A Thousand Sisters

by Lisa Shannon

  She wears a tattered gray sweater and has calloused, cracked bare feet. “You already are beautiful. I wish I had clothes to give you,” I tell her.

  “It is difficult for a woman like me,” she says. “I am alone. I’ve already lost my husband and relatives. I live only with my grandchildren. I don’t have a hen, a goat, nothing for myself. Not even clothes.”

  She introduces us to one of the five puffy-cheeked kids who have been watching from a distance; it’s her granddaughter, who’s maybe five years old. Both the girl’s parents died four years ago, when she was still an infant. She curls in towards her grandmother, who keeps a hand on the child’s arm.

  “If you have nothing, no money to feed yourself, why did you take in this little girl?”

  “She had nowhere else to go.”

  On the way out, I slip her ten dollars.

  We trek along the last ridgeline on the far outskirts of the village. The clusters of huts and cabbage patches are unchanged from last year. But then we approach the soccer field. It’s become a small Congolese Army camp. Temporary straw shelters, something like tents, with ditches dug in front of them, dot the field that is otherwise overgrown with grass. The hilltop is windy, which adds a haunting feeling to this outpost at the edge of civilization.

  A plainclothes Congolese soldier sees us and calls out, “Commandant! Commandant!”

  A clean-shaven young man, with the fresh face of a virgin soldier, emerges from one of the huts. He’s wearing a tracksuit jacket and fashion jeans. Embarrassed to be caught out of uniform, he disappears and greets us again in full, crisp uniform, complete with creases and a green beret. He gives a formal salute for the benefit of the UN major. He straps on his gun, trying to impress the UN, desperate to prove himself. He has just been transferred from the west; this is his fourth day in Eastern Congo. His first assignment is this last ridgeline in Kaniola. Their unit is split, with five soldiers at this camp and four on a neighboring hillside. He’s heard the stories. He points to the hills, the forest. “This place is attacked; they come from over there.”

  The UN commander cuts him short. “But there has been no such incident since last May.”

  “That’s what they said,” I comment, thinking of the edited information we may have gotten, given our guns. “Have you had any attacks since you’ve been here?”

  “The day before yesterday, I saw four flashlights during the night, right there, coming down the mountain from the forest. I fired three shots,” he says, pointing to a spot on the opposite hill. “Then I saw the flashlights climb back up the mountain.”

  Three shots and they ran way? Wow. That’s how it’s supposed to work.

  He talks discreetly, confiding in the major. “Our commander left us up here with no supplies. No food. We sent someone the day before yesterday to ask for something, and again yesterday, but nothing yet. We hope our commander will send something soon.”

  Apparently he’s not yet initiated to the ethics of Eastern Congo. I ask him, “What have you been doing in the meantime?”

  “The villagers share with us.”

  So it begins.

  We continue on our walk with local guides, who say they will take us to see one of the girls in her new home, which is a few compounds away from the one we visited last year. We wait twenty minutes or so, then a familiar young woman enters the compound, which is filled with baby goats and calves. It’s Nadine! She’s bewildered to find me waiting for her. An oversize sweatshirt reading “Charge Spicy Sporty” hangs over her swollen belly. She is not maimed or mutilated or slaughtered or taken to the forest. She’s married! Pregnant! It’s the height of good fortune for an eighteen-year old girl in these parts. I embrace her, squealing, “Jambo! Look at you! You’ve had a good year!” Her young husband stands close to her. We’ve been waiting with him, indulging his English. He wraps his arm around her and with a broad smile pronounces in English, “My woman!”

  His possessiveness would be annoying were it not for the obvious pride. He has scored the woman of his dreams, the envy of the hamlet. She seems amused, like she’s tolerating her husband’s enthusiasm. He adores her.

  I pull out my white notebook and show her a photo from our interview last year; she can’t contain her smile. I ask, “Are they all okay?”

  “They are all okay.”

  I ask about the massacre.

  “This is Mashirata; the massacre happened at Chihamba,” she says, pointing out the next hill.

  On the way home, I’ll think about Chihamba, questioning whether I should feel any better that seventeen people were murdered there, not here. But after a year of worrying, I’ll decide to enjoy the moment.

