2013 #4 – Visiting with Human Rights Watch Researchers and Other Friends

It is now Monday morning in Bukavu.  The lake is still and spotted with two-man fishing boats out fishing to earn a day’s wage.   The birds - this is a bird watcher’s paradise - are busy singing, and one would think this is the most serene of holiday destinations.  Every time I walk out of my room I have to stop along the path, pull out my camera, and take photographs.  It is as if every day the color changes, and although I'm sure I have now taken dozens of photos of the lake and the hills that encircle it, it just takes my breath away and I pull out the camera once again to make this image permanent.

Another remarkable day.  I know I still owe some stories from dinner with Emmanuel, and I promise I will not forget, but what is freshest in my mind was the intellectually full day we spent yesterday with Human Rights Watch.

Ida Sawyer, Lane Hartill, Sebastian, Kaim Kapalata, and Bingi all traveled by car from Goma to Bukavu to host us.  The main office for HRW is in Goma, with Ida based out of the Congolese capital, Kinshasa.  But the M23 rebel fighters took over Goma in December.  They retreated - a whopping five kilometers outside of Goma - after President Obama made a phone call to Rwanda's president, Paul Kagame.  (The rebels are funded by Rwanda.)  The trip to Goma that I have easily made the past two years could not happen this year due to security issues.  Alas, our Goma friends travel to us.

We started the morning very early, with an hour briefing on the DRC provided in great detail by Ida.  Ida is a senior researcher who has been living and working here in the DRC for more than five years.  She gave us a thorough explanation of the violence here and the many players, each with their own forgettable acronym.  To net it out, the DRC is one-third the size of the US.  It is incredibly mineral-rich, blessed with one of the greatest concentrations of natural resources in any single country and certainly the most on the continent.  You name the mineral - gold, copper, coltan, uranium - it is all here and in great quantity.  The Congo River, which runs through the country and empties into the Atlantic Ocean, is second only to the Amazon in water volume and could offer up enough hydropower, if developed, to power most of central Africa.  Everything in Congo is on a grand scale.

Now for the problem: look at its neighbor.  Rwanda is one of the smallest countries on the continent, with the densest population of all the African countries and no natural resources to speak of.  The country is called the land of 1,000 mountains.  Enough said.  Every square foot that can be farmed is.  Over half of their gross revenue comes from foreign aid, provided largely by the US and the UK.  Guilt money from the genocide 20 years ago.  There is nothing Paul Kagame would like more than to grow his tiny country, and the easiest and best option would be to take territory that is now the Eastern Congo – and in the meantime, take as much of the resources as his militias can steal.  It is well documented that since 1996 Paul Kagame has been the puppeteer wreaking havoc in Eastern Congo.  So Ida laid out the different military leaders and described in great detail the violence committed by their troops.  It can be horrifying to hear, but at least we are listening to it second hand.  Suffice it to say that Ida did a tremendous job of laying out the causes for the violence, the players, and the different paths being taken to end it.  It's a long road.  HRW has been covering the DRC for more than 13 years.  They know it's a slow process, but it will only move forward with efforts like theirs that investigate the atrocities, expose those injustices, shine a light on the perpetrators, and work to get the stories on the front pages of newspapers throughout the world and told within the highest halls of power.  Name and shame.  Advocate for change.  Pursue justice.

We moved from our morning briefing with Ida across town to Centre Olame, which sits high upon a hill in Bukavu overlooking most of the city and that stunningly beautiful lake.  Centre Olame (http://www.olame.org) is a 54-year-old institution dedicated to empowering women and families.  They offer programs predominantly for women that provide training in leadership, community engagement, general education, advocacy, and communications, among other programs, with a goal that the combination of training programs will empower more women and lead to a more peaceful and productive society.  The center is run by a brilliant woman, Mathilde.  She was a former member of Parliament and in 2002 was honored by HRW as a defender.  She is, like Christine at City of Joy, one of the many Congolese heroes.

We spent the day at Centre Olame divided into three groups of eight and rotated through different speakers who had been pulled together by HRW.  Masika traveled to Bukavu with the HRW folks from Goma and was able to share her heart-wrenching story with the group.  Masika might have more trauma in her body than anyone I have met.  The very good news is that both Masika and Dessange (now a sophomore in college) are going to be in the next City of Joy class, which will start on the first of June.  I'm so tempted to come back for that graduation, because I can only imagine the transformation - I've seen what is possible.  Masika and Dessange, although years past their personal trauma, still struggle with eye contact.

