Clinic Gesom is a small, depressing, terribly underfunded NGO. Kizito has set up the appointment thinking I should see the smaller, 'less traveled' clinics. It is here I meet Zyiranzikubwimana Ziyonsara (her name has been changed to protect against possible reprisal attacks).
Zyiranzikubwimana Ziyonsara is 20 years old. She has been at Clinic Gesom for four years, the last two, for the most part, bedridden. Four years ago her village was raided by one of the many militias competing for territory. She was raped and then forced to watch as everyone in her family was murdered. Her home was burned. She was taken as a sex slave for several months before fleeing. Somehow she made it to Goma, then Clinic Gesom. She received medical and psychological treatment at the clinic, and tried several times to return to her village, but because of her burns she suffers from a chronic infection that has always led her back to the hospital. Dr. Mwarabu, who is showing us the clinic, lifts the bedding that is covering Zyiranzikubwimana's legs and shows me her ankles. They are swollen to the size of grapefruits. After a minute Zyiranzikubwimana covers her ankles with the sheet -- she still has some dignity. The doctor kindly sweeps his arm toward the door -- an indication it's time to move on. "I'd like to stay if that's okay. Can I sit with her?" Doctor Mwarabu gives a weary nod. The look on his face says everything; 'I have surgery to do. Rounds to make. Paperwork to finish. A clinic to run.' True. He is for the most part a one-man operation. God bless him.
There are one or two other doctors aside form Dr. Mwarabu, one counselor who comes twice a week (for free), and a nurse or two. That's about it. The survivors do the cleaning and cooking from what I can see. Clinic Gesom is so underfunded that that some women have been waiting since August for surgery due to traumatic rape.
I sit on Zyiranzikubwimana's bed. She seems flustered. I get the feeling that she is rarely visited. I hold her hand. Not really knowing what to say, I begin to massage her arm. Zyiranzikubwimana looks out a window next to her, her eyes well up, the intimacy is too much. Feeling her discomfort, I begin to retract my hand but she holds on tight and doesn't let go. She needs someone not to let go. She is a forgotten soul. Her future stolen from her by the vicious fight for land rich in 'conflict minerals.'
I tell Zyiranzikubwimana she's beautiful. She laughs. Once more, her eyes retreat to the window. I can see her light, a light that is dimming fast. I imagine her as my friend. She is my friend. I imagine both of us walking on the beach near my house in Santa Monica laughing and talking about men or politics. I touch her face, and again tell her how beautiful she is. She smiles, then I lose her eyes to the window again. I lean in close and kiss her cheek. It's time to go. The doctor has surgery to do. Rounds to make. Paperwork to finish. A clinic to run.
I tell Zyiranzikubwimana that I will write, then ask if there is anything I can do for her, ask if there is anything she needs -- noting the idiocy of that question as I'm asking it, and also fearing her reply. What if she asks for something I'm not able to provide? Zyiranzikubwimana thinks for a second, then turns to me, her eyes dreamy. "Fresh fruit," she smiles. "Fresh fruit," I ask? She nods. I think to myself, 'Fresh fruit.' I can do that.
I exit the gates of Clinic Gesom and head quickly to the car. Once inside, I cover my face, and I begin to cry. I make a silent pledge to myself to help Zyiranzikubwimana Ziyonsara. I don't know how, but I will. "I'll figure something out," I repeat over and over to myself. I have to. Zyiranzikubwimana Ziyonsara is beautiful. She is my friend.
Thank God for Mama Virginie and Mama Noella
We leave Clinic Gesom to meet Virginie Mumbere. Virginie is Head of Public Relations at Heal Africa. She is also the co-founder, along with Mama Noella, of AMAVESA, a widows support group -- and I mean support in every sense of the word.
Ten years ago while Mama Noella was giving birth to her son, her husband was assassinated. At the time she was a Jehovah's Witness and their followers are not allowed to show grief. Over time Mama Noella grew very depressed. She wanted to die. Her friend, Virginie Mumbere, also a widow, understood her grief. "When your husband dies you are responsible for everything; the rent, the food, taking care of the children.
"Some women lose their land, have no money, or skill. It's very hard." Mama Virginie urged Mama Noella to talk, to open up. "Congolese women are full of emotion. We need to express ourselves."
Slowly, with the ever-present encouragement of Mama Virginie, Mama Noella started to come out of her depression and reenter life. Both women, deeply understanding the need for community after losing a husband, knew that to heal, women needed to share their grief and struggles to enable them to move on. This is how AMAVESA was born.
Now AMAVESA has a community of 150 widows spanning several communities. They have one permanent compound in Goma where women stay in rotations of three months. They mill corn, rice, and wheat into a floury mix called Soblema that helps fortify malnourished children. This assures them a small salary that they reinvest in their communities. They may use the stipend to buy flour to make bread, fabric to make clothes, or paraffin to make soap. They also created the Iron Sheet Program. Each widow gives two dollars of her salary to invest back into the AMAVESA community. Part of this money goes to buy iron sheets that cover roofs so they don't leak. Mama Virginie tells me, "When it rains and you don't have a good roof everything gets wet and muddy. You are miserable. Give women a comfortable, dry space, and they are happy, they stay strong.
We visit the compound. There is a milling room, an area for chickens and ducks, a corn plot, a place to congregate where stories are shared, and a room for bagging and storing the processed grains.
I tell the group that I have a dear friend who is a widow and that she too belongs to a widows group. Their eyes light up. I tell them her name is Deb, and that maybe the two groups can connect somehow.
Everyone on the compound is working together to ensure that every widow in the community is provided for financially and emotionally. These women are survivors. They have come through the other side and are contributing to each others lives. They are happy, they are hopeful. I ask Mama Virginie how many widows need roofs. She says fifty. I ask how much that would cost. "Each iron sheet is fifteen dollars and it takes nine to cover a roof," she says. Joseph does the math. "Four thousand five hundred dollars," he says. "Done," I say. The group begins to ululate. We put our arms around each other and laugh.
After the celebration, I pull Mama Virginie to the side. "I'm happy I can contribute, but I need you to do something for me. There is a young girl at Clinic Gesom. Her name is Zyiranzikubwimana Ziyonsara. She needs you."
If anyone can breathe life back into Zyiranzikubwimana Ziyonsara, Mama Virginie and Mama Noella can.
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