Shifting my Paradigm

I have been trying to understand the DR Congo through a less “American” framework. The roles of men and women in society and their rights are just drastically different. It is hard not to want to filter them through my western paradigm, but I am trying. The thing it is difficult to ignore here (especially living with priests) is the role that organized religion plays in perpetuating the situation here and at the same time keeps women subordinate. While religious organizations have built schools, hospitals, and unnecessarily elaborate churches, I find little evidence they are involved in helping society address core issues that will allow them to grow into the peaceful and thriving society the DR Congo could be.

Every time I drive past the construction site of 1 of the 5 new cathedrals going up in the area, it is difficult not to think of other (more useful) things that the money could buy. At times I wonder if the church has become such a fixture in the Congolese good old boys network that they have entirely lost their way. Not to mention the general sense of religious fatalism mixed with the disillusion of years of war that has now seeped into the national psyche.

It seems the church has become more of a cultural norm than a religion. You just are Catholic (some Protestant and Anglican). It is definitely not your fathers Catholicism. It is a chaotic collusion of violently clashing cultures and diabolically opposed belief systems that have led to a tangled web of social norms in the DR Congo today. Traditional tribal practices of multiple wives, a culture of war, and a “democracy” run by a military regime sandwiched between hellfire and brimstone Christianity. It is like a peanut butter, sardine, and mud sandwich on rye, an inexplicable combination.

Mentioning to a few local men we know that we had hung out with the prostitutes (Post - When I grow up I want to be _______________.), they began to explain their relationship with their wife's to us. These are two upper middle class well educated Congolese guys. They are Catholic (the norm here), they practice family planning, and they both have daughters they are going to send to university. Their lives and views are quite progressive, yet when we talk about women and men I feel we are back in biblical times.

My friend’s explanation started off something like this, “Let me tell you something. In Africa, in my country, the man is King”. I said, “Yeah I have noticed, the women do all the work here”. Everyday I pass men riding their bicycles loaded with goods and the women with even heavier loads bent at a 90-degree angle walking just as far carrying their goods like a mule. Several times I have wondered aloud why I have never seen a women with a bike. When Alana and I replied in unison, “Do you think that is fair?”, they said, “No of course not, but that is how it is”. They explained, people get engaged and during that time you are not supposed to, but people do have sex. That way if the man thinks it is bad (or that is bride to be is not a virgin) they can leave her (hopefully not pregnant). In an ideal relationship the man always gets his way and the women submits because he is the man.

Our friends estimated that 80% of the men “go outside” (sleep around) on their wife, but of course without protection, as the Pope does not allow it. We asked, what about the women? Do they go “outside”? Our friend raised his voice, “If you are my wife and you go ‘outside’ I kill you”.

Immediately, despair washed over my entire soul and body. If these are the modern educated guys of the Congo, tomorrow’s brighter future, the women of the Congo are seriously screwed.

“So you both go ‘outside’ on your wife?, I replied”. “Yes, when we want”. I could not resist, “Well let me tell you, if you are acting this way I am sure your wife is going ‘outside’ on you!”. Looks of surprise followed by some reassuring glances to each other. In unison they replied, “No, not my wife”.

A few days later when I was teaching a workshop for COPERMA a local male nurse joined us. During a break when no one else was round he asked about my family and I about his. He has a wife and three daughters. He began to ask me why I did not have a baby. After several minutes of very personal questions, he said I should let him give me a Congolese baby. Caught off guard, I was taken aback. I dryly replied, “Besides the fact I don’t want a baby with you, you are married! And aren’t you Catholic?” He replied, “Well yes, but the body has needs and God will forgive me”.

I walked out the room to find Amy. I told her what had just happened. We walked back into the room and she began berating him in French. I only understood a bit of what she said to him, “Aren’t you Catholic and don’t you have a wife? H-A-P-A-N-A (NO)!”. As he insisted, it was OK and not a problem, she came up with the only line she could think of that could usurp his predetermined superiority to us and all the women in Congo,

“You are going to burn in hell if you treat your wife that way”.