We also heard from Father Abbe Benoit Kinalegu, who runs an amazing center to help repair the broken souls of child soldiers.  On my visit last year, I went to a center that does this work and spent a couple of hours across the table from three former child soldiers.  It was the darkest moment of my journey.  I don't think there is anything worse than stealing the soul of a child.  The atrocities that these children are forced to endure I cannot bear to repeat.  Abbe Benoit's center is hours from where we are, located in the northeast corner of the DRC.  Most of the children that make it to his center have escaped from the Lord’s Resistance Army, or LRA.  (Think KONY 2012 video - it was all true, and the LRA are alive and well in the northern part of the DRC, the Central African Republic, and South Sudan.)  Father Benoit met HRW in 2007 when an entire village near his parish was slaughtered on Christmas Day.  There was only one survivor, and he managed to get to Father Abbe Benoit, who immediately called HRW.  As he tells it, both Ida and Anneke from HRW got on a plane immediately (a four-seater), flew to the region, and then traveled with Abbe Benoit by motorbike.  Together, they counted the bodies and documented each one with the help of the lone elder that had survived (because he had been napping a short distance away).  HRW released a full report on the massacres, naming the perpetrators and identifying every victim.  It will be used at the ICC when Joseph Kony is finally caught and turned over to the court.  

HRW opened and closed our day and it was rich.  We all came back in our caravan to dinner at the Orchid and took over 4 large round tables with our guests from HRW, Masika, Mathilde, and Father Abbe Benoit.  We enjoyed a long dinner of more intimate conversations, while outside the skies opened up and announced yet again that is the rainy season in Eastern Congo.

Jesse Cool's Blog Post -- Bravery

Jesse with Abbe Benoit Kinalegu of the Catholic Justice and Peace Commission

This is a re-post of Jesse Cool's blog entry from the Congo




Bravery

February 11, 2013

In the midst of the deepest despair is the purest love and hopefulness.

We never know when we might be in a place where our own barriers go down and our heart is deeply touched.  This is where attachment melds with humanness and innate goodness has no limit. I think this what happens when I am here in East Africa.

Before leaving on this trip, I was told by Amy that I would cry a lot. I don’t cry easily. (unless I have a few too many martinis which is why I stop at one!) I thought because of the journey last year to Rwanda with Women for Women I would be ready for similar stories and situations here in DR Congo. That I was seasoned, tougher skinned…

I was wrong. I have cried, had my heart broken and sobbed barely able to speak during these past few days. We are sitting witness to stories that go deeper here, into unfathomably impossible human disgracefulness, especially towards women, girls and young boys.

We spent yesterday in discussions and break outs with Human Rights Watch. They are a trusted investigative organization that goes to the front line, into the core of the most dangerous and complex places of abuse and then regardless of the risk and they write about it. Unlike war journalists or photographers, they are not looking for a situation to get the best or most sensational story or picture. They are getting as close as they can to the truth of injustice and their writers send a message to the world in hopes that we will listen and action will be taken by individuals and governments to stop the abuse. I encourage everyone to go to their website, sign on and follow their news…. not just about Congo but places , even in the USA where people need help desperately.  Through being aware…taking action, in our own community or elsewhere in the world, one person at time, we can make a difference.

Human Rights Watch Website:  http://www.hrw.org/home

As much as I want to share those transformation moments…the parts of this journey that are uplifting through cooking and farming, I would not be genuine if I did not write about what is utterly awful and a mess and most importantly of the brave people who are trying to change things here in this beautiful place of Congo. It is in the midst of the human wastefulness and violence that we find heroes who are building places of refuge, hospitals, harboring the abused. They are also the ones trying to get the word out to us to help those in need.

They get involved, do not shy away from the danger, and do it now and take action…is this not unconditional generosity and love.

I am meeting the bravest people ever. Yesterday, I was totally smitten with one of the those action heroes, Abbe Benoit Kinalegu of the Catholic Justice and Peace Commission in Dungu where he spearheads The Lost Children Foundation.

http://blog.invisiblechildren.com/2012/09/10/abbe-benoit-celebrated-for-human-rights-award/

TODAY:

We start to help with the rebuilding.  We are going to the  V-World Farm. Even the farmers from Occidental Arts And Ecology Center have not been there yet!

TOMORROW:  We get to unpack the supplies we brought for the kitchen at City of Joy. Along with so much more that 11th Hour Foundation is doing here, including medical supplies for Panzi Hospital…we are part of the big the plan of forward and why we are here!

More soon… Sending love and care

2013 #3 – Muree, Valentine, and Cynthia

Reflections from yesterday.

Last night, when one of my friends was headed to bed, she stopped and said, "I want you to know this is the fourth best day of my life - the other three being when my children were born and I married my husband.  But after those three, this is the best."

Yesterday we had an incredible day at City of Joy, and it was very different from previous visits.  Don't get me wrong, all the days at City of Joy seem to imprint themselves in your mind forever, but yesterday I felt a genuine happiness like I haven't felt before.  These 90 women, all of whom have been at the City for five months now, seem to be the happiest, most joyful and oozing gratitude that infuses us all.  The journey they have had is remarkable, especially when you consider their all-too-young age.  I think most of those girls yesterday must have been 13-15 years old.  They are a tiny bunch; I can look many in the eye with bare feet and most I feel as if I tower over.  One can make the assumption that most of the girls spent years malnourished in the bush.

