We have seen the women, and we have heard their stories.  At times it has been enough to simply feel the depth of pain in their eyes, and as I share these moments with them, I wonder – “ Who are these men who have so little regard for the life of a woman?  For the life of  a child? What would I feel if I were to look into their eyes, and what would I see…? These questions were frightening to me until the moment when my answers came…

It was Saturday morning.  Shabbat.  Usually a  time of rest and reflection, but on this day, as we made our way to the Goma prison, we were facing a very different kind of holy day. We were going with Pastor Camille and his amazing wife, Mama Esther, who together with Pastor Kasereka Kasomo of the Congolese church in Los Angeles, had recently started a group in Goma, called ‘Sons of Congo.’  These pastors and Mama Esther understand that if the rapes and extreme sexual violence against women and children is to stop, they must somehow reach the men. They must work with the men to chip away at years of cultural indoctrination and discrimination.  Their work is hard; almost impossible.  The men who rape are walled and resistant.  They do not hear.  They are closed to all but their own domination.  To know this is to realize that as vital as the work that JWW does with the brutalized women and children, perhaps even more important is their work with these men.  JWW has given funding to this pilot program, Sons of Congo, and we were in this prison not only to see them, but to try and understand.  Understand…?  How does a western mind even begin to comprehend all this..?  Where do we go…?

 We entered the prison – four women, Janice, Diana, Mama Esther, and I, along with ‘our guys,’ Fred, Ben, and John.  Also with us were   Pastor Camille, Jean Paul, Pascal, our driver and friend, Zico, our translator and the prison Pastor.  We three Jewish women, and Mama Esther, herself Congolese from Kinshasa, walked together among these men.  We were escorted into the open courtyard of the prison, where hundreds of all male inmates had gathered to greet us for morning prayers.  As with much of Goma, there is no electricity in the prison, no bathrooms, only the all too familiar latrines – shallow holes in the ground.  The men do not bathe and often are neither clothed nor fed.  The stench that hit us as we entered, was beyond description.   It was beyond all humanity.  We were ushered to our seats behind their ‘bimah,’ and their morning prayers began, as Janice was asked to speak an introduction on our behalf.  She was stunned by their request, but without missing a beat, she took her place in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by these hundreds, and began to speak.  Her words were simple – breathtakingly brilliant.  She introduced us one by one, as she stood before them to address the day, and to speak in general of the abuse of women, asking for them to consider their actions in the name of their mothers.  Their mothers…  That jarred us, for each of these men was some mother’s child.  As Janice took her seat, the music began.  Here in Congo, always the music.  Nothing happens without the music, and as with Jews, the music holds a powerful connection to G-D, but on yesterday’s Shabbat morning, as we found ourselves face to face – panim l’ panim -  with some of the most violent rapists of Congo, we were forced to confront our own spirits.  They were singing and dancing their prayers to G-D, and we were invited – expected – to join with them.  It was a horrible, difficult, moment for us.  On one hand, the music was life, and it was our Sabbath, and on the other, how could we dance with these men who steal and kill, because even though most of the women survive, these men have killed a part of them, and the deepest part which they have stolen, will never be returned.  I knew then, that this was our test.  I felt my own rage building, and so to release, I allowed my body to move with the music.   Diana was standing next to me, and she leaned in and whispered,’ I can’t dance with them.  I just can’t.’  No, this was a circle that most of us had not the stomach to enter.  Music and prayer – the heart and soul of our religion, but on this Shabbat, we were unable to sing, and yet, in spite of our surroundings, it was a holy Sabbath, because we were there to bear witness.  I looked around at ‘our guys,’ wanting to see each man’s face.  Our youngest, Ben, who had been so moved by the entire trip, for the first time, had tears in his eyes, as he faced them.  Even for the men – or perhaps especially for the men, it was one of the most difficult pieces of this Congo tapestry.  A moment passed as all this rushed through me, and my eyes landed in a corner of the group to our right.  Behind them, a young man was looking out at the services, from behind the bars of what I can only imagine was his cell.  For an instant, our eyes met, and I saw such a deep sadness and emptiness within him.  It was then that I knew what I had wanted to deny – that each of them in fact, was some mother’s child…