Get out of your car and kiss me....and other odd adventures in DRC

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: ‘It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”” — J.R.R. Tolkien

As a child, I followed Bilbo's adventures never knowing that I might be closer to his reality one day than I could ever imagine. Stepping out the door in Congo is always certain to lead to one sort of adventure or another. But, as with any long vacation sequestered here on campus, I tend to get led into a foggy haze and my thinking becomes otherworldly. It was in this dream like, slightly confused state that I set out to the closest store to get a few things. Nothing important, just some small unnecessary items. Completely forgetting there's no such thing as a quick run to the store.

I stopped to get cash at the ATM not far from school. The ATM spits out hundreds like an angry llama. I am always intrigued by the idea that you can spend US dollars on the street in Congo...anything bigger than a $5. No one will even look a single dollar bill. When I've received one as change in a bank or supermarket, even I have shaken my head in disbelief as though it were play money. "Can you give me francs? What am I going to do with that?" I say, knowing there's nowhere to spend a dollar. Its amazing how quickly our paper system becomes devalued. And to think, I used to collect change.

With a crisp brand new one hundred dollar bill, I continued on to the "corner store." Once inside, I picked up a few things totaling slightly less than $5 and was promptly told they would not accept my overzealous payment. I've had problems of this sort before in this store. A slight tear, too many wrinkles. They are very particular about American money. Crisp, clean and wrinkle free. But my hundred was fresh from the machine and so I didn't really see the problem. Too big, I guess. I just shook my head, muttering that only in a country such as Congo would they refuse to accept money. It happens all the time. Refusal to bargain to a fair price, refusal to sell, refusal to accept money for a just exchange. Bizarre. In my fugue state, I went out to the car.

There is a "point of no return" in Kinshasa and for me it lies just after the first round about leading to the boulevard and downtown. Once you drive past that, returning traffic could take hours and its definitely a no man's land out there. At the parking entrance, I looked to my left, saw the endless line of cars and decided to turn back towards Kintambo, the busy market area I had just come through. Traffic is often horrendous through there and the streets crowded with pedestrians and sellers make it something o f an obstacle course. However, I figured I could go to a cozy little store tucked on a side street and pick up some cheese, maybe some onions and get change for my oppressive one hundred dollar bill. It's an interesting store that always has a side of goat hanging to the left of the entrance. I guess they are also a butcher. I usually turn my head when I enter to avoid the graphic image. Once inside, it actually seemed like a good plan until, just as I was about to pay, someone came in and asked me to move my car. I was apparently blocking an exit from the driveway. I moved the car and drove away empty handed, albeit for that crisp, useless American money.

I headed downtown weaving through darting pedestrians, trying to heed traffic cop signals and ignoring the street boys that wanted me to perform crazy maneuvers in order to let the taxi buses through. The holiday season in Kinshasa, as in any big city, impossibly adds to the number of cars and confusion on the road. About halfway down, I came to a stop as directed by the officiating officer. He was motioning for a large truck to make a left hand turn from the oncoming lane. However, the cross lane the truck was turning into was not actually moving. The truck could not make it across the boulevard without completely blocking our way forward. At times like these I think of the simple rules of NYC driving, 'Don't block the box.' It seems obvious.

Predictably, the cars in my lane began shouting, gesturing and honking. What was happening before us simply didn't make sense. Our road was open but we were being made to wait for.....well, it wasn't quite clear. I guess it should also be predictable by now but I was taken a bit by surprise when cars started to go around the huge truck....to my left. Which meant they were now on the wrong side of the road traveling against oncoming traffic. "I am NOT doing that," I thought. But I did. I was swept up in the flow of moving vehicles and soon found myself on the wrong side of the road, immediately aware of two distinct problems. First, obviously, I was on the wrong side of the road. Second, and more importantly, the line behind the truck stretched on for quite a distance. There was no immediate access back to my correct driving lane. With safety (and perhaps a bit of mob mentality) in numbers, we all proceeded to drive defying traffic rules and common sense. Think of a car chase scene in your favorite action adventure film...though somewhat slower and with a bit more control. Just as panic began to set in, I saw an opening that would allow me to cross over into the land of sanity. I veered to my right and was soon merging into the world of correct driving laws.