When we sat for the feast yesterday at tables in the "rec-room/dining room," I had a beautiful girl to my left.  She looked older than most of the girls, and I would have guessed that we were the same age.  She had a beautiful face, and a serious gaze - as if she were trying to believe that this plane full of women had come and they wanted to dance and hug and wrap their arms around one another and love unconditionally. Christine sat down next to me and introduced me.  Muree is the oldest woman at City of Joy in this class, and truth be told we now only take women between 13 and 24.  Muree was 30.  She came from a village far away, where she operated a simple counseling shelter working to rescue girls who had been violently raped and tortured.  She had sent two girls from her center to the two previous classes at City of Joy.  When they returned they had transformed so much into leaders that she felt she must turn her center over to them and could she please come to the City of Joy?  Christine had made the exception and you could see such gratitude in Muree's eyes, which clearly have endured so much pain.  When all the girls got up to dance, Muree remained sitting like an elder.  Christine shared with me that Muree was very sick with HIV.  Because I speak no French and Muree no English, we communicated through touch and expressions and hand gestures.  I just wanted to wrap my arms around Muree and kiss her head.  Such a beautiful woman.  Such an old soul.  After a while I gestured to her, “Shall we get up and dance?”  All the girls were on the stage at the head of the room, and Muree and I stood up and remained there, next to our table, letting the music fill us, rocking back and forth.  Every once and a while, she would look up and smile.  We will be back three more times this week, and I cannot wait to find my new friend.

As I sit here and write, I can think of so many good stories from yesterday that I wish this were being typed in real time.  Yesterday in the office, as we all sat around the big table, Christine said she had a surprise for me.  She left the room for a moment and came back with an adorable five year old.  It was Cynthia, the daughter of Valentine whom I had first met at Masika's center in Goma.  Two years ago, on my first trip to the DRC, I spent half my week with V-Day at the City of Joy opening and the second half of the week with Human Rights Watch in Goma.  On that trip to Goma, Ida Sawyer, a senior researcher based in Goma, took me out to a rape and counseling center about an hour drive out of town in the village of Minova.  A woman named Masika, herself a survivor of a very violent attack, had opened this center a few years after her trauma as a means to give her something to live for.  Her story is one of the worst I have ever taken in when listening to a victim give testimony.  Her home was attacked by militia, her husband was killed in front of her, violently, and as she was being gang-raped by the perpetrators her two girls in the next room were being raped.  She lost consciousness at some point and woke up six months later in the hospital HEAL Africa.  She had been found by Doctors without Borders; her two daughters were both six months pregnant.  She's a pretty extraordinary woman, and there is rarely any sign of joy about her.  We occasionally get a smile, as she is so happy that we keep coming back, but it never holds for more than a second or two.  

Cynthia's mother, Valentine, was a girl living at Masika's shelter in Minova.  There is nothing truly safe about that center.  The village of Minova seems always to find itself in the heart of the violence.  On my first trip I met many of the girls there, but Valentine stood out.  The sadness in her eyes was so evident; it was as if her soul had been stolen.  She sat on a stump on the ground, leaning up against the simple shack that was Masika's center.  I noticed that her left hand was missing.  Only a stump remained.  What I didn't know at the time is that one of the many children running around covered in the dry volcanic dust of the region was Valentine's daughter - a product of rape and a child that sickened Valentine even to see. When I went back to Goma last year for the second time, I had bags of gifts that I took for Masika and all the women and children at her center.  I remember thinking long and hard about what could I take for Valentine.  Her face, her deeply pained eyes, had never left my mind.  I had no idea what I could take for her.  A bag of clothes or a piece of jewelry just didn't seem fitting.  

Before I traveled to Goma last year, I spent three days at the City of Joy with Masika and Mama Baccu.  I had pulled Mama Baccu aside and asked her if I might ask a favor.  I knew there was a list of girls from Masika's center that were going to be accepted into the next City of Joy class, and I couldn't imagine anything better to give Valentine than a chance for her to be one of those lucky students.  Mamma Baccu finished my sentence and told me that Valentine would be coming and she had a daughter that she hated and that daughter would be coming with her.  I had no idea.  

We went to Masika's later that week and spent a day at her center.  When several of us saw Valentine, we now saw her daughter, too.  We would watch in horror as she pushed the daughter away and would beg us to take her.  She didn't want her.  She hated this child.  She wanted her to die.  I can't even find the words to describe the deep sadness.  What Valentine didn't know was that in one week she would be moving to Bukavu, to the City of Joy, and that she would be taking her daughter with her.  Christine and Mamma Baccu emphasize learning to love your child; learning that the innocent child has nothing to do with the violence; learning that to love your child is a critical part of your healing.  To turn the page on your life, you must take your child with you.

Well here was dear Cynthia, radiant, a bit shy with all the attention, a healthy happy five year old.  Christine told her story.  Christine was very worried that Valentine wouldn't remain in the program - she was so violent, so angry, so traumatized - it would take miracles.  But Valentine did graduate.  Those in the toughest struggles know the greatest strength.  Valentine graduated last September as a leader in the class.  Probably the greatest transformation.  She learned the trade of sewing and moved back to Goma, not going back to the dangers of Minova.  She got a small house and started a sewing business.  She trains other women, she sells her wares, and she is happy happy happy for the first time in years.  She and Christine agreed that Cynthia would stay here in Bukavu with Christine, where she goes to school.  Christine says Cynthia is the brightest in the class.  Valentine comes every month to visit and indeed loves her child so much, but also knows that Cynthia will be safer with Christine and with the potential to have a full, rich education and to go on to college.

