On the Friday night they attacked. They beat up her father, shouted at the boys to move! Move far from here! and asked the mother which of her daughters she thought would taste the best. Stealing the money, a fortune and all that the family had in the world, they proceeded to steal her virtue, loudly, for all of the village to hear.

The question had been rhetorical. As they took turns raping her one of them crowed, ‘We saw you, sister, we’ve been watching. Nobody will want you now.’ They left; she mopped herself and her blood. They fired shots into the air. Her father cried. There was nowhere to go for help.
The next day she and a friend worked in the fields. She was sore but did not want to stay at home. As they walked the road home, the group of men were waiting for her and taunted her, ‘We hope you will not talk, sister. We do not want to have to burn your house. We do not want to kill your mother. Did we beat your father enough to keep him quiet?’ The girls ran the rest of the way home and she made a decision.

We found her alone in the church. Our mobile clinic goes twice a week to the neighbouring village, equipped with nurses skilled in counselling and all the medicines and vaccines necessary to begin treating immediately women and children who have been raped – we’re prepared, we’ve learnt to be. She instructed her mother to come and find her that morning so that she would know if we said yes to her request or not.

Once she had made her decision, she had left home and camped out in the church for two nights, alone with no water and no food. The villagers had asked if she needed anything. From behind the doors she had told them, no, just to be alone. We treated her, diminishing her risk of catching HIV, vaccinating her, cleaning her and giving her painkillers. And we listened.

She spoke for hours, cried silent tears and sat straight backed, hands folded in her lap, her tone even and calm. We said yes to her request to come to Masisi and stay in our Welcome Village for vulnerable women, for long enough to persuade the armed men that she had been abandoned and thereby remove the threat against her family’s lives. By speaking out and seeking help she would convince them of her silence, regain her control and her dignity, she said. They would not harm them more than they had.

Despite their efforts to intimidate, manipulate and belittle her, she showed a presence of mind and a strength that suggest to me that nobody could take her dignity from her. For me, she exemplifies why we can speak of rape and why we must – because it is our character that should define us, not what is done to us, and it is courage, such as hers, that keeps unified the communities that rapists attempt to terrorise and destroy.

I am not naive about the impact of this, how it will affect her, indeed threaten to shatter her. She will think about it every day of her life. But if we share these stories with a true understanding of the consequences of rape in a war zone – that it fragments society, family by family –  then we can equip communities to rebuild themselves in the knowledge that they are not alone in their tragic experiences. They are the daily realities of a warped conflict. They need not be ashamed or alone or undone.

-----------------------------------------------------

This story refers to events that took place in February 2009. In Masisi town, MSF is running a 170-bed referral hospital and is supporting a health centre. MSF has also been running mobile clinics in several remote locations of the region.

------------------------------------------------------

Spread the word

Sexual violence affects millions across the globe, shattering the lives of women, men and children.

Learn more about sexual violence on http://www.msf.org/shatteredlives/ and help increase the awareness of the problem by sharing the information on Facebook, MySpace, Twitter or another favourite social network.