With all of the traffic surrounding me and now coming in a variety of directions, things were hectic and a bit confusing. I had to come to a sudden halt just before a crosswalk where another traffic cop had given the signal. (There are no 'yellow' hand signals that I am aware of here. It's simply a turn of the body and outstretched arms that let you know if you should stop or go...slowing down is for cowards I guess.) I had passed the 'line' a bit and immediately caught the eye of the policeman. He walked up to the front of my car with large gestures. I made my own gestures in return, apologising and recognizing that I was ill placed. I even reversed a bit into an oncoming truck in an attempt to rectify the oversight. Upon reaching my front grill, he made a somewhat hilarious motion of throwing himself on top of my car as though I had hit him. No, no I shook my head. I wasn't even close to you. There were no pedestrians in sight and I had crossed the line ever so slightly. I realized the radio was on and turned it down so I could hear what he had to say.

He began pointing at me and then pointing next to him. He wanted me to get out of the car. I've never had this request before. Usually they approach the window and ask to see your license. If he moved from the front of my car however, I would be free to drive off. He continued pointing and motioning while I continued shaking my head and apologizing, trying to explain the mass of cars and confusion I had just driven through. He put his hands to his lips, Italian style. It was not the hunger sign but the get out of your car and kiss me sign. Or maybe it was my hazy head and confusion that led me to this translation. I simply didn't know what he was asking for. I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows. Was he serious? Someone on the street shouted at him and he turned. He stepped aside from the car, pointed his finger at me and told me not to drive off even as he watched me slowly pulling away.

I had nearly arrived at my destination and so pulled into the lot and purchased a few items. The downtown area was packed with people and events and general holiday commotion. It's like confetti on the eyes trying to discern if there is a real situation or just  a crowd of people waiting for transport. A bunch of police seemed to be surrounding a pushcart. I couldn't tell if the man emerging from underneath it had been hit or was repairing something. It's always that way with people under vehicles.

My return trip was equally eventful in that children seemed to be dashing from one side of the street to the other in a crazy game of 'red light, green light.' This was no game of course, just the ordinary day to day of trying to get somewhere in Kinshasa on foot. I stopped to let a young street vendor escort two little boys most of the way across the street, happy they'd had some help in their personal adventure. He went two- thirds of the way with them and then gave them a slight push as he threw his hands up in the air. "Off with you," he seemed to be saying, as he returned to his post and his friends by the side of the road. I was almost feeling hopeful.

The thing that really stops my heart is the way the smallest of boys who are selling water run after the large taxi buses and cars. The taxi buses don't slow down for them and in order to make the sale they run along side throwing bags into the windows and hoping to catch the bills tossed back to them. Because the taxis tend to create an ominous third lane down the middle of the road, the boys are often caught between rows of traffic. I drive holding my breath for them with a foot on the brake. I was a bit distracted by the scene as several other street kids came up to my window on the right. 'Tis the season and everyone is looking for some holiday cash. I shook my head at them as I eyed a young girl looking to make a quick dash across the road. Anticipating her run, I slowed down. The boys on my right formed a little posse and one of them even stepped in front of my car, policeman style. Really? Accosted by a band of seven year olds. I steered around him cautiously, in wonder at this new boldness. They banged the back of my car a few times as I made my way past them.

I finally arrived at the house with some bread and cheese in tow, still laughing about kissing the policeman. I just can't get enough of these traffic stories. It's a dangerous business, stepping out of your door.

too much city

I've resisted writing for a number of reasons, though lack of material cannot be counted among them. I've been searching this third year for the Congo that I have thus far only read about, heard about from Congolese abroad or dreamt about as I envision the work others are doing. Sara Rich seems to have found a perfectly beautiful niche working with children in Goma. Long breaks from school remind me that's why I came to Africa. Kambale Musavuli is another activist for Congo that frequently leaves me feeling inspired and always more knowledgeable. But occasionally, I must admit, I am also left searching for this Congo that everyone has so fallen for. Because sometimes, I'm just not feelin' it.