  Another girl enters the compound. Rahema! She looks years older. She’s put on weight and wears her hair cropped short and sophisticated, without a headscarf. I hug her and size her up. I’m just so thrilled, I cry, “How have you been! You are okay!?!”

  She looks at me like I’m completely crazy, but I don’t care! She smiles, half amused, the way you smile at that barely tolerable long-lost auntie who squeezes your cheeks and talks about how much you’ve grown since the last time she saw you. “I am okay,” she says. “I am healthy. There is no problem.”

  “You have no idea how happy I am to see that.”

  SISTERS CROWD AROUND the gate of the Walungu Women for Women compound, waiting for us. I’m surprised, and I shoot Hortense a disapproving look. We were only supposed to meet with the women from Kaniola I talked with last year. I shake my head and say, “Secret visit. No receptions.”

  But as the car slows and I emerge, I wave, smile, and give a short stump speech.

  As I slip inside a spare meeting room, it quickly fills with more than twenty women. “What’s going on? I don’t have time to meet with a huge group.”

  The truth is that the prospect of a group meeting is painful because I feel terrible for not being able to give each woman the attention she deserves.

  Hortense is mildly defiant. “You said, ‘sisters from Kaniola,’” she says. “These are all your new sisters from Kaniola.”

  Twenty-one brand new sisters from Kaniola. I look at each of their sponsorship booklets. Each one reads: HOME VILLAGE: KANIOLA. SPONSOR: RUN FOR CONGO WOMEN.

  “I am so happy to be here to meet all of you,” I say, scanning the room as they smile slightly, intrigued. “But I am sorry because although I packed gifts of scarves and earrings and postcards, the airline lost my bags. I feel bad showing up empty-handed.”

  From the back of the room, one of the women says quietly, “We need you first. Things come second.”

  Indeed. I need you first too.

  Things come second.

  I’ve been thinking about what André said. He may have been on to something. Whether it is cell phones or sailboats or salt, isn’t this—the war, the atrocities, the world’s response, and even my own journey—all really about what we deem precious? However silly or grandiose or blind, my efforts for Congo have ultimately boiled down to the simple act of pushing the reset button on my life and putting human beings before stuff. As I look around the room, it’s humbling to realize that people first was never even a question for these Congolese women.

  I ask the group, “How many of you have taken in orphans?”

  Seventeen out of twenty-one raise their hands. Eighty percent. Even in this group of women who live in Kaniola.

  Those Who Kill Together may come knocking. They may chase these women from their homes, burn their families alive, take them to the forest, rape them, rob them of everything, leave them with no means to support themselves. But then these women see a child who has no one and they take that child in.

  As I describe Run for Congo Women, they squint and lean in to hear clearly; a few lift their eyebrows. Several mumble quietly to themselves, “Please, may you continue this work.”

  We go around the room. “We were living in Kaniola. We left after my husband and my child were killed, burnt in the house. . . .”

  I do
n’t need to collect more horror stories. I already have enough to fill volumes, and most I will never share. As each woman talks, I look into her eyes. How do I spin each sweet face that hangs in desperation? How do I turn her into a talking point? I can’t. And I don’t want to anymore. I picture their long walk home to Kaniola. I picture myself on a plane. I don’t want them to go home tonight. I don’t want to let them go.

  A woman speaks. Her tall, slender frame and pronounced cheekbones give her a majestic beauty. She wears a dress printed with religious scenes from the Last Supper. While she speaks, she instinctively places her hand on her heart. I hear the word Interahamwe.

  As Hortense translates, the lady dwells on her memory. She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her tattered jacket. “At 8:00 PM, we saw the flashlights. We went to hide in the bushes as usual. Women went to the stream, men to the cassava fields. We only heard the men screaming, but we couldn’t do otherwise. They killed two of them. I held my baby in the stream; he was about to cry, so I took grasses. . . .”

  She turns her neck, pressing hard against the cement wall, crying. I get up, abandoning Hortense’s translation, which trails off behind me as I walk across the room.

  “I heard the cry of the men. It wasn’t easy for us. . . .”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. She looks at me. Sisters mumble behind me. I can’t hear the translation. I’m not listening anymore. The specifics don’t matter.

  I look in her despondent, deep-set eyes and say, “I’m so sorry.” She doesn’t know what I’m saying. She doesn’t need to know.