Seeing Cynthia come in the office yesterday, her bright smile, dressed in bright African prints, was just too much to hold back tears for all of us.  Later in the afternoon when we all danced again outside on the big grassy field, Cynthia entertained us all with a dance from her native village.  She would shrug up her shoulders to the beats of the drums and do some fancy footwork.  It was incredible.  It was joy.

As if the day could get any better….  We then headed back to the Orchid for dinner.  Our dear friend, Emmanuel de Merode, the head of Virunga National Park, joined us and told his story and the story of the gorillas kept in his care.  I will write this story later, but it made for one of the best days of our collective lives.

2013 #2 -- Returning to the Congo and City of Joy

Finally it comes.  I was walking down the dark path tonight to my room in the Orchids Hotel, perched on the shore of Lake Kivu, with my friend Joe, and I said, “Let me give you something.”  When we reached our quarters, four rooms next to each other, I stepped off the stone walkway and onto the grass and looked up in the sky.  There, straight above us bright as can be, was the Southern Cross.  One, two, three, four.  A gift.  

I arrived in Bujumbura, Burundi two days ago, flying through a thick layer of clouds and then on the ground just before the rains arrived.  It is nearly two years to the day from when I took the same route to come to the DRC for the first time.  This makes visit #3.  It is never easy getting here.  Flying into the DRC is almost impossible, and the only planes one would even feel safe enough to board would be UN planes.  So you go through either Burundi or Rwanda and then transit in by car (4-wheel drive SUV to be more specific).  The roads in Burundi were much better than I remembered from the last visit, and of course Rwanda, rich with foreign aid, has roads that are simply a thing of beauty in this part of the world.

I arrived in Bukavu late afternoon on Friday, still under cloudy skies.  We were checked into our rooms with impeccable efficiency (room keys on the counter at reception with your name attached in big black Sharpie letters).  Grab your key and go.  The Orchids Hotel is a jewel.  The magenta bougainvillea has grown massively; it must climb almost 100 feet into the sky, attached to a tree that is difficult to identify as it is nearly completely coated in purple petals.  I have had the pleasure of staying here on each visit to Bukavu, and it reminds me of how incredibly privileged I am.  

I wasn't in my room ten minutes when I heard the crash of raindrops coming down, as if the sky had a full belly of water and just burst.  It was the heaviest rain I have ever witnessed in all my years.  It lasted about a half an hour, and I was in awe of the power of it.  I stood outside with several other fellow travelers, under the porch of our rooms, looking out watching it pound on the lake in front of our eyes.  You could hardly see anything clearly; the rain was so heavy it seemed to change the appearance of everything.  Welcome back to the Congo.  It's always one experience after the other for the first time.  Always surprised and so hard to look away.  

What a treat it was tonight at the end of an incredibly rich day to realize suddenly the night sky was clear as a bell.  And the Southern Cross was bigger and brighter than I ever remembered.

I started my day early, as the time change never seems to matter.  You want to rise with the sun here.  There is too much to see and to learn and to share not to try to give yourself every waking minute you can manage.  So I was up early this morning with the sun and a breakfast of passion fruits and toast and tea with powdered milk.  I was put in charge last night by Eve, who is staying with Christine and Pat and Paula at the Co-Co Lodge, of only one thing: I was to get all 24 of us in the cars (we are traveling in a caravan of nine Toyota Land Cruisers) and on the road for a 10 am pickup at Co-Co.  Well, fire me now - I left one of my fellow travelers behind this morning.  Thank goodness Co-Co is only ten minutes away, as the moment we arrived we had to turn a car back to go pick up the missing person.  Passenger collected and now the trip begins.

Our day was spent at the City of Joy in Bukavu.  But first we must absorb all the life and the happenings and the faces and the sites on Essence Road.   The City of Joy sits at the end of Essence Road, and as we make our way, bumpity bump, and stare out the windows, we have little conversation in the vehicles.  The scenes of life happening around us take all one's attention.  As we get closer to the City of Joy, the foot traffic becomes heavier, the poverty level becomes more obvious, the road narrows.  The final leg of the drive to the City is a tent camp, which must resemble an IDP (internally displaced persons) camp left to survive with no more aid.  Our windows are up on the vehicles, but now we have left much of the crowd behind us and we begin to hear singing.  Loud, joyful singing.

I knew what to expect because I have done this before, but what a moment to share and one for which I am endlessly grateful.  The 90 women at the City of Joy are singing and dancing and welcoming us all in through the gates with mad joy.  We file out of our cars and stream in slowly, as each one of us is first greeted by one of the ADORABLE 21 toddlers living there at the moment, each dressed in bright Congolese dress - fuchsia, yellow, and deep blue.  15 little girls and six little boys.  What a sweet sight!  The women are lined up behind all the babies in two lines, so that each of us one by one can dance our way through them out to the big center field of grass.  The singing is so loud and SO beautiful, and a trio of men is beating away on drums.  Has anyone ever been so happy to see us?  

