Free A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon

mountain, only to have it roll back down, again and again, for all eternity.
    Surprisingly, the Congolese seem to be quite fashion-conscious. Their clothes are neat and pressed, with their hair in colorful braids or wigs; they wear traditional African wraps and dresses or sport American cast-offs: T-shirts, fashion jeans, and sporty tennis shoes. Many look worthy of a Diesel ad campaign. One local hipster seems perfectly packaged to open an indie rock concert as he saunters around in a tiger-print cowboy hat and a faux-fur-lined jacket, peering out from behind trendy sunglasses.
    But all that primping can’t hide the unmistakable mark of war in these people’s eyes. I notice the eyes again when we arrive at the Women for Women compound, a two-story whitewashed building surrounded by round, open-air classrooms built of wood and straw. Morning classes disbanded some time ago, but three women linger in the courtyard garden of cosmos and marigolds.
Two of them inch towards me, curious. With the impenetrable language barrier between us and no one around to translate, we smile and attempt a few false starts at conversation that can’t get beyond “Hello.”
    â€œMy name is Lisa,” I say, pointing to myself. “Lisa. Lisa. I am a sponsor.”
    They say something back in Swahili, but it is completely lost on me. We smile with resignation. I watch an older lady standing at a cautious distance. She doesn’t smile, barely looks at me. I see the glazed-over look, the same one I saw in the guy at the border. I move closer to her. We say nothing.
    Inside, staff members abandon their lunch to enthusiastically embrace me. “So you are Lisa Shannon!” They ask about all manner of personal details: my home, my cats, the would-be wedding. They have translated hundreds of my letters, seen my photos countless times. A tall, full-figured lady says, “You tell your sister I say hello! We are both big ladies; I am her Congolese twin!”
    I’m grateful for the warm reception, though headquarters in Washington made something clear. When staff members from headquarters visit offices in other countries, they stay no more than three days. No way will the staff host my five-and-a-half-week visit. The Congo office is slammed, short staffed. Christine was gracious enough to pick me up from the airport, give me access to their office for Internet use, and assign a staff member to arrange all my meetings with my sisters, which will not start for another week. Other than that, I’m on my own.
    That’s fine by me. I crack my Moleskine notebook open to my list of contacts, which is neatly printed in the back, a patchwork of nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) operating here. Christine lends me a cell phone. I settle into the second-floor office with metal picture-frame windows that overlook Lake Kivu and spend the afternoon steadily working my way down my list: The International Rescue Committee, International Medical Corp, CARE, UNICEF, The Red Cross, Panzi Hospital, a child soldier center, and conservation groups. I contact all of them by email and phone, and I even leave the compound to make a couple of quick visits to the International Rescue Committee and International Medical Corp, escorted by Women
for Women’s staff driver, moving from compound to nearby compound, as if they are secure islands.
    Of the NGO’s young, disaster-hopping expats, only half return my initial call or email. The remainder say hello, talk enthusiastically of the programs they would like to show me, then never return a call or email again. It will take weeks for me to get it. My credentials, or lack thereof, don’t warrant their time. The Congolese on my list, however, all immediately arrange visits so that I can learn about their programs.
    Christine interrupts my outreach efforts to introduce Hortense, a wild-haired single mom. Her big eyes, thin lips, and petite frame—though it is swallowed by her