I nodded my head in disgust. I could not have put it better myself. Knowing we had no say in what ultimately happened to his soul, it did feel like a momentary victory for all women in Congo to put a brother in his place.

When I grow up I want to be _______________.

A) Jobless

B) A mineral runner

C) A soldier

D) A prostitute

E) A cultivator

As we zoom down the broad dirt road of the frontier style town of Butembo shrouded in a cloud of red dust, I always try to make a mental note of all the businesses.

There are a lot of small businesses here as there is no development. Wooden kiosks a bit taller than a child’s playhouse, that sells everything from use of an outlet to charge your cell phone to a “Saloon” to get hair extensions. There are few jobs for non-entrepreneurs.

The main road is about three miles long and every inch on either side is full of vendors. They sell everything from my old Nike “Airs” that I donated to Goodwill after 8 months of running to the blue tattered bleach stained bathmat you donated to Value Village the last time you moved. There are entire blocks dedicated to old curtains, ski jackets, t-shirts, children’s clothes, belts/socks, and old pants. All of the vendors selling like products sit side by side for city blocks at a time; I guess it makes the comparison shopping easier. The things that America and Europe have discarded after a few years come here for a second, fourth, and ninth life. They will be used until they are threadbare rags. An old pair of men’s red plaid boxers will be worn as a little boys shorts and he will wear them every day even when crotch or buttocks no longer exist. I am not sure when clothes get washed as few people seem to have much more than one set of clothing. As I pass a man who is 5’4” in a suit jacket that looks like it was designed for an NBA basketball player, I could not help but think he looked like a child whose parents bought his clothes big enough to grow into. Only this man well into his 40’s and he is not going to grow any taller.

I always wonder how are the business owners doing and are they making enough money to survive? The majority answer seems to be “No”. But still the vendors show up every day and sit side-by-side selling the same goods in hopes of making some money to help them survive.

So what are the job options here?

My best guess by power of observation is that the highest paying job would be to be a mineral runner (diamonds, coltan, and gold among others). The only problem is the payoffs are big because the danger and death rate among the mineral cartel is high. Also, it is not the most ethical business model. The minerals are largely responsible for funding the war. But since a million dollars of minerals a day leave the DR Congo on the black market, someone is getting rich. I am just not sure whom.

The next option would be to join the military or police. When they get paid the make good money, but there is risk associated. With the political instability the “in” party of today can be gone tomorrow and their alliances are shaky at best. There is a great reason you are not allowed to take a photograph of their face, they are all guilty of something and most of them have reformed alliances and melded with former opponents several times.

It seems three really great legitimate businesses are being a major cell phone company, owning a gas station, or owning a hair “saloon” as everyone in the country has a cell phone, all cars and generators need gas (there is little electricity in this part of the Congo), and most women have extensions.

The next most profitable career seems to be a technical skill like being a mechanic, seamstress, a moto driver, or a cook. The pay varies widely, but at least it is a job that usually offers subsistence living…depending on how many mouths you have to feed.

Then you could be a cultivator and sell vegetables/fish at the market. This is hard work and at best subsistence living. If you run a business like this on a one family scale you can bring in approximately $20 - $100 a month depending on what you sell.

Considering that school fees are $60-$90 a month plus a uniform and notebooks, no wonder the average family cannot afford to send one child, let alone 8-10 kids, to school.

So if you are a single woman whose husband died or abandoned you, a young woman who is a single mother by consent or force, and you have no resources, but mouths to feed you can sell banana beer from your home. And if you are a “woman who lives alone” - you sell sex.

Sex. It is like the most versatile and powerful tool in the world. Depending on how it is used, it can be a symbol of love, an income generator, and an tool that takes power from another. In its extremes it can be used to create a future or destroy the fabric of an entire society.