I can't remember at this point how long the music lasted or how long we danced, but it was more joyful than I can ever remember.  

We finally made our way into the office at City of Joy and crowded around a big table.  We are a big group.  Christine, the leader extraordinaire who runs this center of transformation, gave an overview of how she runs the "ship."  I won't go into this, as I know I have written about it in the past, but let's just leave it that no pencil goes unaccounted for.  I don't know of anyone who can stretch a household dollar like Christine.   Mama Baccu, who makes me think of something sweet as she is traditionally built and always wearing some beautiful African print with a big dollop of matching fabric spun on her head like icing from a pastry bag, goes over all of the programs being taught at the City – trauma-tapping therapy to animal husbandry, French and English, computers, public speaking, human rights, sewing, and the list goes on.  Each visit the programming has become broader, the teachers better, the results more impressive.

As we sit in the office, the windows open with a light warm breeze coming through, you can hear the girls singing and drums beating, and the energy just flows and flows.  As Eve points out, one of the secrets to City of Joy is to keep the energy moving, unabated, no place for the energy to jam up.  All the classes and all the staff are focused on helping each one of these girls turn the page on their life.  Everyday, as Mama Baccu says, they must turn the page again.  I have come to realize now after three visits that this is the real miracle of City of Joy.  You see, if you are here, if you are a girl in this program, you have a story.  You have a horrible story.  I have heard the stories.  I can't seem to write one tonight.  It will come.  But you have to keep the energy of life flowing.

We had a feast with all the women - cassava greens cooked up like sauteed spinach, and amaranth greens, long and stringy, cooked with onions, fish and chicken charcoaled crisp, cassava starch and maybe the sweetest sweet potato I have ever had.  Peli peli that set my mouth on fire.  And fresh pineapple that we bought from a beautiful fruit stand just before leaving Burundi - run by women of course!

One of the best moments at lunch was taking my friend Jesse Cool, a fabulous chef, in to see the kitchen.  Or out actually, as it is an outdoor kitchen.  She met all the cooks, one by one, three kisses to the cheeks, kiss cheek, turn again repeat, turn again repeat.  This is how the Congolese greet one another; it's always three.  The women had just finished cooking enough food to feed about 140 of us – WOW, that's a lot.  They made so many dishes, and I promise I will get a full list.  Jesse praised the women for how neatly organized and how clean their kitchen was, and they smiled with these proud grins.  She will be cooking with them later this week.  I think that 500 of our 9,500 pounds of cargo were Jesse's pots, pans and cooking tongs.  What a site their cooking together will be to watch.

After the feast we started dancing again.  We have all learned the One Billion Rising song, Break the Chain! (http://onebillionrising.org/blog/entry/we-have-an-anthem).  What an experience to do a flash mob with these women.  I will be sharing the photos.  But what was the most unexpected moment of the day?  The tune that followed Break the Chain! was Gangnam Style, and boy did they rock the house on that one!  Here we are in the true heart of Africa, the heart of darkness, the heart of the world, and that YouTube sensation is here too. How could we not have predicted this!

I have much more to tell about today, but it's quite late so I'll try to write the next post in the morning.

2013 #1 -- One Billion Rising

Ten days out from my travel to the Democratic Republic of the Congo and a return visit to the City of Joy.  Two weeks and a couple days until One Billion Rising. 

I don’t normally send my first post out this early, but lately I find myself talking more and more about One Billion Rising, and since I will be in Bukavu, DRC on the 14^th of February, the day that One Billion people around the planet will Rise, I want to make sure you all can take part in the Risings where you are.     

So what is One Billion Rising (OBR)?  It’s how Eve Ensler does things.  It’s how we change the world.  It’s never been needed more than at this very moment.  It’s about standing up with everyone you love and care about, especially the women, the sisters, the mothers, the aunts, the grandmothers, the daughters, the friends and every man, brother, son, father, nephew, friend that loves us, and saying that we are OVER the violence against women. We are DONE with it.  We have had ENOUGH.  It has to STOP.  One Billion Rising on February 14, 2013 is a TRUE MOMENT on this planet and we cannot miss it.   The chance to connect and mobilize a billion women and girls, men and boys towards creating a very different kind of world at a time when this one teeters in many ways - socially and environmentally.  

Last night, someone sent me the trailer for the documentary The Invisible War, a film about rape in the military.   The screen flashed with the statistic that over 500,000 women in the US military have been sexually assaulted.  

In Steubenville, Ohio a 14 year girl is raped by members of the high school football team.  Students stand aside, take photos, and post them on Facebook and Twitter, and no one steps in to stop it.

In New Delhi, India a female college student and her boyfriend board a bus home.  She is so violently gang raped and beaten with a metal pipe that it destroys all of her organs.  Then she and her boyfriend are thrown from the bus and lie naked and bleeding on the road while people pass by and do nothing.  And India rises like never before and the mothers begin to say “That could have been my daughter.”  And then someone says that we also need to step forward and say, “That could have been my son.”

