Femme Noire, Femme Africaine (Black Woman, African Woman)

Yesterday I saw Francine, our beginner seamstress teacher, in the HEALing Arts room and complimented her beautiful new black hair and black outfit. She responded, “Femme Noire, Femme Africaine. Ni miye!” She wanted me to take this picture of her so people would see who she is: “Black Woman, African Woman. That is me!” and that she is proud of it!

The women in the room were giggling and chanting with her “Femme Noire, Femme Africaine!

Later Francine explained to me the source of this saying.

"Black Woman, African woman. Camaralaye was an African who went to Europe to do long studies. He wrote this letter to his mother, which I learned in elementary school in 1986:

« Femme Noire, Femme Africaine, Ô toi ma mère, je pense à toi. Ô dama, ô ma mère! Toi qui m’allaita. Toi qui me porta sur le dos, toi qui la première, m’ouvrit les yeux, ô prodige de la terre, je pense à toi. Femme de champs, femme de la rivière, femme de grande fleuve, je pense à toi. Femme de la résignation, je pense à toi. Ô toi ma mère, merci, merci pour tout ce que tu fû pour moi, ton fils si loin, si prêt de toi. D’après, Camaralaye, enfant noir. »

“Black Woman, African Woman, Oh you my mother, I think of you. Oh my dear, my dear mother! You who breast-fed me. You who carried me on your back, you the first, who opened my eyes, oh prodigy of the earth, I think of you. Woman of the field, woman of the stream, woman of the great river, I think of you. Woman of resignation, I think of you. Oh you, my mother, thank you, thank you for all that you did for me, your son so far, so near to you.From there,Camaralaye, black son.”

Kalemie, Calamity and Hope

I visited Kalemie for a short time with some friends from Airserve last weekend, and saw how incredibly beautiful and unspoiled this most-rich region of the Congo is. White sand beaches on Lake Tanganyika, with tall grasses whispering in the soft winds, sand bars shining deep in the blue waters, the sun bright like in the Caribbean. This picture is of Chelsie (my co-worker here), Dave (captain pilot), Erinn (friend from Minneapolis) and Tomie (engineer), enjoying the soft sand under bright clouds in the sky.
No one would guess the level of poverty and suffering here for women due to the war.
At HEAL Africa, we received several women with fistula. Like my new friend Janet, who told me shyly, “I am happy every time I see you!” It took me a while to figure her out. She sits off on her own, squatting due to her painful fistula, her big teeth always sticking out. Small eyes squinting not without expression; her guards up high. Today, I sat down next to her because I wondered if something was wrong. To my surprise, she happily told me her whole story. She is one of very few lucky women. She has a husband and a 5 year old son and is pregnant again. She was also raped, like so many others I meet here, by 5 Mai Mai soldiers in October, shortly after she had conceived another child from her husband. The violent rapes left her with a severe case of fistula.
Why do I say is she lucky? Well, for one, her husband has not abandoned her and is being supportive by taking care of their 5 year old while she is receiving medical treatment. Second, she is only 4 months pregnant, and is now in a safe place with good medical care to help her through the pregnancy and delivery. Our doctors will make sure that she does not get a worse case of fistula, and once she has delivered, she will receive a quality surgery that should help her recover quickly, since HEAL Africa is the first to treat her. Third, she is not subject to continuing heavy labor with her condition and pregnancy. Instead, she has the safety of the transit center. Fourth, she is receiving special counseling both psychosocially and spiritually to work on healing and forgiving the men who wronged her. Counseling also helps Janet see that as a woman, she can have a voice as well, and fight for the war to stop, for the violence against women to end. Fifth, she has never learned to read and write. She has no employable skills. After she learned about HEALing Arts’ programs, she stood up with me to enter the room and meet Francine, who teaches beginner seamstresses. As we walked out holding hands, she excitedly told me, “I will come in first and start learning how to sew. After that, I will start going to the classes that will teach me to write letters home!” She put her hand to her slowly growing belly, looked at it, then looked up and smiled at me. Slowly, she walked over to sit with some of the other women.
Yes, amid the horrors of her rape and fistula, Janet is lucky.

16 Minors Freed!

On Thursday, January 28, I met again with the pastor from the jail. A heavy sense of discouragement weighed upon us as it seemed that it would be impossible to overcome all the challenges in bailing the children out of jail. I told the Pastor that if the children could not be out by this weekend and ready for the program’s commencement on Monday, we would not be able to do anything to help the children anymore. I also stated that on top of that, our budget was limited to a specific quantity, and I could go no higher. Simply put, if I could not have them out, we could not do the program.
The following morning I accompanied a group of HEAL Africa visitors, one of whom was a prison chaplain in the US. As he preached that morning to a joyful crowd of prisoners, the badly moistened firewood from the recent rains smoldered heavily around us, thick black smoke stinging our eyes and our lungs for an hour.
As we prepared to leave, the pastor pulled me aside and said that the jail wardens had agreed to allow the children to leave as long as the fines were paid. In fact, so much so, that he already had a signed letter of dismissal for all 16 of them! I looked at him in disbelief. “16 children for the price of 12?” I asked, “Where will they stay? They cannot simply go to the street!” A couple hours later, we had found spaces for the complete orphans in a Catholic street children home. Within a short time, their staff had picked up the freed boys and integrated them into their programs. We returned to bail out the last ones, who were all orphans as well but had somewhere to say in Goma with extended family. When we entered the VIP room, the children shone with anticipation. We took pictures and were celebrating until the warden pointed out that Liban was a complete orphan with nowhere to return to. Thirteen year-old Liban, who had eagerly put his jacket on and gripped his belongings, confirmed this, which sadly forced us to wait until the following work day, Monday, to put him into another street children’s home. His small face quivered in disappointment, even as the warden yelled at him that if he shed even one tear, he would never see the outside of the prison ever again. He tried to be strong, but his youthful 13 years betrayed his severe disappointment, and not a small amount of fear, as he looked at the cracked concrete floor. We mourned in compassion for him in our hearts, hurting at his vulnerability at having to stay extra nights when his fellow inmates knew that he was going to be leaving but they were not.
The other children joyfully walked out of the room and we made our way to front door, a red metal door that let bright rays of sun shine through old bullet holes and hatchet marks into the dark, dusty lobby. Their bodies were tense, hands clenched together, weight shifting from toes to heels, as if wanting to run outside before anyone changed their mind, and at the same wanting to hold back from fleeing too quickly.
We walked them out into the bright sunshine. Walked out, like when you leave somewhere to go home.

Once out, we reminded the boys that God gives us a new spiritual life for eternity through Jesus and that it is not every day people get a new life here on this earth. We encouraged them to live their new lives like Jesus said, and to be a blessing to those around them, to use their new freedom for good. Shyly, with eyes brimming with emotion, they nodded in agreement. We shook their hands and congratulated them on their new lives. Ever so silently, treading slowly on the rocky, bumpy soccer field in front of the prison, the young boys made their way across, stunned at the gift of freedom.

Notes: The first picture is the official letter of receipt for the payment of the minor's fees.
The second and third pictures are curtesy of Alissa Everett.