Now first I guess I have to address my own personal bias against prostitution, by that I mean the beliefs I hold about the career and people who work in the profession. And wrongly, my view used to be that the women involved in it are dirty and they had a career choice. That perspective was blown out of the water in Phnom Phen in 2000 on a balmy Cambodian night. As I zoomed down a three-mile stretch of road in the back of a pick-up truck, the entire stretch was lined on either side with wooden shacks. Teens and young women of all sizes and shapes stood on the porches bathed in colored lights. As we slowed to our destination we met an entire family sitting outside in lawn chairs, as their daughter/granddaughter/sister stood five feet away dressed in black tight western clothes and heels “for sale” below a red light bulb.

It happens in every country in the world and it has been a viable career for women for centuries. If it is a woman’s choice to sell sex, she is not kidnapped or forced into it, well I guess she is just being a good business woman working with the most valuable asset she has. Her body. It is just that most of the time if a woman does not have an education, a husband, or there is no job economy it is not so much “a choice” as it is “the only choice” if she wants to eat.

COPERMA has discovered through the grapevine that many of the girl mothers (young women who have children as the result of rape – a few of them by consent, but the man left) with a child to feed they are now accepting money for sex. The girls have little to no education, they have a child, no technical skills, if they go work in the field they face the risk of rape, so I guess they figure they may as well get paid for it. Upset for the girls and wanting to know more about the state of women in Congo in general, we set up a meeting with some local prostitutes.

Amy ran into a guy at our “expatriate” mini-mart who runs a NGO for prostitutes in Butembo. Later, after we had spent the day with him, he revealed his motivation for being the only man who runs a currently unfunded NGO for 6,000 women. When he grew up his mother was a “woman who lived alone” and his mother, brother, brother’s wife, and uncle all died from AIDS a few years ago.

He let us know that in this city of approximately 800,000 there are 6,000 sex workers they officially know of. There are probably thousands of others they have just never met. As we met to interview several of his members in a sort of round table format, we were not sure which questions were taboo, so we just asked. How many clients a week do you have? Where do you work? Are you worried about STD’s? Have you been tested for HIV? Do you have access to condoms and do you use them? How much money do you make per client? How much do you make a month? Are you happy? Do you want to continue doing this business? What would you tell your children if they want go into this business?

Kindly and patiently, they answered all of our questions no matter how stupid or rude they may have been. The women spoke articulately about their situations. “No of course I do not want to be a sex worker, but what other choice to I have? My children need to eat”. Most women had 2-3 clients a week, but some who were quite resourceful businesswomen had up to 5 clients a week. The prices are set individually by the women (there are no pimps or Madams here) and they charge anywhere from $1 - $5 per client. Sometimes they agree on more and they guy does not pay or he pays them less.

The women also commented on the fact that many of them had been raped in the course of every day activities and during work. In fact, the problem is so prevalent that when they have them, they wear female condoms when they travel or walk alone at night. So if they are raped at least they will not get pregnant or infected with STD’s.

After what could have been a heavy interview, we asked the women if they had any questions. “Yes, will you promenade with us?”. After we clarified what “promenading” is we agreed to parade around walk the neighborhood and be seen with them so everyone could know they were hanging out with Mzungus. After, I agreed (or was it that I was suckered?) to buy the women lunch and a drink. I explained when we ordered that I only could only spend $20 for lunch, but the bill was $38 for fried goat meet, fried tilapia, and copious amounts of French fries. A ridiculously expensive for the Congo, that is more than most people monthly wage. Thinking I had a $50 budget to buy the condoms, the lunch left me with $12 to buy 10 prostitutes condoms. It was however a great informal chance to visit and get to know the women personally. Actually, it was a little in reverse asking extremely personal questions and then getting to know then after, but they took it all in great stride.

All in all it was one of the most my most fascinating days in the DRC. It really drove home the point for me that women bear the brunt of war in so many ways. The “women who live alone” are some of the most proactive and articulate women we have met here.