Kinshasa is a tough city. It's like the New York of Africa. If you can make it here.......But lately, I find myself examining what "make it" really means. What qualifies as "making it" in Kinshasa and is that the only level I am really aspiring too? These long days around my house leave me feeling aimless, useless and unfulfilled.

It was only a few days into the break when my son fell and hit his head. I knew immediately he would need a stitch or two but waited a bit before bringing him down to the clinic. I bandaged him up while trying to decide if I was overreacting or not. A few hours later, the bleeding started again and I knew we had to go. It was a calm trip down to the bottom of the hill where a medical clinic awaited us. We didn't wait terribly long, though the slow pace of the everyone had my nerves on edge. I'm glad he wasn't actually gushing blood or in any serious condition. Hospitals in Africa always give me pause. And here, I have yet to encounter the bedside manner that is reassuring to me. I remember the friendly doctor in Conakry who checked out Mohamed when he had a severe case of malaria. He explained things to me, talked to Mohamed and in general made us feel welcome and reassured.

The clinic nurses at Ngaliema, however, went about their job in a silent and relaxed manner. They had very few words and asked only the basic questions. A few times when I wondered exactly what they were doing and why, they responded, but added, "Do you accept?" I'm not sure what this was supposed to convey to me, but somehow felt if I said no they would have stopped. I felt certain I could never really receive an answer about what was necessary or needed. They would do whatever I asked, best interest or not. I am no doctor. 

I spent some time marveling at the surroundings. It really is like being in Babel. Everything is charming until there's an emergency. Medical care is scary. Simple problems suddenly become life threatening. You walk in with a cut and leave with some infection that leads to permanent damage. These were the thoughts going through my mind as I eyed the plastic water bottles strung to the side of the medical cart. They each had a piece of masking tape identifying the contents. One was nearly filled with used needles. I couldn't really tell what function the others served. Plastic gloves were in supply and I carefully watched for signs of sterility and cleanliness, even as I noticed a trail of ants marching along the lower shelf. Sterility and cleanliness can be challenging in the tropics.

In all, Nabih was quite brave and the suturing took only minutes. The doctor made some contact with Nabih, asking him if he could go ahead and give the shot. This time I felt it was more of a putting at ease gesture than one he would really heed had the response been no. I have no idea how well the stitches were put in. There seems to be a rather large bump, but the head is closed, it was cleaned and Nabih appears none worse for the wear. We were told to come back in two days....and every two days after until they are removed.

If the first trip had me wondering, the second trip had me rushing out the door in a panic. I opened the curtain to the examining area and found a man blowing his nose on the floor. He looked at me and promptly stuck his finger in his nose. I ushered Nabih outside and sat on a low wall for some much needed deep breathing. I was angry because I felt tied to this clinic and didn't really see another place offering something more sanitary. I was angry that I was angry. I took many deep breaths before deciding I could return. If the man even moved, I decided I would, in my calmest and most sincere voice, simply ask him to wash his hands first. It was another nurse who came in to change the bandage and do the clean up. The man didn't even look at me. It was not out of embarrassment but simply out of distraction. I have never been able to get used to this habit of public nose picking and cleansing. You can find a young boy selling packets of tissue every three feet, but apparently these are reserved for the mopping of sweat, not nasal hygiene.

Later, more private ranting led to the conclusion that just studying about germs is not enough. If you learn in a dark and dirty classroom, you will not understand the dangers lurking there. I relented slightly,  understanding as well that most university classrooms here have 300-400 students. How much and how well one learns is completely up to them. Diplomas and tests can be easily bargained for.   