Today, on the planet, a billion women – one of every three women on the planet – will be raped or beaten in her lifetime. That’s ONE BILLION mothers, daughters, sisters, partners, and friends violated. V-Day REFUSES to stand by as more than a billion women experience violence.

On February 14th, 2013, V-Day's 15th Anniversary, we are inviting one billion women and those who love them to walk out, DANCE, RISE UP, AND DEMAND an end to this violence. One Billion Rising is a promise that we will rise up with women and men worldwide to say, "Enough! The violence ends now."

As crazy as I thought Eve was when she kicked off One Billion Rising - because let’s face it, that’s a lot of people - I know every morning when I look in my inbox and see the countries, cities, mayors, congressional leaders, parliamentarians, TV networks, religious leaders that have signed on to Rise - the list goes on, today Risings are planned in over 186 countries - that she will get there.  I encourage you to go to www.vday.org and find a Rising near you.  And if you are so inclined, start a Rising at your school, your church, your neighborhood, your company, your gym, your city center.  Here in the Bay Area nearly every college and university, most high schools, many churches, and city centers are all hosting Rising events.  And if you like to DANCE well then click on the link to Break the Chains (http://onebillionrising.org/blog/we-have-an-anthem) and learn the dance that is choreographed by Debbie Allen.  Read the blogs of why people are Rising.  Check out the tumbler https://www.rebelmouse.com/VDay/ and share it with your friends and family.  I encourage you to RISE.

I will be with Eve in the Congo on the 14^th at the City of Joy.  The City of Joy is a center that was built to help women that have been among the most brutalized on the planet.  A center built in the poorest section of Bukavu on a plot of mud that no one wanted.  A place that we now say is the BEST place in the world to be a woman in a country that has been labeled the worst place in the world to be a woman.  The City of Joy is the lotus that rises out of the mud.  A place that signifies love and transformation and all that is good about humanity.

I have two things to share with you in this first posting.  One is a poem that Eve wrote this past fall, Over It, about demanding an end to the violence against women.  The second is a video called The Man Prayer (http://www.vday.org/node/3036).  I think it’s the most beautiful Valentine I have ever sent.  The video fills my eyes with tears from the start to the finish because it’s a video of men, all speaking in their native tongues from all over the world, reading the verses of a prayer Eve wrote last year after meeting His Holiness Gyalwang Karmapa at TED India and being inspired by his commitment to this movement to end the violence.  When I read the words it is what I want for every man on the earth and if we could get there I know the violence against women and girls would stop....  And then I think of the teenagers in Steubenville and the students in India, and the girls at the City of Joy, and I know I have to share this message with everyone I know and hope it will ripple out like a pebble tossed into the pond because that could have been my daughter and it could have been my son.

http://www.vday.org/node/3036

Over It

by Eve Ensler

I am over rape.

I am over rape culture, rape mentality, rape pages on Facebook.

I am over the thousands of people who signed those pages with their real names without shame.

I am over people demanding their right to rape pages, and calling it freedom of speech or justifying it as a joke.

I am over people not understanding that rape is not a joke and I am over being told I don't have a sense of humor, and women don't have a sense of humor, when most women I know (and I know a lot) are really fucking funny. We just don't think that uninvited penises up our anus, or our vagina is a laugh riot.

I am over how long it seems to take anyone to ever respond to rape.

I am over Facebook taking weeks to take down rape pages.

I am over the hundreds of thousands of women in Congo still waiting for the rapes to end and the rapists to be held accountable.

I am over the thousands of women in Bosnia, Burma, Pakistan, South Africa, Guatemala, Sierra Leone, Haiti, Afghanistan, Libya, you name a place, still waiting for justice.

I am over rape happening in broad daylight.

I am over the 207 clinics in Ecuador supported by the government that are capturing, raping, and torturing lesbians to make them straight.

I am over one in three women in the U.S military (Happy Veterans Day!) getting raped by their so-called "comrades."

I am over the forces that deny women who have been raped the right to have an abortion.

I am over rape victims becoming re-raped when they go public.

I am over starving Somali women being raped at the Dadaab in Kenya, and I am over women getting raped at Occupy Wall Street and being quiet about it because they were protecting a movement which is fighting to end the pillaging and raping of the economy and the earth, as if the rape of their bodies was something separate.

I am over women still being silent about rape, because they are made to believe it's their fault or they did something to make it happen.

I am over violence against women not being a #1 international priority when one out of three women will be raped or beaten in her lifetime - the destruction and muting and undermining of women is the destruction of life itself.

No women, no future, duh.

I am over this rape culture where the privileged with political and physical and economic might, take what and who they want, when they want it, as much as they want, any time they want it.

I am over the endless resurrection of the careers of rapists and sexual exploiters - film directors, world leaders, corporate executives, movie stars, athletes - while the lives of the women they violated are permanently destroyed, often forcing them to live in social and emotional exile.

I am over the passivity of good men. Where the hell are you?

