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.

Next we went over to meet with Dr. Denis Mukwege, who does the fistula repair at Panzi. I was so looking forward to seeing him because we hadn’t seen each other in a year, and Dr. Denis is one of the few people who brings me to my knees. If through my work I can become half the person he is, my life would be complete.

When I walked into his office, I was thrilled to see the award we had bestowed him with last year. It was prominently displayed on his bookshelf next to his crowded desk. I walked over to give him a hug and could immediately sense that something had changed dramatically since the last time I had seen him. He looked tired, immensely sad, and utterly beaten down. He shared with me that he didn’t know how much longer he and his staff could go on. He said at least nine newly raped women were coming in every day. He would operate on a young girl only to have her return a few months later having been re-raped. He said he was tired, burnt out and felt like giving up. I asked him what he needed, to give me take-actions so I could help. He looked at me squarely in the eyes and said, “We need Peace.”

He told me the story of a young girl who was six when she was first raped and brought to the hospital. She came back to Panzi a few years later after having been taken into the hills and gang raped by several men. He operated on her again and she began to recover. After her recovery, it was time for her to go, as there is always a constant shortage of beds at Panzi. There were still the women waiting outside the gate. The newcomers. When she was told it was time to leave she grabbed onto him with every ounce of strength she possessed. She pleaded with him to let her stay. She cried and begged for her life, but she had to go because they had to make room for others. Dr. Mukwege learned that she was killed last week. His eyes began to fill with tears. His raw emotion had just given me the permission that I desperately needed. At that moment, I began to weep and I feared the tears would never stop.

I gave Dr. Mukwege a donation from Children Mending Hearts. It was not nearly enough, but all we could afford. I left Panzi and promised Dr. Mukwege that when I put my head on my pillow that night and prayed, I would pray for the women waiting outside the gate, pray for the dying baby I had just held, pray for the young girl who had begged for her life and lost, and most importantly, I promised him I would pray for peace.

Peace Please!

Lysa

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