But these are not the stories I want to be telling. They are not the stories I want to be living. As the second semester begins, I had planned to have my students begin work on a heroes wall in our cafeteria. I wanted them to paint portraits of some less than well known people who have made a difference in Congo. Floribert Cheyeba , Armand Tungulu and the doctor from Panzi Hospital Dr. Denis Mukwege as well as Drs. Kasereka and Lyn Lusi , founders of HEAL Africa are among some of the potential heroes to be portrayed. The work they have done and are doing is amazing, passionate, necessary and of a kind I just don't run into. And it's becoming a problem for me. I feel like I'm becoming part of the problem.  

I don't really see a clear path ahead of me. I've long held a steady vision of what I want my future to be like. While I can see it clearly, the road there is shrouded in mystery. Time seems so altered here, though truly it is only due to the glasses we wear. I have resisted putting down roots considering this merely a temporary situation. It is this very perspective that colors everything with a rose red haze of waiting. Nothing is too serious (after all, we don't really live here) and nothing is too personal (surely we'll be moving on soon...or they will.) It's a perpetual state of getting-to-know-you. It has the capacity to satisfy at times and drive me to madness at others.

While we spent the first two years in one house, this third year we moved next door. We still live in the same aura, albeit with a bit more privacy and a cool front porch. I have enjoyed living on lower campus far form the complexities and cliques of the upper scene.  I've been given the offer of moving to another house on campus next year. It's larger and more centrally placed, along with an enclosed backyard. I hadn't noticed a need for any of those things (a larger house only means more cleaning to me) but understand domestic geography has a motivation all its own. One night, while sitting on my front step, enclosed by my deliciously overgrown garden, with it's dangling palm tree fronds and wild flowers blooming everywhere, I realized another reason why I didn't want to move. Where I am situated now, close to the wall that surrounds us, the sounds of "neighbors" fill my days and nights. I listen to the children playing. I hear their shouts and cries from child to parent. I've often heard a word that sounds close to "Nabih" and a very English sounding "mom," distortion from the wind perhaps.
  
I hear wild parties, loud music and soccer cheers. I've been woken with the military marching and singing in tune and lulled to sleep by the laughter of men talking and drinking into the night. I delight in sounds I can't decipher, the music of the African tongue. I've occasionally been alarmed by a shrieking child, screaming woman or the ominous repetition of popping firecrackers. But I witness these sounds of life tucked behind the safety and security of my wall. Not at all what I imagined when I moved to Africa.

Security is a must. Though I've long abandoned a quest for material things, the very presence of my whiteness, my foreignness cements the idea that I have more than the average Congolese.
The wall. The gate. The security. One of my main reasons for wanting to get out of this city is in search of a more open Africa. A more integrated presence. Kinshasa is such a multi layered, complex city. It is reminiscent of tales from India, with their caste and social class systems. Everyone belongs to a layer and there is simply no crossing over.
 
I recall with irony the nights I've longed to be in NYC attending an African dance class, absorbed by in the rhythms and energy of Africa. While my feet may rest on African soil, it is far too often my heart is bound and trapped by the prestige of being "safe." Kinshasa is a difficult city with a complicated past. The generations have been saturated with such a contorted view of the world that I am constantly confronted with my alternate selves. I contemplate my potential move to upper campus with its closed -in yard and luxurious space and I see it as a move in-land, though it's probably not any more remote than I am now. But from here, I have a chance to hear the vibrant sounds of life around me, encouraging me to shed the last vestiges of this prison and form connections that will lead to my true house- one that's smaller, with an open yard and filled with children. Out of these walls and beyond this city.

the truth about congo

It's been a long time coming....this particular post. And I'm not quite sure I'll get it right. However, I do think it's time to try and put some words to what I've been grappling with and what anyone who lives here already knows. It's too easy to get caught up in a stream of complaints about living in Kinshasa and doesn't make for interesting reading surely. If the second year was all about indulging in the small comforts I denied myself the first year, the third year is all about facing the harsh realities of fact. Kinshasa is an emotionally draining place to live. I find myself longing at times for the simplicity of the States...and isn't that why I left the US in the first place? To find some kind of simpler life?

