Don’t Look Here for Heroes
There’s been little heroism to report in Goma, eastern DR Congo, over the last 10 months that I’ve lived here.
There has been a lot of sexual violence.
I just took a walk, and the normal events that transpired may explain why and how it occurs.
17:00 - Leaving the office, am hissed at repeatedly by a man standing around doing nothing on the street, one of scores.
17:10 - Walking down a relatively wealthy and tranquil sidestreet, I pass three boys sitting on chairs in front of a house. One is wearing a police uniform and has an AK-47. “Where are you going?” They ask.
17:15 - Rounding the corner to head towards the boulevard, I see two men conferencing in the road. “Oh, listen, I’ll catch you in a bit. I am going to go harass this white woman,” says the drunk looking one with a big scar on his face in Swahili. Or something like that.
17:17 - “Hey, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,” says the drunk looking man with the scar on his face in French as he rapidly approaches me. “Where are you going?” As soon as he catches up to me, he starts to walk next to me. “Where are you going, beautiful?” I try to walk faster, and he speeds up. I stop, he stops. “Can you please just let me be?” I say in French. “I don’t want to walk with you.” “Why not!?” he says. I don’t answer. Instead, I turn around and start walking back the other way. He does the same. His friend is shouting at him in Swahili, and the kid with the AK-47 is laughing with his friends and a good view. After a minute of my deliberate and focused walking, the man stops following me.
17:21 - I pass dozens of women carrying 20 lb water bidons on their heads, others carrying food, others selling wares on the street.
17:25 - I re-enter the gated, guarded compound where I work.
Now, just imagine the whole scenario and think about rape. Is it hard to make the connection? Like, we’re inside of a private house and I’m a Congolese girl and drunk dude with the scar on his face is a family friend. “But I don’t want to take my clothes off,” I’d say as he ripped them off. “You don’t? Why?” as he proceeded to rape me. Oops! I guess he asked too late. Then when I went to tell the police, maybe one of them would take the opportunity to rob me of my last money, grope me, and then hitch a ride on a mototaxi with his gun unintentionally pointed at pedestrians on the side of the road. When the case went to trial, oh, six months later, I might be dead, because the drunk dude with the scar on his face might have killed me in revenge for reporting his behavior. Not enough people would find this unreasonable to make him accountable for it.
