I thought news of our event was long over and had been busily planning our trip to Haiti and the workshop in Las Vegas with at-risk youth when I was sent this link three days ago by the NFL who had done a story on one of our kids. Then an hour later, I got an email telling me that the video had been picked up as the lead story on Yahoo and that we had over 17,000 hits. I was
in utter shock to say the least.

Little Ruben, who has been living in a shelter in Brooklyn, had one dream – to go to football camp. With the help of dear friend Rich Eisen, we arranged for him to go to football camp this summer and had Chad Ochocinco Johnson (Ruben’s idol) come to our event to surprise Ruben.

Watching this video and weeping once again gave me that positive re-enforcement that I so desperately needed. I think for those of us that work with children on a daily basis and have suffered the recent slings and arrows of the economic crisis, especially in the NGO arena, we sometimes feel that no matter how hard we work and no matter how much we give that somehow it’s never enough. I wake in the morning and lay my head on the pillow at night thinking about the kids we work with and end up constantly asking myself how I can do more. This beautiful story is just a reminder to me and to the rest of the world that to help one child at a time is okay. I’m happy to report that Ruben and his mom have moved into transitional housing. Children Mending Hearts has just provided them with a computer and tutoring for Ruben. Ruben has been accepted into three charter schools and will be attending Deion Sanders football camp the second week of July.

Peace,

Lysa

We made our way to the border and easily passed through Customs feeling a sense of enormous relief when suddenly a member of the Congolese military (I happen to have a slightly different moniker for them, which I’ll keep to myself) stopped us and instructed us to take all of our bags from the car and empty out all of our belongings. We tiredly acquiesced, smiled, and attempted a futile effort to charm. After a few agonizing minutes, which felt like years, we were then allowed into Rwanda. Thus began our 7-hour journey back to Kigali.

We were about four blocks from our hotel, when we heard a deafening explosion that sounded as if it was merely steps away. We learned the next day on CNN that there were three separate grenade attacks less than a mile from our hotel. Most Rwandans we spoke to felt it was the work of the FDLR. Welcome to Kigali, thanks to the FDLR.

Our workshop in Bukavu was immensely successful mostly due to my hero Christine Karumba and the amazing team at Women for Women International. We painted butterflies, wrote letters, taught jewelry making, and happily delivered hundreds of t-shirts made by homeless children in the United States. We danced furiously and sang until we were hoarse. But most importantly, we laughed with total abandon. To see a child’s tears replaced with a smile, and witness joy instead of sadness is a sight for which there are no words. We had the honor of working with over 1,400 women and children.
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As we were driving through the metal gates of Panzi Hospital, I looked over to my right and saw five women of various ages sitting on the ground desperately trying to get into the gates. Their eyes were blood red, tears streaming down their cheeks. They had all just been brutally raped. The look on their faces, especially their eyes, will forever be etched in my memory. They had been beaten, tortured and brutalized, and stripped of everything human, sitting on the ground in unimaginable agony, a harsh glimpse into the life of a Congolese woman.

We were met by our guide who proceeded to show us around the hospital. There were hundreds of women everywhere. Their pained gazes looked as if they were living in some horrible nightmare; the kind of nightmare where one never wakes up. They were.

We walked over to a blue and white building where I saw 25 to 30 beautiful children. Once they saw me, they began to sing loudly and proudly. They were laughing and smiling and, after the scene I had recently witnessed at the entrance, seeing the kids was helping me return to some form of reality. Then, our guide turned to us and said as casually as if giving us directions to the nearest gas station, “These are the children of rape. Their mother’s are either dead or have abandoned them because they cannot bear the sight of them.” I wondered to myself what it must feel like to give birth to your rapist’s child. I looked into their little eyes and prayed. I prayed that they would never learn the hideous truth. I hoped they would never hear that their fathers were monsters.

We went into a part of the clinic to meet with the women and children. I held a child that I did not think would live another hour. He was two-years-old yet resided in the body of a six-month-old infant. He was severely malnourished and gasping for air. I just kept looking into his eyes and taking deep breaths so I wouldn’t weep. I was not about to cry in front of them, and I didn’t. My tears meant nothing.
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Amazing day! We just finished the workshop. Over 500 children and 200 hundred moms. I have so much to share but feel as if a letter I received today from one of our children pretty much says it all.

“To Excellent President Barack Obama, Hello! I am Faraja Muhigirwa and I would like to tell you somethings. Many greetings to you, your children and your wife. I am Congolese. I would like to tell you that every day our country is troubled by war, but I do not like war in my life. That is why I want to study for my country so as one day I solve my country, the country of my parents.
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We began our day at 6am with a ride to the SOS orphanage in Bukavu. On our way to our site, I was reminded of the juxtaposition of the intoxicating beauty of Lake Kivu and the utterly extreme poverty of Bukavu.

We arrived promptly at 7am and began our workshop with the children whose dark eyes betrayed a sadness and hardship; children who had witnessed entirely too much evil for their young and supposedly innocent ages. We had 70 to 80 children come in at 45-minute intervals all day in order to accommodate everyone. We danced, we painted, and we wrote letters to President Obama. Our letters begged for the end of genocide, rape and war.