  I don’t know how to stop the atrocities. I don’t know how to make people care.

  But looking in my sister’s eyes, we seem to have carved out something between us that none of the madness can touch.

  Invisible threads.

  I take her hand and lead her across the room, making a place for her next to me, resting my hand on her back for the remainder of the meeting.

  I discreetly dig in my purse and count to make sure I have enough. I do. I distribute one crisp five-dollar bill to each of them. I’m so embarrassed. Five dollars is nothing. Peanuts.

  Yet, you would think I’ve just handed each one a US$10,000 check. They leap to their feet, erupting in a Congo-style fete d’amore, like the hundreds of women I’ve met before have done.

  I take a photo of each woman, as though this will help me lock her away somewhere safe.

  I choke back tears. I don’t know what they’re singing, but it reminds me of the only Swahili song I know, the one sung to me in endless repetitions at the meeting with the Panzi group and again on the peninsula, when Hortense leaned over to me and said, “Do you hear that? They are singing your name. The song goes: Hey, Lisa, stay with us! You are a child of Congo now.”

  I put down the camera as my sisters grab me by both hands. They pull me into the celebration. With tears in the corners of my eyes, I dance with them. Women doubled over in pain just a few moments ago are now beaming. Each one embraces me, pressing her forehead to mine.

  I whisper to one of them, “Furaha.”

  She whispers back, “Furaha sana.”

  Joy. So much joy.

  EPILOGUE

  BY THE END of 2008, we still haven’t raised a million dollars. But we have sponsored more than a thousand Congolese sisters. These women are collectively raising more than five thousand children.

  And, little thanks to me:

  Journalists flocked to Congo to document the unrest, giving the conflict unprecedented media coverage.

  Lisa F. Jackson’s film The Greatest Silence won the Special Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival. The film aired on HBO and was screened around the world.

  Eve Ensler announced that the 2009 V-Day campaign will benefit women in Congo.

  Celebrities like Ben Affleck, Ashley Judd, Mia Farrow, Emile Hirsch, and Robin Wright spoke out about or traveled to Congo.

  Senator Barack Obama, an original sponsor of the 2006 Congo bill, was elected President of the United States.

  Even Kelly shook the white-girl angst and started work on her own Congo initiative.

  More than 1,700 people participated in Run for Congo Women.

  I spent the year in a one-woman, full-time Write for Congo Women.

  The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum hosted the first national grassroots conference for Congo.

  The Enough Project launched the Raise Hope for Congo Campaign.

  And that, my friends, is a movement.

  MEMORIAL

  YOU ARE MISSED

  Claude André’s Three Classmates

  Lucien The Villager with Money

  Nsemeru, “I Love You” Ten Villagers Who Had No Salt

  Mama Annie The Lady on the Path

  Mama Annie’s Husband The Man at the Bus Stop

  The Kaniola Bride Most of Furaha’s Family

  The Kaniola Groom Maribola, beloved child of Fitina

  The Kaniola Wedding Party Makambe, beloved child of Fitina

  The Beerseller Munisha Liza, beloved child of Fitina

  The Beerseller’s Wife Ruben, beloved child of Fitina

  Alain, aspiring conservationist Nape, beloved child of Fitina

  The Six Park Guards Five Unnamed Children of Fitina

  The Pygmy Husband Therese’s Uncle

  The Cowherd of Kaniola Therese and Pascal’s Eight Neighbors

  The Pastor of Kaniola “One of Us in the Canoe”