Savvy businesswomen we did leave them with two suggestions use condoms anytime you can and raise your prices.

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part II

In the mud hut all day.

We listen to testimony of survivors. Amy interviews, one of the staff members translates, and when I get permission from the interviewee I film and shoot stills. Most of the interviews are palpable. Since the survivors rarely show emotion you do not want to be the one to grimace or cry. No matter the story or my emotion, I have to contain it. The older women’s stories are sad, but somehow less desperate. Most of them are already married and have children. They are traumatized and need help, but they have a level of emotional maturity from the hard life here that helps them seems to help them move on. The testimony that gets me is the young girls. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

Not only are they traumatized; many of the hopes for the future have been devastated. They are now stigmatized. ‘Used goods’. They are not eligible for marriage. As an angry 13-year-old put it, “What man would want me?”. In this society marriage does not only mean a life partner (hopefully), it means economic stability, social standing, the ability to buy/sell land, and some level of protection. Women cannot do many things socially and legally without their husband’s permission. Without a husband to serve as the intermediary with society, women have no place, no rights, and no future.

I try not to feel their despair and hold the space for a brighter future, but then my anger seeps in. One careless soldier trying to regain an ounce of his misplaced masculinity in this fractured society just effected the entire course of this young girls future. I want to hug the girls. Tell them it is not their fault and that we will try to catch the man who did this to them. We know the soldiers name and his commander, but I know he will never be caught. The commander will just deny it, even if he was there. He is the supreme authority in the area. Even if the soldier is caught, he won’t get in trouble. And the girls will have to deal with this mostly on their own for the rest of their life. And then I wonder what am I really doing here? It is not like I can give her anything tangible beyond food or take them to the free clinic. What is the point of acting as a voyeur into someone else’s pain?

Always more girls/women waiting to meet us than we have time for, Mama Marie usually walks into an interview and tells us it is time it is time to go because it is getting late or because soldiers are near. Racing against the dark of night. It is usually raining on the way back to Butembo. Sometimes we listen to hip hop music as we bump along the road. Wyclef. Acon. Backstreet Boys. N’sync. We have heard the same tape about 100 times. When we have the energy, I ask questions about observations I have made that always seem to stir a great debate. Kinande , French, and an occasional English translation spewing across the car on the way to Butembo. Everyone has a different opinion as to why all this is happening. Since we cannot stop the war on our own, arm all the women, or get rid of all the soldiers, the only solution that we can immediately come up with is we need more money. How can money help? To send the kids to school to school, give girl mothers vocational training so they do not have to become prostitutes, so the families can buy seeds to cultivate, so they can eat, and replace what the soldiers have looted. Everything seems equally important. On Maslow’s hierarchy of needs we work daily just to try to meet the bottom rungs. Most of the time we aren’t even able to address those. The thought of being able to work with the survivors’ emotions and personal enlightenment seems an ever evasive glass ceiling.

Once in Butembo we hop on motorbikes and race against the darkness. If we have time we stop at the only “Expatriate” mini-mart in town. Look for something edible and recognizable is my general plan. An apple, a can of tuna, some peanut butter, or a Guinness. As we drive past fruit stands we hunt for a tomato, avocado, or an egg. We pass the soldier barriers before nightfall. Making it home in the nick of time or a little too late…

At the Crossiers we search for cold leftovers white rice, maybe cabbage, and if I am lucky beans, if not some mystery meat. If there is electricity I rush to check my email and connect with another reality before it turns off.

The evenings are precious because it is our only time to try to relax and decompress. If we have the energy, we spend time discussing the traumas of the day.

One fifteen year old just told us today that there are other girls who were captured by soldiers and taken to the bush. She was there for a week and escaped. Right now as you read this the girls are still trapped at the soldiers camp in the bush. Even though we know where they are we can’t get a hold of the UN to report the situation. Even if we can get a hold of the UN, there is no guarantee they will or can go there. Usually full of ideas, I am at a bit of a loss as to a plan that would actually rescue the girls and not put us into serious danger.

