If you've read my recent "Postcard from Bukavu" posts you're already familiar with two of our guests of honor at the lunch we had last Sunday (Aug. 2): Marie-Jeanne, who helps rape victims of the Great Lakes conflict, and Justine, one of the victims.
That we got to know these women and invite them to our house is due to the generous and creative efforts of an American high school student. Sam's cousin, Andrea Redican, teaches French at Sunapee Middle High in New Hampshire. One of Andrea's students, Jennifer Coverdale, ran in a French Oratorical Contest, in which participants were asked to interview a French-speaking person who had changed someone's life for the better. Jennifer interviewed not only Marie-Jeanne, the person who gave the help, but also Justine, the recipient. The press release on this contest is a good read, see http://www.sunapee.k12.nh.us/PR/0809/09-french-orator.pdf. Jennifer won the three-state contest.
When Sister Georgette, who had helped arrange the interview, heard that Andrea was coming to Kinshasa to spend her vacation with us, she found funds to fly Marie-Jeanne, Justine, Justine's toddler son, and a third young woman, Zawwadi, from Bukavu to Kinshasa. So we organized a lunch on Sunday to bring together Andrea, the visitors from Bukavu, and some of our friends from the non-profit and foreign aid world (UNICEF, PEPFAR, etc). They came with Marie-Jeanne's sister, Jeannot, a Kinshasa resident, with whom they were staying.
I had many second thoughts about bringing women who live in dire poverty to our residence, which the U.S. government owns, furnishes and maintains with the express purpose that Sam and I will host splendid meals to impress host and foreign government officials. But when the women arrived, all that became immaterial. They walked in, and their presence was a gift to us, a rare chance to say to someone who's been through unimaginable pain, degradation and rejection, "You are beautiful."
While we waited for the other guests to arrive, the visitors viewed a video Andrea had brought: Jennifer's prize-winning speech, in French, talking about them.
Then we all gathered round Marie-Jeanne, who told us about herself, the situation in Bukavu, and the horrific stories of the women she's been helping and who eventually formed the Nikinge association. Marie-Jeanne and her husband were living and working in Switzerland, where they had met, when one day a few years ago, they decided to return to their homeland to do what they could to help. They moved to Bukavu, where Marie-Jeanne founded a school where poor children can go for free, subsidized by the children who can pay. Marie-Jeanne and her husband raise several "adopted" children in addition to their own; the adoption is informal like they almost always are in the DRC. In Bukavu, Marie-Jeanne saw growing numbers of rape victims come in from their rural homes, where they are rejected by their families and neighbors. Seeking work and anonymity, they migrate to the city to try to raise their children born of rape without the stigma that turns out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy: in a country where tribe and family define one's identity, the son of a rapist is expected by all, to grow up a brute. These poor women, who often have long-lasting injuries resulting their violent rape, take jobs carring bags of cement and other burdens sometimes twice their weight, to earn the few pennies a day that can keep them and their children alive. Marie-Jeanne had seen one of these women at the local hospital, who died after having fallen and been crushed by the load she was carrying.
Justine then tearfully recounted her story. She had been a victim of a multiple rape which had dramatic consequences on her family: she got pregnant, and her husband asked her to choose between the baby and him. In spite of the mixed feelings she has for the baby and her fears for who he may turn out to be, she refused to give him up. Her husband left the home, abandoning his own children, and was never heard from again. "Il a fui", said Justine simply – he ran away. Far from acting like a thug, Bati, almost two years old, came to his mother, trying to console her.
We did not expect Zawwadi, the sixteen-year-old victim, to speak. Marie-Jeanne had told us she rarely speaks of her experience, only a few words at a time, spends hours crying every day, and never smiles. But when Justine had finished telling her story, Zawwadi stood up and spoke, in a barely audible, trembling whisper broken by sobs. She told us that she had been kidnapped at age 12 as she was going home from school, and spent three years as the workhorse and "wife" of a dozen men. She said they beat her frequently and that she had to pretend to love them, lest she be killed or buried alive as she had seen happen to other girls. After three years of this hell on earth, Zawwadi managed to escape with the two babies born during this ordeal, who are now being raised by her sister. Zawwadi and her sister are orphans, Zawwadi's mother having died in childbirth and her father ten years later. Marie-Jeanne placed Zawwadi with a family in Bukavu and has taught her to make the banana-leaf greeting cards I showed in the Postcard from Bukavu posts. Marie-Jeanne gave me a DVD showing some of the women at work making the cards. I hope to be able to upload part of it to this blog one day.
The moment was too extraordinary, too intimate, to record on camera as the women spoke. I'm sure I'll never forget it. As one of my guests said, "It's one thing to hear about this on the news. It's totally different to have the victim in front of you." Justine and Zawwadi are so real, so unique. Zawwadi has the chubby cheeks of a baby and the eyes of an innocent child. Justine is a beauty with fine features and ruddy cheeks, and a shy manner. Both spoke simply and straightforwardly, without drama, and obviously making a great effort to overcome their emotions.
After hearing the heartbreaking testimonies of the three women, we went outside for lunch by the pool. I hoped it would be comfort food for the victims who had so bravely shared their experiences, and for us listeners who had been shaken by their stories and sympathetically thought we felt a little of their pain. But how could we? And what could we say that could mitigate the cruelty of their memories? Our buffet by the pool felt ridiculously inadequate. But it had the magical effect we had hoped. There's something special about sharing a meal. Conversation did not lag, everyone had in common the experience just lived and the desire to help, somehow.
Lunch dragged on gently, and then guests started to leave. We gathered for a few photos. We were too emotionally exhausted for the next agenda item I had planned: brainstorming about how to market the greeting cards, of which the visitors from Bukavu had brought hundreds.
To each day its load.
Charlotte (our daughter, also visiting from Washington, DC) took Zawwadi to her room for some teenage-girl activities: a little nail polish, a little lipstick... Zawwadi had never experienced anything like this. She was transformed. She smiled!
Ok, so it's been a shameful long time since I blogged. I don't really have an excuse. I was involved in a lot of things and didn't report to you. Now I'm getting ready to leave Kinshasa so I'll try, in my emptied house, to summarize some of the large and small events of the past months.
What shakes me out of my inertia, what prompts me to blog again, once more, is a letter from Zawadi, which I found at the bottom of a new package of letters and other crafts received from Nikinge. I have no time to sell them here, so they've already been packed up with our belongings to be shipped to our new assignment, Ottawa. I asked Jean Aime, my assistant, to make an inventory, a month ago when I received the package, but it wasn't until we emptied the box for the pack-out that I found Zawadi's letter. 