I spend a lot more time this third year examing my love hate relationship with Kinshasa--and truthfully, I am not sure how much the "love" part really qualifies for love. What is love anyway? But the hate part....that is a bit easier to define. It starts with minor annoyances....police hassles on your way to the store, street kids pounding on your car because you didn't give them money, the seemingly illogical way many people approach daily tasks of work and life. It moves beyond minor annoyance though and before you know it, you find yourself starting sentences with "they...." and generalizing all people in the ignorant way of bigots and racists. Which is why I am constantly trying to re-evaluate my perspective and my expectations. It's too easy to get caught up in seeing all the wrong and never recognizing the right.

It has everything to do with life in a big city....life in Kinshasa specifically. Crime is everywhere. I see it in the young eyes that peer into my open passenger-side window, scanning the door lock, seat and dashboard for anything that would be quick and easy to grab as he puts his hands to his puckered mouth and implores me to give him something. A universal sign for "hungry." The only hunger I can see is his desire to grab a bag or phone or anything tangible I might have left on the seat. You can't drive like that here in Kinshasa. The car is empty; my bag is down by my feet hidden between the door and the brake pedal.

These aren't the stories that leave me with a clear sense of what's gone wrong though. I hear that story later. It's two days after I've lost my temper and yelled at the boy with his darting eyes. (Is he a boy? He wasn't a man, but boy conjures up the wrong image. He was 18 or 19 perhaps, somewhere on the cusp of adulthood.) It's weeks after I heard the story of a friend who, narrowly escaping a car accident, instinctively turned around to help the car that hadn't been so lucky. It was a car that hit someone. The person was lying on the ground and the occupants of the vehicle had gotten out and were standing around. The driver was on his knees, praying in the road. A crowd had gathered and began beating on the window of my friend's car. They wanted her to take the person to the hospital. In Kinshasa, there is no ambulance (though I am often lulled to sleep by the sound of sirens....?? It's an odd juxtaposition.) What to do? I hate even writing these words. It's like the secret of Congo. Sometimes you might do something that seems very inhumane. You can't really show up at a hospital with a dying person in your car....or even an injured person. It's all so complicated and without reason. (Hospital service deserves its very own post, but just know that doctors here don't seem to be obligated to care for the sick or injured. Money always comes first. And truth? I can see how the story would spin out for the good samaritan foreigner who arrives with a fatal patient - family, "witnesses" and police would all be on hand to concoct versions of the accident breaking from reality but potentially leading to benefit--or just plain violence. These are ugly words, I'm aware.) In this case, the crowd grew more peristent and ended up breaking the window. My friend managed to drive away. That's not even the story that pin pointed what's gone wrong. Nor was her story several days later (yes, same unlucky friend) about walking by the river a bit too close to dusk when she ended up paying some military guy 5000FC via friendly suggestion.

I had come home earlier than usual, having missed lunch and in need of some nutrients to help me attack the latest round of student work. The state of my house assaulted me first and because of this distraction, I didn't hear the story until much  later in the night. Kazadi came home from his evening classes in English. He is also attending university during the day and getting ready for exams. He had been out looking for some kind of vest or jacket to wear (another incredible requirement that had me ranting and raving the lunacy of misplaced priorities- more ugly words) when his story begins. He was near the large market but had stepped into a store. An actual boutique, with walls and windows and clothing hanging from metal racks. He took one step inside and was immediately confronted with 5 other Congolese youth. They made some statements about this area belonging to them and began to demand money. They had a hand on his schoolbag and grabbed him by his sweatshirt. Apparently some punches were thrown. Kazadi calculated his situation. His bag was full of books for school, a new shirt he had just bought for the exam, and he had twenty dollars in his pocket. He could lose it all or he could play along. Someone in the store stepped beside him and said,"Just give them 500 franc." Kazadi did have 500 franc cleverly placed in a separate pocket from the $20. He pulled it out to give to them, considering how much more he could be losing (remember conversion rates.....$20 could be considered a months salary to some.) He spent some time trying to talk them down---and asking himself we're all Congolese here right? After the gang left, the rest of the people in the store had words for him, what he should or should not have done. He just shook his head and walked out, continuing his search for the right attire to wear to his exam. I think that is the most disturbing part of the story to me. Not the fact that it happened in the middle of the day or inside a real store, but the fact that  it happened admist a crowd of people, not one of whom did more than just observe. Even the owner of the store was there, a casual witness to another man's crime.