You live with us, make love with us, father us, befriend us, brother us, get nurtured and mothered and eternally supported by us, so why aren't you standing with us? Why aren't you driven to the point of madness and action by the rape and humiliation of us?

I am over years and years of being over rape.

And thinking about rape every day of my life since I was 5 years old.

And getting sick from rape, and depressed from rape, and enraged by rape.

And reading my insanely crowded inbox of rape horror stories every hour of every single day.

I am over being polite about rape. It's been too long now, we have been too understanding.

We need to OCCUPYRAPE in every school, park, radio, TV station, household, office, factory, refugee camp, military base, back room, night club, alleyway, courtroom, UN office. We need people to truly try and imagine - once and for all - what it feels like to have your body invaded, your mind splintered, your soul shattered. We need you to let our rage and our compassion connect us together so we can change the paradigm of global rape.

There are approximately one billion women on the planet who have been violated.

ONE BILLION WOMEN.

The time is now. Prepare for the escalation.

Today it begins, moving toward 14 February 2013, when one billion women will rise to end rape.

Because we are over it.

I hope you will join a RISING on February 14.  It’s time.

Amy

#9 - The Mountain Gorillas

On Tuesday afternoon, four of us piled into a land cruiser with our luggage and headed for the Mountain Gorilla View Lodge in Ruhengeri, Rwanda.  The lodge looks out over Volcanoes National Park.  Breathtaking views in all directions.

We arrive in the very late afternoon and are greeted by Ann and hot cups of ginger tea.  The lodge is extremely pleasant.  It’s much cooler up in the mountains, and we are kept warm at the lodge with roaring fires to heat our rooms and hot water bottles (also known as bush babies in Africa) tucked into our beds by the staff while we eat dinner in the dining hall.  The lodge is run completely by generators, and you are told at check-in the hours – early morning from 5-7am, 12-1:30pm, and again from 5:15-11pm – that the generator is on.  So if you want to charge your iPad or phone or camera, or read by light, those are your hours.  Everyone tends to be out of the lodge by 6:30am, as the reason to stay in such a remote lodge is to gorilla trek in the park.

After dinner we walk the paths with flashlights back to our rooms, small bungalows that are scattered all over the property.  I love to star gaze in this part of the world.  Light pollution is almost non-existent.  The Southern Cross visible clearly in the night sky.

We had breakfast Wednesday morning, a bountiful buffet as food is much more plentiful in Rwanda.  The county is the most densely populated in Africa, and farming is done by nearly every family, each growing what they need and taking the rest to markets.  We drive through the hillsides on smoothly paved roads, and in all directions are neatly divided farm plots on the flat lands and row after row of terraced farming up the steep slopes.

This particular area where we stay is the part of Rwanda where potatoes flourish.  We see field after field of potato plants covered in white, blue or purple flowers, depending on the type of potato.  But what is so striking is watching how the harvest is transported.  Farmers are digging up the potatoes and transporting them to large piles, those mounds to be transferred to large sacks that are at least 4’ by 2’ in size and weigh well over 100 lbs.  We drive slowly by as women walk up sides of the road with these bags draped over their heads.  Again, yellow jerry cans everywhere in this part of the country; everyone in the house goes for water generally two times per day.

We arrive at the park entrance.  80 people per day are permitted to see the mountain gorillas.  We are joined by 4 other trekkers to make our group of visitors eight and are led into the park by our guide John.  There are about ten families of gorillas that can be viewed from this park.  Each group of eight visitors is assigned to one family.  Today we are to see a family of 14 gorillas, including two Silverbacks, which are adult males over the age of eight years.  Females that are eight (the age they can begin to reproduce) and older have black backs.  The life expectancy of the mountain gorilla is about 45 years.  This family has four babies and a host of adolescents, which are generally two to six years old.  We drive for about 45 minutes on dirt roads; as we get closer to the national park the roads get very bumpy and rocky, the drive covering us in dust.  Once parked, we are met by porters who charge $10, a great wage and how they make a living, to carry our backpacks.  We are offered walking sticks that really come in handy on both the climb up and down.  We are hiking to see mountain gorillas, so that means up.  The starting point for the hike is 2,500 meters, and we climb from there. Out of the cars, we hike up through farmland for 45 minutes and then reach a wall, which is a pile of stones about eight feet high that marks the boundary of the park.  Once we climb over the wall, it is important to keep our voices low and stay in a line following our guide.  All sorts of animals live in park, including elephants and buffalo (which can be quite dangerous).  Walking in front of John are one armed park ranger and two porters with machetes that hack away making our path.

We hike about 45 minutes on our first day into the jungle, where we meet the trackers who very early every morning go into the park and locate the particular family they are tasked with tracking.  They are in constant radio contact with John, directing him where to lead us.  Once we reach them, we leave our walking sticks and any pack we may be holding, and we go in with only our cameras.  The gorillas are curious and if they smell food they might want to take it from us; walking sticks can make them curious and nervous.  We are given final instruction on how to behave and what to expect.  If the gorilla comes toward us, you step aside and let them pass.  You are not to get too close; the guide takes care to keep a safe distance.  We have precisely one hour to spend with the family.  It is thought that spending any longer might stress the gorillas, and so one hour per day is all that is permitted.

