How strange to be out of Congo. As Isaiah, our incredible translator, and I walked across the border he showed me the river that marks the boundary between the two countries here: on one side, chaos – a young man shaking down every old lady carrying insanely heavy loads up the mountain side, everyone crowding the immigration window at once – on the other, relative order, neatly organized single-file lines, gas stations, power lines. How strange to be on that other side again.

Rwanda certainly isn’t LA, but it definitely isn’t Congo either. And though I spent the first few days of our trip wallowing (I think understandably) in despair, overwhelmed by the pain that I saw everywhere, I must admit that in the end it is hard to leave. Congo is a remarkable place, and working with its incredible people I know that the Jewish World Watch community will be able to make a profound impact.

For a change of pace, here are the things I love and/or will miss about Congo:

1. That “mama” is the term of respect for women and that “papa” is the term of respect for men. To me this means that family is the center of society here, that a woman’s capacity to build life and create a home is recognized and honored.
2. The unbelievable and arresting beauty of Congo’s landscape. I don’t  think any of our pictures (even though Mike has an incredible eye) can do it justice. Between the vast blue of Lake Kivu, the towering volcanoes, the rich, fertile soil and the mountainsides patchworked with gorgeous pastureland and criss-crossed farms, this is absolutely the most beautiful country I have ever seen, ever. Sorry Turkey, Brazil and Ireland – you have been bumped.
3. The very real and very profound capacity of the Congolese people to take charge of their own communities. We have had three incredibly uplifting days in a row, visiting community-based projects that show how the Congolese, despite obstacles thrown up in every direction, step up for themselves – building their communities with no help or hand out from their government. Incredible and beautiful women in sewing collectives, widows and single mothers receiving microloans and running small businesses, a community that has built itself three schools – parents chipping in whatever they could, even just a little bit of wood, to keep programs running. These people are amazing.
   
4. Congolese faith. It will never cease to amaze me that the men, women and children of Congo can undergo such horrors and virtual abandonment – and often outright betrayal – by the government that should be protecting them, but still raise their arms to God and praise. Our experience at the Heal Africa chapel last Sunday was incredible, six separate choirs raising their voices in blessing and healing in the midst of such unbelievable pain. Not one word begging God for relief – just praise and acceptance that they must work and carry on to see God’s blessings. I don’t think I could do that.  On our last car ride in Goma, careening down to the port to catch the boat to Bukavu on Goma’s treacherously potholed and lava-covered roads, I asked our friend Ziko if the Congolese made their tires out of some special indestructible material. When he said no, they were just regular tires, I was shocked. After five full days of driving down these churned-up streets we should have blown our tires at least twice a day, every day. Ziko told me “You know, we are all children of God, under His grace.” I told him that possibly God should be focusing on higher priority issues than Congolese tires (like perhaps the roads? Or the nonexistent government infrastructure that can’t get them fixed?), but I see his point.
5. Dr. Mukwege and Panzi hospital – perhaps the most well-known center taking in survivors of sexual violence (an average of 10 rape survivors every day) in Congo. Dr. Mukwege is a pioneer of fistula repair surgery, a dedicated force working to, quite literally, put the women of Congo back together again. I expected Panzi to be a place of sadness, the women there having experienced atrocities that I don’t ever want to think about, let alone suffer. Instead, Panzi is a place of healing, a place where dignity is restored and women are made whole – it is astounding.
6. Our translator, Isaiah. Though he lives in Rwanda, he is originally Congolese and has been with us from the second we landed in Kigali, so I’m claiming him for Congo. He is amazing, a truly incredible thinker and a profoundly sensitive soul. Plus, he has six kids of his own, has taken in eight others and his wife still seems to love him, so that should tell you something.
7. Activists: Congolese, European, American, you name them – there is a community of strong, committed people dedicated to ending the atrocities in Congo and leading the way towards recovery. They try to absorb the pain of everyone they see around them while staying strong enough to get to work. Those that live in Congo struggle day in and day out to make a small difference in the lives of those around them and struggle even harder to reach even further. If you are reading this, you are part of this community – expect a call from Jewish World Watch very soon.
8. This is not so much about Congo itself, but about our trip: I have loved, and will truly miss, traveling with everyone on our team. We have come together as a group supporting each other when it was hard, shrugging our shoulders together when it was ridiculous, and bursting into laughter together when there was just nothing else to say or do. With  Janice, John, Diana and Mike on Congo’s side, honestly, I think we’re incredibly strong.
9. Also not about Congo specifically, but still: I love my job. I don’t know how else to say it – I love my job. I work in a place that supports everyone, not just me and the rest of our amazing staff, but the entire community to work towards a better and more peaceful world. How many people can say that? Thank you Rabbi Schulweis and Janice for building an amazing organization, and Tzivia for giving me the opportunity to do this work. I am aware of how lucky I am.
10. Last, but definitely not least: Goats. They’re everywhere – tied up in fields, grazing on the mountainside and, best of all, being led down the road by a rope like little dogs. If my wonderful husband lets me, and doesn’t think our dogs would be terrorized, I think we should get one.