We usually end up drinking a beer and singing/playing some music. Voice therapy releases our emotion and lightens our spirits. You have to be able to joke and relax. Being serious about everything would kill you here. It is yet another contradiction of the Congo, laugh in the face of fear.

I fall into bed at night. Waking up intermittently in the night to download and transfer files so my gear will be ready the next morning.

As the day breaks my alarm clock is a mother goat bleating for here babies. Her call sounds like a human woman in the midst of an excruciating birth. Finally the babies answer back. She stops. I check my watch. It is anywhere from 6-7am. I open my cabin window over looking the taro patch. I gaze out on the forest of green trees enveloped in mist as the warm morning light filters past. I take a deep breath inhaling the beauty of the Congo.

It’s time to do it all again. I hope today we can really help.

The Light and Dark of Congo - Part I

The Light and Dark of Congo

For the last few weeks I have been struggling to keep up with all that goes into working and living here. And at the same time, I wrestle on a daily basis with how I can sum the vast light and dark of the DR Congo. Unsure how to capture with words or images all that exists here, I have sat in silence taking it in, hoping it would come to me. In life I guess we would not know good if we did not know bad. It is just that here it exists in the extremes. At times I feel I can make a world of difference here and at others I feel I am contributing nothing.

My morning begins with a forty-five min motor cross ride to town. Then a two-hour drive to whatever village we are visiting that day. Sometimes the ride is fine. Other times, as my rear hits the seat with a “thud” my spine compresses and I crack my head on the top of the 4 Runner I want to yell. There are miles of breathtaking mountains and valleys as far as the eye can see. When you turn the bend in the road the forest that has been slashed and burned for farmland. Around the next bend, a young green eucalyptus forest sprouting from the once clear cut land. In the background, vast lush hillsides that look as if no one has ever set foot on them. On the roadside we meet a kind loving man holding his newborn son. This man is the exception; he stayed with his family even after his wife was raped. He also, stayed through the war even though he has been unable to support them “like a man should”. Driving up the road we hear tales of other men who have abandoned their wives and 12 children. They have taken another wife in hopes of starting a better life. We make appointments to assist their abandoned families who now with no property or rights in society, they fight for themselves. Further down the road we meet a girl mother impregnated by rape who would have taken the morning after pill had she known about it, but greatly love their child. Her beautiful daughter who will never know her rapist father is like a beam of sunshine. With a smile on her glowingly innocent face she proudly tells us she dreams of becoming nurses so they can help others.

The Bush

We have visited several villages in the bush. Never knowing who we will meet along the way or what the situation really is until we get there (or sometimes how we will get there), it is always an adventure.

We have gone to one village 3 or 4 times now. It is called Isalie. It is an enchanted place built on the steep hillsides. Most of the homes are $5 mud brick shacks with million dollar views. With a pristine landscape, red mud that has been patted completely flat, and children’s laughter echo's off the terraced hillsides. Many times I have to pinch myself to make sure the idyllic setting it is real. Well until we see the soldiers’ camp that is. You see the FRDC (Congolese government troops) have moved onto the tallest hillside overlooking the village and “Garbin” (the valley) below. From a vista as close as I dare to go, I can see one main brick compound in the middle of the green rolling hill with makeshift A-frame tents big enough for two people dotted across the hillside. The troops are here to keep other rebel factions out of the area, but in the meantime they are raping women, looting the market, beating the husbands when they take everything the family has, and recruiting young boys to fight. The soldiers foot path off the mountain runs right behind some of the COPERMA member’s huts.

Shocked by the proximity these members have daily with the soldiers; I could not help, but remember a line from a bible verse I learned at Lutheran school. “Ye though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death….”. It goes on to say, “Thy staff and thy rod comfort thee”. The only problem is that these girls literally live in the shadow of rape and death, but when I meet the 13 year old survivor I see that even God is not able to protect them. They have to go each day to the “source” to get water, to the forest to collect firewood, and walk to their land miles away to cultivate crops always running into soldiers along the way.