That's the story that's left me with an undeniable sense of what's really gone wrong here. No one stepped up to help. In fact, the only interference was someone suggesting he just pay the money. The truth about Congo is that sometimes is really is like the wild west, a lawless no man's land where everyone is willing to turn a blind eye. It reminds me only of a quote from one of my fifth graders during a recent crusade to join the OutCry for Congo campaign- posters and photos urging Washington to make a policy change. What's the point of being human if you don't help other humans? It seems to be the question that Congo itself has forgotten.     

A thousand sisters....or even just one

It took me awhile to approach this book. It found me in the way that good books often do, sneaking up when I am least aware. I'd heard about A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon often enough, living in Congo and trying to keep up with the current state of affairs. I'd put off reading it for a variety of reason, the first of which, I must admit, was the title.

Sisters....growing up in the fractured family that I did, family has become an issue for me. Women family in particular. It's something I notice always, have quietly observed with fascination and envy. I've felt that lack of a mother presence, a supporting family presence since "the move" - one of those defining moments that separate the cozy childhood memories from the on-my-own indendent memories. Most often, I push it back into some dark corner, solidly hidden away reacting only with annoyance whenever it pops up (am I going to get over my childhood....don't people get over these things...ever?) It could have been the move, or the illness or the divorce, all of those things happened at the same time. But what I know is that after they happened, I found myself without the mother figure and squarely on my own. I was 10. It's time to get over it. But the truth is, I have never really felt embraced by women or part of the "sisterhood" that other women seem to claim so easily as naturally theirs. It's always seemed like more of a crutch, a hurdle to conquer so I can accomplish the things I really want to do.

I spent two years attending an all women's college and that was, for a brief moment, a glimpse into what life could be like seen through the unique perspective of being a woman. I began to feel a bit of pride and joy in my femaleness- but the door was not opened long enough for anything substantial to take root. I was quickly whisked back into roles and images that didn't quite match, all the while trying to understand this woman thing (strong and prideful or weak and frivolous?)  The name of this book seemed to suggest something that just wouldn't be able to speak to me.

I came across it at an informal book swap. I saw it lying there on the table amidst a random display of books, all appearing a bit depressing in their subject matter. Reading in Congo can get like that. The pickings are slim and after 3 years, I've read most of what is on offer from the school libraries and the small community library on campus. I prefer stories about Africa, biographies and true accounts, but they can be draining. African stories require time to process and heal afterwards. I wasn't really sure I had room for another depressing tale of how the world has gone wrong.

"Did you read this? I've heard a lot about this." I was inquiring another book swap attendee browsing the table. It turns out she had brought the book to swap.
"Its ok," she replied, emphasis on the ok, suggesting it wasn't the greatest read. I had just finished Bite of the Mango, a story about a girl from Sierra Leone who had her hands amputated during that country's civil war. The story had been a quick read on the flight back from Nairobi. It had the detached quality that often happens when the main character is not also the author...a quasi-autobiography. The central thoughts, doubts, fears and emotions seemed to be missing. Not that I wasn't affected by the book, but somehow, I was looking for more. The response I received from the fellow book swapper seemed to suggest I might not find it in the thousand sisters either.

