A Thousand Sisters (29 page)

On a nearby path, two girls, both maybe six years old, with shaved heads and ragged little oversize frocks, see the camera and drop to the ground. One of them makes a run for it, her little body tearing down the hill for safety. Where did she learn this routine? She slows down, hides behind bananas, looks back to check on her friend. She sees the camera pointed at her. Terrified, she disappears. Her friend runs after her at top barefoot speed.

On the other side of the hill, a woman minds her fields. Hers may be the first angry face I've seen here; she is seriously annoyed that the camera is pointed at her. She puts down her hoe, stands up, and glares, as if to say, “What the hell are you looking at?”

“Is that it there? Is that where we are going?” I ask, pointing to a cluster of round mud huts with cone tops, and cabbage patches perched on top of a small hill butted right up to forest. The Forest, that is. I'm trying to sound casual as I ask Maurice again, “So, this is the spot?”

Major Vikram and Major Kaycee are equally disoriented, squabbling with each other and the translator. “No, no, no. . . .”

“Are we going this way or that way?”

“It must be up there, beyond those bushes. . . .”

We've been hiking for an hour and something has turned. Suddenly, we all know we've gone too far and are tempting fate. We're all thinking it must be just beyond the next corner. Even the idle talk with Major Vikram fades. My attempts at small talk fall flat. Major Vikram has other things on his mind, and making fun of myself for being out of shape, or my banal talk of the benefits of exercise, seems far less funny than it did an hour ago. Conversation circles around variations of “Oh my God, it's so close.”

“It's no wonder they've had problems if they live that close.”

“It's so near to the jungle.”

“Yeah. Really near.”

“You see, Lisa, if they are coming from this place. . . .”

“Anyone can come. . . .”

“It's so close.”

I hear children playing. In the distance, in an open field at the top of the hill, a group of boys are playing soccer next to a wooden shack that looks like it's about to fall over. They see us and stop, stand at attention, and stare. A young man, maybe twenty, in an African-print, oxford-style shirt and baseball cap approaches and talks with the major. He is the girls' brother.

Major Vikram points to the compound, now in view. “Do you see that prominent
V
of the hills and sky? They live just there. This is the house.”

The translator points back towards the main road and village. “He says all of the girls are back there at church.”

“What do we do?” Major Kaycee asks me, then adds, “I think we go to see the sisters in the church. That's plenty.”

It's not plenty for me.

If there is a point where numbness becomes dangerous, when lack of emotion trickles into lack of logic—a point when you leave your hand on a burning stove—then we have officially entered that terrain. I have been relying on the majors to pull the parachute string and tell me when we had crossed into the
too dangerous
zone. But the last thing any UN major wants is to be proven cowardly in front of a young woman. Who has a camera. They did not account for my tear-my-life-to-shreds impulsiveness. Nor did I. We have no business being here. But since we've come all this way. . . .

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 is maybe three stories high and marks the center of Kaniola. We wait a long time for the brother to haul his sisters out of the service. Finally, as church is letting out, the brother runs back out to the car. The girls are embarrassed and don't want to attract attention to themselves. It hadn't occurred to me they would not want to be seen, in front of the whole village, being picked up after church by vehicles boldly marked UN. This would, effectively, mark them as “Raped Women.”

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 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 them. I take it she knows the next question. I ask her to stay. She sits back down and faces away from me.

“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.