We finally made it to the new village only when one of the COPERMA staff takes a personal loan from a friend. More shocking than any village we have visited. The soldiers have been though five times and taken everything. The crops, the firewood, the women, the clothes, and the dignity. As we wait in the most private room we can find, the interviewees come in one after another. It seems each time another walks in the door they are younger and younger. Some able to smile and look at us. Some completely shattered. So angry, embarrassed, or vacant from the experience they physically turn away from us and look at the wall during the interview.

One girl knows the name of the soldier. He kidnapped her back to his camp and made her his “wife”, in his mind this forced marriage is a lesser evil than rape. Two soldiers took turns on her for a week. Another girl in the group was not taken as a wife and raped by 10 soldiers for the week. After about eight days the girls were sent to the market to buy food, but they ran away instead. The soldier that took her, his name is “Justin” (she heard other people talking to him). Some of the other girls and women who were captured that day were still there when she fled and she has not seen them since. We are worried they are still there. Even with the name of the commander, the soldier, and the location we can’t go get the women/girls who are there. Our only hope is to call Amy’s friend at the UN, but we cannot get a hold of him. Even if we could the UN here is so overwhelmed I am not sure they have the willpower to deal with this. I think of the last time we visit the UN headquarters in Lubero and how all the troops were in gym clothes playing volleyball. Everyone needs R&R and the entire Congo is too big for any one organization to police, but I really hope when they hear about something like this they can move through the bureaucracy and act.

Before we leave the village we dine on white rice and some very tasty salty cabbage doused in palm oil. Luckily, it is not a repeat of last time white rice and goat intestines. It is hard to complain when you see that these people have nothing and you cannot refuse a meal, but they really do not have the means to be feeding all of us.

Always racing against the setting sun, while I want to be here these extreme events have become so normal (interviews with survivors, dirt bike rides, meeting demobilized child soldiers, starving children, and families who have nothing) it has almost become monotonous. Or maybe is my soul trying to numb my conscious mind so I will not become completely overwhelmed. Just about the time I feel ready to check out of the Congo, an adorable child’s eyes will light up at the sight of me. His lips move and I hear a barely audible “Muzungu”. He stands reverently on the side of the road. His face look as if has just seen the last golden unicorn on Earth and he is in awe of what he has witnessed. The local women will blush and laugh as I return local greetings. As we pass the market where we buy our fruit, the entire market, all 200-300 vendors, raise their hands and shout greetings as we zoom past on the dirt bike.

With all the hardship and human evil that exists, it is the heart of the Congo’s people that keep drawing me extend my stay here.

Back at the Crossiers Amy, Alanna, and I hang out on the porch. Amy has a cigarette in one hand and a beer in another. Alana is strumming her ukulele and drinking tea. I am downloading files on my computer and having a glass of wine. It is the night before the full moon, the air is damp and misty and we all have on jackets. We talk about how intense the last few days of interviews have been. Amy says she has never head of this before…women who have escaped and knowing the location of the others. She tried to call her friend at the UN again, but to no avail.

Tonight we go to bed knowing there are still some women somewhere out there in the bush that have been captured and serving as concubines for soldiers and there is nothing we can do.

It is truly an awful feeling.

I decide I need to retire early to my room just to relax and veg out. As I say my goodnights, Amy says, “I don’t want to worry you, but you should hide your electronics. A parish about 40km away was pillaged last night”. But don’t worry no one was hurt or raped, just robbed”.

Walking down the hall to my room I grabbed a large can of insecticide, I am sure it can act like mace in a pinch. I lock the door and secure it with a chair. I hide my hard drives and money. I go to be fully clothed in case I have to leave quickly. Thinking of the women I cannot save and the possibility of soldiers visiting my home I listen to every bump in the night. Tossing and turning my sleep is deep and dark.

