implore Jules, the head of sponsorship, to help.

“But Lisa, the time of the Walungu enrollment has passed.”

“You don’t understand. The Interahamwe are coming back for them.”

“Anyway, they are too young.”

“But I’ll pay.”

Jules will smile at the painfully awkward position I’m putting him in. “It is against the regulations.”

“Forget the regulations! We have to get them out of there!”

He will stare at me, unwilling to budge. After five and a half weeks of taxing Women for Women staff, there will be no more muzungu credits left in the bank. I will have no rank left to pull.

If force of will would work, I would grab Jules, shake him as though he’s the gatekeeper to saving Congo, and make him understand the urgency. If screaming, or throwing a diva fit, or banging on the doors of the powers that be would change the situation, I would do all of it shamelessly. But I know the rules here, and none of it would work.

There’s only one tactic left. I will beg.

“Please. Please do this. Jules. Please.”

He will simply hold up his hands.

I am standing at the hard edge of the “one person can make a difference” story I’ve been telling myself, with my arms draped at my sides, watching the girls disappear towards the hills. They are still innocent. They follow the long, winding path back to the