We don’t go but two more minutes, and you can hear the gorillas cooing and making happy grunting sounds.  Our porters hack our way into the gorillas’ large nest of stinging nettles.  Most visitors are wearing gloves and gators.  I am not.  I pull my hands up into my sleeves, but it only takes me one second to push a nettle away with my hand tucked into my sleeve and I’m feeling the sting like crazy.  Fortunately, John showed us a plant on the hike in that produces a salve for the sting.  It grows next to the nettles and resembles an aloe plant, with flat leaves of deep eggplant at the center changing to deep green as the leaf juts out.  I start breaking the leaves off and using the milky salve to coat the side of my hand.  Relief comes immediately.

The first gorilla we see is a bit startled and heads right toward us, so John pushes us to the side.  But once in their nest, we are soon surrounded by the family.  The Silverbacks don’t move too much, either laying on the ground or sitting up looking at us.  The young ones are full of energy and spend their time climbing over the adults, eating, swinging, looking adorable.  It’s truly a magical experience to be in their home watching their behavior.  The babies snuggle in the arms of the adults, they scratch where they itch, they lay down on their sides and rest on their elbows, side of face in hand, they pull the plants up and eat them, stinging nettles and bamboo being two of their favorites.  The hour flies by, cameras clicking.

The second day we head in a different direction by car, again with our same guide, John.  We see a family of 23.  The highlight is the number of babies, including one that is three months old.  A black-back mommy holds the tiny baby, its head the size of a grapefruit.  Lots of infants in this family, swinging from vines, wrestling with other, chasing and playing.  The older members mostly nap stretched on their backs, mothers nurse infants, Silverbacks sit up just watching us.  Their faces each different.  Occasionally you make eye contact with one.  There is no doubt we are all related.

Both days have been unforgettable.  I am so grateful to Marsha for booking our excursion.  It has been a great treat and wonderful final two days of this journey.  I hope to send photos from Marsha and Emily as they are the photographers in our group, and I know mine just won’t do the gorillas justice.  So stay tuned.

We are back at the lodge by 1pm for a quick shower and lunch.  Gina and I will begin our long journey home tonight with a flight departing Kigali at 9pm.  We are picked up at the lodge by our driver, Gerry, at 2pm.  No sooner are we in the car than Gerry talks with us about what we would like to do in Kigali later today.  He knows that we have a couple of hours to spare before we have to be at the airport.  I visited Rwanda in 2006 for a week.  I am always cognizant of one thing in Rwanda: anyone you meet that is 20 or over is a survivor of the 1994 genocide.  Everyone has a story.   No family escaped this tragedy.  Gerry asks if we have been to the Kigali Memorial Center, which we say we visited last week.  He tells us that his mother’s and sisters’ photos are on display in the center.  He proceeds to tell us, the story trickling out over the hours we will spend in the car, that both of his parents, his two sisters, their husbands, and each of his sister’s three children were all killed in 1994.  His parents and one sister and family are buried along with the other 200,000 victims at the memorial, and his other sister and her family are buried at a village outside of Kigali.  He and his twin brother survived only because they happened to be in Kenya working in the tourist industry.  He came back to Kigali after the genocide in 1994.  He stayed for four days, then left to go back to Kenya.  It wasn’t until years later that he felt he could return home.  He has two children and was married.  His wife died in childbirth, giving birth to their youngest, a boy.  You never escape the reality of maternal mortality in the Third World.  Everyone has a story.  We asked if he drives in the Congo as well as Rwanda, as most of our drivers in the DRC are Rwandans.   He does not.  He is 6’5” and looks clearly Tutsi.  He said that he will not cross the border into the eastern DRC, as the Hutu militia that carried out the genocide live in the hills of eastern Congo.  He fears they would kill him.

We have a long conversation with Gerry about the Gacaca courts.  He reminds us that those convicted of the genocide only served ten years in prison, unless they were the very high ranking officials that led the genocide.  The leaders of the massacre got 35 years.  Most of those convicted are now out of prison and living back amongst the families whose members they brutally murdered.  He reminds us that no one ever forgets or forgives, it’s not humanly possible.  They go on because at some point the killing has to stop and it has to start with both sides saying no more.  They go on.  They go on because they never want the next generation to live through this history.  Indeed, he looks forward to 50 years passing and Rwanda being populated with people who have no first hand memory of the genocides. 

Emily and Marsha go for Indian food, as their flight isn’t until Friday noon.  Gina and I say goodbye to Gerry at the airport.  We check in for our flight to Brussels and, famished as we haven’t eaten in several hours, go looking for some bread rolls and cheese.  There isn’t much of a selection at this tiny airport.  We are so looking forward to the food on the way home; once in Europe we can enjoy fresh fruit and vegetables again.  I down one bread roll and then break the other in half to share with Gina.  When I break it in half, I see that the bottom is covered in green and black mold.  Oh god.  Gina looks at it and then looks at me and says “oven dirt.”  I just laugh and hold my stomach.