I wake up at 6am to see the light of day, thankful to have made it through unscathed. As I open my window the morning light reveals the assortment of weapons surrounding my bed, a heavy glass bottle of alter wine (the brothers bottle) that I figured may daze someone if hit on the head, by my pillow my defunct Nicaraguan switchblade that can barely cut an orange, the can of insecticide, the cockeyed chair barricading the door, my headlamp, and gold cell phone by my head. The assortment or blockages and random weapons across my room looks like the aftermath of a day of play in a child’s fort.

Would any of these things really help me if soldiers visit our compound? I am not really sure, but very glad I did not have to find out.

COPERMA

COPERMA

I am not sure I have properly introduced the staff from COPERMA. They are truly an amazing group of dedicated humanitarians, all Congolese. They show up with smiles to work each day. They arrive from their mud brick and stick huts dressed in their immaculately pressed business clothes. Many times the morning is spent in search of gas money in order to fill up the gas tank. Often, they take personal loans from their friends and family to go into the bush to meet new clients, check on projects, and deliver goods such as medicine and plant seeds. Often on the way they have to get out and push the 4 Runner up a particularly steep section of the road, since the bald tires no longer have any tread. If we are in the 4 Runner, we break down at least once on a trip. If we are in the truck, we break down at least 4 times. The driver/mechanic, Fisto, is key to our operation. He always seems to know exactly how to fix the problem and we are usually on our way in 10 minutes. If we get to the field and see that someone has stolen a part of the crops COPERMA uses for members, they grab hoes and in their business clothes (with their laptop case strapped around their neck) everyone works as fast as they can the to harvest the entire field. They work the whole day without a break for lunch or a snack. With no choice, we stay until all of the potatoes are out of the ground. This means we will drive home in the dark. Otherwise, thieves will steal the rest of the crop and all the initial investment, sweat equity, and potential income for members will be lost. Wanting to be safe, I can’t really ask them to leave the potatoes in the field to keep the mzungu safe, so I go along with the plan.

When in Congo [Rome].

So, the team members drive back through the bush on the road where last month the country’s president, Joseph Kabila, was stopped at a roadblock and robbed by his own soldiers. They drop us off at the Crossiers on the way back to Butembo. We ask what time everyone will be in the office in the morning. We assume it will be later since everyone will not get home until 9pm. “Nine in the morning, same as usual”, is the reply. They bump back to Butembo hoping they will make it unscathed through the next two roadblocks. All this and no one is sure how much they will be paid at the end of the month, if anything at all.

I go back an forth between thinking they are the most amazing people on earth and feeling offended a few of them still see any white person (i.e. me) as a money pot who has access to infinite amounts of cash. The other day when Alana (the visitor from Hawaii) asked Mama Marie what project she could work on for the next month, she was handed an itemized list of needs that totaled $30,000. Her job order was, “Find this!”. Alana squirmed. She attempted to explain she was thinking more along the lines of helping COPERMA achieve 501-c3 status, so people could make tax deductible donations. Mama Maire shook her head and said, “No, we need this”. I resent being seen as a money pot, but I do get their point. We are a rare opportunity. A resources to be exploited before it is gone. In America the streets are paved with gold (well ok at least with asphalt) and everyone is a millionaire (well when compared with the earning power of the average Congolese). Even if I am middle class in America I have more earning power and more opportunity than most of them ever will. Hence, I have access to a vast amount of resources they do not. Excellent at making split second decisions that potentially involve life and death, Mama Marie has summed us up and our greatest resource is access to seemingly infinite amounts of cash.

When COPERMA cannot go to a new village for over week to meet 26 new rape survivors because they cannot find the gas money to get there I begin to see that maybe she is right about us.

