I returned home less than 40 hours ago.  Images of Congo are still fresh in my mind: the children slaving in the Bunia goldmine, the rape victim who told us how her captors held her down in the field by driving a stake through her foot. I am driving to Wildwood school to report on our trip and our work.  I am still jetlagged; still, in many ways, dazed from the dramatic contrast between my life and theirs.  The images in my mind dance back and forth between the various people we met and the stories they told us.

Ten days ago we arrived in Kigali with trepidation and expectation.  It seems like a day or two ago in some ways; yet in other ways it seems like a lifetime ago.

Today we drove across the entire country of Rwanda—from Bukavu at the Congo-Rwanda border to Kigali.  It took almost 8 hours.  The countryside is completely gorgeous.  But I was struck by how different Rwanda looked to me today than it did when we stopped here en route to Congo. 

We are taken by convoy on an impossible 3 hour drive, high up in the mountains where the Congolese Tutsis control the terrain.  The “roads” are indescribable.  Half the time our vehicle is gliding through the mud and the other half it feels as if it is almost on its side.  Torrential rains fall, the wheels of our Land Rover spin in the mud at one moment and get caught in a crevasse of the boulders that purport to be part of the roadway. 

As she entered the room, my eyes froze on her scarred and disfigured face.  Skin melted like a plastic mask.  I winced and a pain shot through my heart.  I instructed my eyes to move off of her face; but where should they go?  On their own, my eyes darted to her arms bound in gauze, and then to her hands, charred, de-pigmented.  What should I do with my eyes?  I forced them to move away from her damaged parts.  My heart was racing.  I closed my eyes for a moment, and when they reopened, I saw it there, right in front of me.  She was wearing my favourite blouse.

For nine years Mama Francine (for her safety I cannot reveal her true name) has lived in the safe house in a remote and isolated area outside of Goma.  For six years before that she lived at a hospital and endured surgery after surgery to repair the damage to her body caused by violent rape.  Even six surgeries could not repair Mama Francine’s body. 

I met Ingrid in person in April, 2007 when she came to California for her admissions interview at Stanford University.  At the time, Ingrid was 19 years old.  But I had actually seen Ingrid a few years before…when as a young teenager she was prominently featured in a documentary film (brilliantly produced by Global Nomads) about the Rwandan genocide. 

It took us 30 hours from the time we departed from Los Angeles to when we arrived in Kigali, Rwanda. We spent the evening visiting with our new Rwandan friends who will be our guides and translators   While we have not yet seen Kigali in the daytime, from our conversations tonight and by the looks of our brand new hotel, (which has free wireless, a swimming pool befitting a Hawaiian resort, a workout room, and more), Rwanda is working diligently on its tourism, its urban development, and on its economy. 

In just a few hours our small group representing Jewish World Watch leaves for the Eastern Congo. Every day for the last week, my sisters each call me and ask me if I feel that going to the Congo is really necessary.  My parents and my in-laws ask me on a daily basis if there is anything they could say to persuade me to cancel the trip.