All of this is to say that Congo is a beautiful, curious, fascinating place. The Congolese people are strong and do not deserve (as if anyone would) to be preyed upon – and certainly not in the brutal and intensely destructive way that this conflict has progressed in the last twelve years. With the right mobilization and enough noise, we have every opportunity to help Congo and the Congolese move towards a more just, free and peaceful society that can begin the important work of recovery.

Let’s go.

Yesterday I felt completely engulfed by sadness. I wrote a blog entry that I will not post with you now, crushed by what I had seen and heard during a long day visiting clinics with International Medical Corps.

I had hoped that when I came here, I would be able to focus on the stories of survivors, the stories of strength and resolve. But I realize that I have fallen prey to reducing the people of Congo to their victimhood. I have given in to the faces of the starving children, the raped and burned women. I think anyone would have.

It is true that Congo is a place of brutality and atrocity. But it is not the only truth.

I have seen pain – in the eyes of hundreds of malnourished children, their bellies swollen and their hair turning orange, their mothers desperately wanting to return home and make a life for themselves and their babies away from the clamor of the IDP camp. But I have also seen healing, the kindness and warmth of Mama Gisele, the head nurse at the IDP camp’s clinic, who with tenderness and concern in her eyes shows us where children are fed, where women and girls are counseled. She tells us about doing home visits for girls that have been victims of sexual violence, trying to get to them within 72 hours so that pregnancy and HIV infection can be prevented. She and her team of nurses – all Congolese, mostly female – counsel families to ease their fears and educate them not to reject their daughters, wives and sisters that have already been violated once, and do not need more violation.

I have seen destruction – of a young teenage girl who had been recently raped, lying alone in her bed at one of the clinics we visited. But I have also seen incredible strength and recovery – of mothers collecting as associations, helping each other pay for prenatal and maternity care. Of a little girl (a rape survivor herself) who told our friend Christine, when she had lost all faith in her work caring for victims of sexual violence, that she needed to remember that even when it was cloudy, there were always stars in the night sky – so too with God.

I have seen atrocities that have made me doubt there could possibly be a higher power – women broken and destroyed, their communities destroyed with them, their children displaced, growing up without a home, raised in exile and resentment. But I have also seen amazing faith – in the beautiful children in bright yellow “Love Not War” t-shirts, singing praise with arms outstretched to God. In the women and men who have been preyed upon by armed groups time and time again, that nevertheless thank God and heaven for the blessings that they do have, the food around their table and the community around their hearts. In the grace that these same men and women show us, we offer them our prayers, from our hearts to their community.

The people of Congo are not solely victims – you and I have to break out of this routine, of pain and destruction and despair. They are survivors. The people of Congo are its greatest resource. They are not waiting for us to speak for them – they need us to speak with them, in a strong, unified, amplified voice.