Sadly, human hurricanes, tsunamis, and earthquakes occur everyday in Congo. Silent murderous storms, floods of sexual violence, and earthshaking murders are the norm. Women are not seen as human beings in this country, rather as animals degraded and demoralized – stripped of all in brutal and unimaginable manners.
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Landing in Rwanda, I was struck by the pristine beauty and rolling green expanse of Kigali. As we drove past what was once the Hotel Rwanda, I had a difficult time believing that such horror had occurred just a few short years ago. What was particularly interesting to me was that the people of Rwanda wanted to talk about the genocide freely and openly as opposed to quietly pretending it never happened and that the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of people was some dirty family secret that should never be discussed, ever. I felt as though Rwandans want the genocide to be discussed loudly and openly as some kind of veiled insurance policy to make sure it never happens again.

Our bumpy seven-hour ride from Rwanda to Congo was majestic, yet I couldn’t help thinking to myself I was on the road to hell.  When we crossed the border we were told to get out of our jeep as the customs officials wanted us to physically walk across the border. I can’t really express what I was feeling at that moment, but instantly recalled a situation that had arisen when we arrived in Rwanda with sixteen incredibly large heavy duffel bags the day before.
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We had our first “Please Mr. President” workshop for less fortunate children last Saturday. It was incredibly magical yet heartbreaking. We heard many stories. Stories of loss, sadness, and tragedy. I spent time with children whose eyes had seen entirely too much for their young age. Moms came in beaten down and broken up. We never uttered the words homeless, we never took pity or felt sorry. We, the volunteers, celebrities, artists and teachers and less fortunate all became one. Because we all knew. We knew that we were all the same, separated only by circumstance and geography. One child whose mother told me he never smiled, danced and laughed furiously with me to Michael Jackson (RIP). One young mother who had just come to the mission the day before with her three day old newborn wouldn’t look me in the eye and made it abundantly clear that she was only staying for a few minutes, ended up staying for the entire day. She painted beautiful pictures and learned how to make jewelry. I never asked why she was there. I just told her I was happy she was. Children left knowing their voices were heard and felt hope. Hope can last a long time! Our job was done..

Peace,
Lysa

Our crew has safely returned from the Congo, and no doubt lives were changed forever. One of our lovely pr advisers had worked with Sienna Miller a couple of years ago and felt strongly that she would be interested in the work that Children Mending Hearts were doing in Congo. We asked Sienna to attend our fundraiser in February but Sienna was in England and unable to join us. Her agent did attend the fundraiser at the House of Blues and had been moved to tears, obviously touched by what he had seen and heard. A few days later we met with Sienna. I must admit I felt a little trepidation, as when folks in the entertainment industry express a desire to get involved, I assume there is some unforeseen agenda at play. I guess, because my husband and his partner are so entrenched in the industry, I have become slightly jaded and alternately suspicious.

When I met with Sienna, I was instantly at ease and happily proven wrong. Her passion and desire to help were so transparently honest and from the heart. I was pleasantly surprised to learn about all the incredible charity work she has done, from England’s version of Make A Wish, to an awe inspiring project in Mumbai. Sadly, the media don’t tend to include such accomplishments in their diatribes.

What most touched me was that Sienna wanted to get on a plane and go find out for herself, to travel, without question, to one of the most heinous and dangerous places in the world for a woman to be at this moment. She was ready to buy a ticket, no questions asked. She wanted to help. She wanted to educate herself so she could speak with knowledge, alternately raising awareness to those in need.

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It has been a whirlwind three days and so much has happened that I don’t even know where to begin. Twenty four hours of the last seventy two have been spent in a car so we’re all feeling weary. I’m not sure if I even have the energy to attempt eloquence but I’ll give it a shot.

We left Bukavu for Chambucha on Wednesday morning at six. The journey was everything we had been warned about and more: muddy roads that could swallow a truck, flat tires, makeshift bridges, military checkpoints, very young men with very large weapons. It was a six-hour drive through Kahuzi Biega National Park and north to Chambucha. The scenery was breathtaking. Thick dense jungle, bamboo trees and wild orchids, monkeys, every shade of green you could possibly imagine. Enormous spider webs and their equally enormous creators, such a change from the urban feel of Bukavu. There were children swimming in the river that borders the forest where the FDLR (Rwandan rebel group) are in hiding, and where the FARDC (Congolese government troops) have taken positions along the road, weapons trained at their sides. And that’s what’s so confusing about this place..utter purity and beauty juxtaposed with brutal violence.

So we headed to an area engulfed by guerrilla activity. As a result tens of thousands of people have had to flee their homes in neighboring villages and have been essentially herded into Chambucha. The road we are on ends there, and we are received like heroes. The people had been told beforehand of our arrival and hundreds turned up to clap and cheer and sing us into our camp. It was so moving and there is no way I can do it justice in words…David Serota has it all on film, so it will no doubt eventually speak for itself.

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My name is David Serota and I am a documentary filmmaker. As a storyteller I am drawn to the hopeful nature that is found in all struggles but particularly as it relates to the marginalized and disenfranchised. Their lives are often their only currency and I try to serve them with a filmic voice. I focus on the emotional landscape of faces and places by holding on shots so even in a short period of time, you feel connected. That is my intention anyway…

A few weeks ago I was driving down Pacific Coast highway singing along with Bob Dylan. “Pistol shots ring out in a bar room night…” As an artist he was compelled to write a song about the wrongful murder conviction of boxing legend, Rubin Carter. Their fight was not lost on me or on the day.

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