  Shuza, “Answer” The Man at the Front Gate

  Venciana’s Baby of One Day Two Young Men on Lookout

  The Thirteen-Year-Old Girl Faida’s Baby Grandchild

  The Twins and Their Baby Sibling Jannette’s Husband

  Three Children Who Ran Away Sophia’s Husband

  Some Babies of Baraka Wandolyn’s Brother

  Fifteen-Year-Old Grandson in Kaniola Anna’s Husband

  Yvonne’s Daughter, mother of five Victorine’s Husband

  Yvonne’s Infant Granddaughter Sabina’s Mother

  Venciana’s Grandfather Sabina’s Aunt

  Venciana’s Cousin, father of five Kenisla’s Husband

  Venciana’s Other Cousin, father of seven Christine’s Two Girls

  Rahema’s Mother

  Wandolyn’s Little Girl Marianna’s Father

  Suzanna’s Father Cecile’s Husband

  Suzanna’s Younger Sister Baraka’s Sister’s Husband

  Suzanna’s Aunt Josephine’s Five-Month-Old Baby Girl

  Suzanna’s Three Nieces

  Nabito’s Husband A Baby of Two Months

  Nabito’s Brother Walengamine’s Son

  Nabito’s Nephew Faila’s Daughter

  Nabito’s Uncle Zaina’s Little Boy

  Nabito’s Neighbors Mesha’s Little Boy

  The Couple Who Lived Next to Noella Mesha’s Little Girl

  Noella’s Other Neighbors Asende’s Three Boys

  Hortense’s Younger Sister Asende’s Little Girl

  Hortense’s Husband Veronique’s Little Boy

  Alisa’s Husband Veronique’s Three Little Girls

  Alisa’s Older Brother Byamonea’s Four Daughters

  Lisa’s Sister Byamonea’s Son

  Lisa’s Brother-in-Law Maria’s Two Sons

  Esperance’s Husband Fatuma’s Little Boy

  Esperance’s Firstborn Child Mwashite’s Little Girl

  Mwashite’s Little Boy Jeannine’s Little Girl

  Tchala’s Son Josephine’s Three Sons

  Mawazo’s Daughter Annonciate’s Three Little Boys

  Mawazo’s Son Annonciate’s Little Girl

  Kiza’s Three Little Boys Nyota’s Two Daughters

  Anna’s Two Sons Nyota’s Son

  Elisa’s Little Girl Franciose’s Girl Child

  Elisa’s Little Boy Beatrice’s Two Young Children

  Josephine’s Daughter Antonia’s Husband

  Joyce’s Daughter Furaha’s Husband

  Joyce’s Son Appoline’s Husband

&
nbsp; Mariam’s Two Daughters Mapendo’s Husband

  Mwajuma’s Daughter Immacule’s Little Girl

  Mwajuma’s Son A Girl Child

  Nyota’s Little Boy A Woman of Kaniola

  Pauline’s Two Little Girls Some Children of Appoline

  Rebecca Furaha’s Little Girl A Villager of Uvira

  Esperance’s Son Mpondo M’Lusisi

  Esperance’s Daughter Florida M’Murhebwa

  Charlotte’s Two Boys M’Birego, wife of Christophe

  Charlotte’s Two Girls Mr. Mutijima Mudekereza

  Deodatte’s Little Girl M’Mastaki Mapendo,

  Deodatte’s Little Boy citizen of Nalubuze

  Benita’s Daughter Chance Chirhuza, citizen of Nalubuze

  Theresia’s Two Daughters

  Anastasia’s Son Olivier Mandiko Muhusi, citizen of Nalubuze

  Anastasia’s Daughter

  Esperance’s Son Espoir Chirungu, citizen of Nalubuze

  Esperance’s Daughter

  Charlotte’s Little Girl M’Rugamba Chirungu, citizen of Nalubuze

  Ernestine’s Daughter

  M’Saveri, citizen of Nalubuze Jospeh Kirhero Ntabala, citizen of Nalubuze

  Mukengere Chirungu,

  citizen of Nalubuze Nzungu Chigokere, citizen of Chihamba

  Merci Muranga, citizen of Nalubuze

  Bihama Kaborongo, Mbiribindi Mudekereza, citizen of Chihamba

  citizen of Nalubuze

  Maria M’Kahumba, Nine of Eric’s Neighbors Citizens of the President’s Village

  citizen of Nalubuze

  Ngomora Buhendwa, Asende’s 500 Neighbors in the Forest

  citizen of Nalubuze

  Olivier Bukengo Laurent, 702 Citizens of Makobola

  citizen of Nalubuze 5.4 Million Unknown Children of Congo

  Sylvie M’Chihebeyi, citizen of Nalubuze

  Mapendo M’Gerenge, citizen of Nalubuze

  KEY TERMS

  Banyamulenge: A Tutsi-Congolese ethnic group (not a militia).

  CNDP: National Congress for the Defense of People (in French, Congrès National pour la Défense du Peuple), a Tutsi-Congolese militia lead by General Laurent Nkunda.