When your translator is in tears, you know you’re in trouble.

This morning we met with two women, both of them survivors of rape. Both captured and violated by the Interahamwe – the FDLR militia, some of whom are former perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide. One woman was pregnant – she said that she had accepted the situation, but it didn’t look like acceptance in her eyes. The other woman had lost her child, and had sustained burns over her entire body – her community had rejected her.

I’ve never felt more overwhelmed or hopeless, and I’m just an observer. To be honest with you, I haven’t really known how to unpack these last few days – the stories we’ve heard are unbearable. They shouldn’t be true. They should be fiction, nightmares. What do you do with this knowledge? What can you possibly do to help, to repair?

After our meeting, our team stepped out into the sunshine in front of Heal Africa’s Jubilee Center. We waited for our truck to get gassed up for our next trip out. We struggled with our emotions.

And then a man came up to talk with us, to let us know that he’d been injured in the war. Running from the Interahamwe as well, he had joined others in a lorry fleeing the village. The lorry’s brakes failed, it flipped, and they were thrown from the vehicle. Some men were crushed by the lorry itself as it rolled down the hill – this man was lucky enough to survive with two broken hands – amputated. I thought I would feel more sadness from his story, that there would be nothing but sadness in this place. I wondered again how we would bear this.

But this man is no victim – he is a survivor, in the truest sense of the word. He has two prosthetics, and he makes his living creating beautiful paintings. With no hands, he still finds the will and the way to paint, and to create beauty in his world.

Today we also met women from the Heal Africa Safe Motherhood project – women who have come together in community associations to ensure that each of them can afford quality prenatal care and reduce their risk during childbirth. They organize education about childbirth and family planning; the women learn accounting and run small businesses or cultivate fields as a collective. They manage their own money; they take care of each other:  the collective helps to care for each woman’s needs during childbirth and maternity. Their husbands help – but the women are in charge. The program is slowly changing the culture, showing that women are strong and powerful contributors to the family and household. They’re gaining respect. They’re making a difference.

This is why tonight, despite this morning’s difficult conversations, I feel optimistic. The women – and yes, also the men – of Congo are strong. They are powerful. And they have the capacity to make incredible change in this place. While people here may need tools and skill-building, they don’t need us to speak for them or work for them – they need us to join with them to make real and effective change.

Today, after meeting Mama Annie and Mama Gilberte, who run the Safe Motherhood project – I feel hope.  I think we can do this.

Yesterday, at the Goma border crossing, a local Congolese official told our translator that she wanted to go through our luggage. We knew it was a shakedown, but wanted to avoid any trouble. Isaiah talked to her to try to smooth things over, so that she would let it go. And she told him, “Isaiah, please, make me feel better now.”

 Making her feel better cost $10 – which seemed a small price to pay to avoid letting a corrupt official get a closer look at our luggage. And yesterday I thought it was actually kind of funny, the language she used: “make me feel better now.”

 But that was yesterday.

 Today, I met a four-year-old rape victim. That sentence shouldn’t even exist.

 And now I’m angry. At the self-serving official using her position to line her pockets, despite people all around her desperately trying to eke out a living in a country where their government has abandoned them. At the fact that not two minutes away from here there is a young man at the Heal Africa hospital with a cast up to his chest after being shot in Masisi last year – a wound that he could have just as easily sustained in an attack by the Congolese army as by another militia. And at the fact that there is a little girl, not two years older than my sweet little niece, whose body and soul has already been ripped apart.

 And for what? So that Congolese officials, armed groups, foreign governments and anyone else that has the smallest chance of exerting any power can continue to feed off the people of Congo? So that they can continue to sap the resources of this land, drain the strength and character of its people, destroy the potential of this incredible country?

 So that they can continue to “feel better?”