I took the book anyway. Choices were limited. The book sat on my table, in a rare waiting-to-read pile. I avoided it for a few more weeks. It turns out the books I had given higher priority -This Child Will Be Great, by Ellen Johnson Sirleaf (the name should have tipped me off but, surprisingly it didn't hit me until half way through the novel, which read much more like a propaganda campaign) and another fictional (I think, it's still not clear to me if this one was supposed to be some kind of memoir) book about a South African aspiring author and poet didn't merit finishing  - a rarity for me-though I read both nearly to the end before giving up in frustration and boredom. It was in this search for something satisfying that I finally picked up A Thousand Sister's, the ok echoing in my mind.

I read it in 2 days. Captivated. I wondered what it was about this recount that didn't speak to its previous owner. Because everything I read sounded just like me. I appreciated Shannon's candid thoughts and reactions. I found her truthfulness to be comforting. She was moved to do something and in the very heart of her actions suffered self doubt and angst about whether any of it was meaningful. I got this exactly.

In the midst of trying to create positive change, there is the nagging question is this really helping? am I really helping? A bit of humility is good for the soul, but it doesn't always provide the inspiration or motivation to continue, especially when your actions don't result in immediate change. It is easy to feel like you are "tossing teaspoons of water on a raging fire." In the face of Africa, it easy to feel that all of your efforts are "silly stunts...paltry presents...ridiculous."  As Lisa Shannon goes on to write, "Who am I against Congo?"  It is easy to become overwhelmed when faced with the enormous suffering and paralyzing depth of poverty that families survive in. I most appreciated the tales when women were motivated and able to make a change for the better. It is something I don't see often enough in the capital. The air is different here.

I also appreciated Shannon's accounts of dealing with the muzungu effect. Here in Kin, we're known as mondele but the effect is all the same. It's the idea of extremes. For some, for many, this means, by white association, you have unlimited funds and can fix any problem. Endless giving. (For others, of course, this means you are the root of all evil and have caused all of mankind's suffering....both of which probably have an equal measure of truth.) It often confuses what could otherwise be a good and simple friendship. It also means a constant fluctuation between wanting to help and just wanting to be (as in, leave me alone, I can't do anymore.) It becomes a constant battle between have I done enough and am I doing anything? I believe that true change can only be brought about by motivation and action. While I am happy to be part of the solution, I clearly recognize that I am not the solution. It must come from the people themselves. Charity does not equal change, though it can lead down a pathway to change. It is ultimately the decisions of the receiver that will determine the final outcome. Lisa does a wonderful job of clarifying some of the ridiculous choices extreme poverty and war create. "Only-in-Congo choices" she coins them. They appear to be hypothetical questions children would tease each other with, the kind you can never answer because both choices are equally grotesque. Would you rather eat a worm or a cockroach? The only answer to that is, No. Except in Congo the questions aren't a child's game and the consequences are much more dire than merely eating bugs. The questions require an answer. Simply refusing to play is not an option.

Would you rather be raped or watch your children starve? Would you rather be killed or will you kill your neighbor? Will you get this child a doctor while the 7 others may die or let this one go, so the rest can be fed? Do you want us to rape you or marry you?

There is no understanding a world that continues to allow these kinds of questions to dictate the future of any single person's life. There is no understanding the hatred and rage and humiliation that has built enough within someone to inflict this kind of torture on another human being. Causes and contributions can be easily identified, but understanding is a different matter altogether.

And so is witnessing. It's an idea I've been confronted with on a number of occasions in these last 3 years, not all having to do with Congo herself but many reaching out across the borders and oceans into other countries. Witnessing is an act. It's an idea expressed somewhere in the last quarter of the book and one that is helpful to remember. People need to tell their stories. They need to know that others are listening and caring and making a connection. Whether it is Sakineh from Iran or the women from Kaniola, the truth of their lives needs to be heard by others. And that's step one.

The next steps vary, I suppose, somewhere between action and education. I have a mix of ideas that overlap the two worlds. And, M, I'll be sending you my copy of the book. I hope you'll read it and pass it on to someone else to read, who will pass it one to someone else to read.... Maybe some of them will decide to run, or talk or create an entirely new idea. Maybe some of them will choose to simply witness, and I think that's ok too.