As we meander into the bush, Mama Marie will sometimes recount stories about near life and death misses. The stories are told with a smile on her face. Jerking along the path in the truck, I asked her what the round shatter pattern is in the windshield. It’s shape and placement looked as if the driver had stopped suddenly and the passenger firmly embedded their forehead into the glass. “Oh that? That is from bullets when we were rescucing three girls from their father”. “So someone shot at your head and it did not make it through the glass?”. “No, no. We had to go into the bush to rescue three girls who had been molested and impregnated by their father. We got caught in a gun battle, me, the girls, and the driver were all naked in the car …strip searched by soldiers”. Stunned silence –a million more questions on my mind-. “Was that your most awkward work moment?”, I had Amy ask. [Mama Marie erupts in laughter unable to speak] “No, no”. “Well what was your most awkward work moment then?”. Mama Marie went on to tell the story of one time when she had been on a bus with a preacher who was preaching hell fire and brimstone to anyone who would listen. “Women should not become prostitutes, even if their children cannot eat”, he proclaimed. God would help them in all situations and would always keep those who were faithful safe. Not that Mama Marie disagreed with him, but she was a bit embarrassed as his endless evangelizing to the entire bus. At a roadblock the bus was stopped by soldiers, the entire bus (including the preacher and Mama Maire) was stripped naked and robbed. Luckily, Mama Marie managed to slip ten dollars into a hiding spot she refuses to mention. In the midst of her story she was unable to speak due to laughter, all she could get out was, “You would not believe where you can hide money. So far away that no one can find it!”. The soldiers cut off all the women’s hair in ensure they had tucked money under their head wraps. After the soldiers left, the entire bus continued to the next village, buck naked. Still laughing so hard she could barely talk, Mama Marie recounted how embarrassed everyone was (especially the pastor) trying to cover their “sexes” with both hands. The preacher was silent. At the next village Mama Marie retrieved the $10 she had stashed and bought sheets for everyone so they would not arrive at in Goma naked. That was her last $10 for her journey and she was a good 6 hours from home with no food, no place to stay, and no clothes! But that is Mama Marie, doing what is needed in the moment trusting it will work out.

Out of necessity that is pretty much how COPERMA is run. By the seat of their pants (or sheets) with whatever they have at the time. With a list of needs that is ever growing and new survivors every week they continue to expand their programming based on need (not resources), because no one else is doing this work.

I am in awe of their vision and passion. I know few people who in the face of this many years of war and hardship, would have the stamina to work as hard and selflessly for the future of their country as the people of COPERMA.

Obama and a sewing machine - Part II

Ironically, the next group of people we were interviewing were several young girls all of whom had been raped and fled their village within the past month. They had previously received services through COPERMA and had been placed into foster families in the local community. Today was a chance to check on them and see how they were doing. Up until this meeting I do not think I had emotionally processed anything that I was being exposed to in the Congo. But this testimony was different. There were these incredibly sweet, innocent, young, and traumatized girls recounting their stories of being raped by multiple soldiers when their communities were attacked. My instinct was to hug them, but in Congolese culture that was not appropriate. Angered, horrified, and moved I sat there taping and shooting as these girls divulged the specifics of the attacks and how they were now doing. Since I do not speak Kinandie, I peered over Amy’s shoulder as she took notes in English. As I listened to a particularly enduring 14 year old who had been raped along with her two sisters something in me snapped. She continued to express her worry for her family and her village. Her sisters had fled in different directions and she was worried about them. The story was so intense I had to remind myself it was real. I began to wonder if we could figure out a way to get these girls guns to protect themselves. What is their other option? Just wait and get raped again?

During a pause in the conversation, I asked Amy if I could pose a question. “Is there is anything you need that could help you protect yourself?” I asked the girls. There was a brief pause while the translator went from French to Kinandie and back. “Yes”, one girl replied, “a sewing machine”.

Well that was defiantly not the answer I was expecting, but OK. I get it. Mostly, the girls were looking for something to keep them busy to keep their minds off of the trauma. They were also looking for a way to become self-sufficient.

Here I had been thinking about running guns and the girls were thinking to the future. Again amazed by their perseverance, Amy made a note to look into getting a few sewing machines.