 Today I met a four-year-old rape victim. And I don’t want to hear it anymore. I don’t want to listen to excuses about how overwhelming it is, how complex or seemingly insurmountable. I don’t want to reflect.

 I want to act.

 And I want you to act, too.

I knew I shouldn’t have gone into the room about children long before I stepped inside. It’s the last room of the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center here in Rwanda, and it’s not like the kind young man that greeted us at reception didn’t give me fair warning that it was coming. I was already in tears – the memorial is intensely powerful and personal – and I knew it would push me over the edge.

No little boy’s last words should be “Mama, where should I run to?” I didn’t want to know about the little girls, sisters, best friends, who shared a doll and were murdered together. I didn’t want to know about the brother who was a mama’s boy and the sister who was a daddy’s girl who were shot as if they were not, somehow, brimming with humanity and potential.

 I don’t want to know these things. There is no way of making these stories academic, of turning back to my books and explaining away this intensely personal brutality with theory and analysis. And that’s the way I operate – making the intimacy of genocide either academic or actionable. I’ve been doing this – studying genocide, analyzing genocide, trying to understand how to prevent genocide – for thirteen years.

 But now it’s personal.

 These children that died – that were murdered, whose families were destroyed by their destruction, whose potential was snuffed out so early – some were only a little older than my daughter. My sweet girl who has only just started chatting and babbling, who desperately wants to crawl and who I am desperate to see grow and develop – how lucky am I that I will have this with her? How horrible that Rwandan parents – those that survived their children – do not?  That they have to live now every day knowing their children are missing from this world?  That in some cases they need to continue to live, side by side, with their children’s murderers – possibly not forgiving, definitely not forgetting, but nonetheless coping, somehow, with the reality?

 Tomorrow morning we leave for Goma – and from here on out nothing will be academic. It will be impossible. We will hear about brutality that is unparalleled the world over. And I will know the women and children who are telling me these stories. I will hold their hands and cry with them. It will be very, very personal, and very, very hard.

 But I also know why we’re here. Because I know that behind every terrible story, there is a person with strength that is working to rebuild. And I know the incredible potential of Congo – in the character of its people, in the depth of its culture, in the richness of its resources.

 After the Genocide Memorial today we visited the Agahozo-Shalom Youth Village, where now 350 of Rwanda’s most vulnerable orphaned children have the opportunity to study as a community and grow as adults. They learn to resolve conflicts and trust themselves. After only a year they have the confidence to confront Rwanda’s government ministers on the most difficult of national questions. Their potential is only just blooming – it’s a long road, but an important investment in a country still working to rebuild.

 I know Congo can do it too. And I’m positive that we can help.

By all accounts I shouldn’t be making this trip. My mother keeps tracking me down to tell me that she is “opposed” to it, my father sent me several emails reminding me that “Congo is not Cancun” (thanks for the reminder, Dad), and therefore, perhaps I should reconsider. But most importantly, most pressingly – perhaps I shouldn’t be making this trip because I have a five and a half month old daughter at home.

Will Lena miss me? Will she cry in the middle of the night and I won’t be there? She has her Daddy, who she obviously loves, but will she still somehow know that I’m gone? Worse yet, what if she doesn’t miss me? What if she has a fabulous time and has no idea who I am when I get home in two weeks?

Everyone I talk to asks the same thing: But what about Lena? And I only have one answer – that it’s because of Lena that I’m going. Since I had Lena, the women and children of Congo, the mothers and the daughters – they are even less of an abstraction to me. That they are suffering keeps me up at night even when Lena is (miraculously) sleeping. That Lena, by sheer circumstance of birth, is not at daily risk is a treasure – but that the Congolese are subject to constant threat is a stain on all of us. Congo has unbelievable potential to be a peaceful and strong country – in the strength of its people, the depth of its culture, the richness of its resources.  I look forward to someday  telling Lena that I did everything I could do to help – that our family does not stand idly by.