A Song in the Night

In October 2004, Cecile joined the Women for Women International Program. A teenager when she was raped by a militia guard in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Cecile had a little girl named Sylvie. Cecile’s life has made her old for her 19 years. These are her words:

Other women were married by choice, but I was married by force. Other girls who were raped were luckier than me; they did not end up pregnant like me. I would say to myself: If I could only go back and be a girl again. That’s impossible! What if Sylvie could go back in my belly? That’s impossible, I would say to myself.

When I first came to Women for Women International, I said I would not tell Sylvie of the circumstances surrounding her birth. I would tell her that my husband was her biological father. But now, I no longer believe that can be done. Now I am asking myself, what will I tell her when she asks who her father is? What will I say? The fathers of the other children are teachers, merchants, but Sylvie will learn that her father was a killer, a rapist who spent his life spilling the blood of others.

I ask myself questions during the hours of the night when I cannot sleep. I cannot find answers to all the questions that I have. The morning comes and I wake up without ever having closed my eyes during the night.

I have begun to feel the pain like I felt after escaping my life as a sex slave. Since then, I have my period twice a month. I feel pain all around my pelvis. I cannot walk 100 meters without feeling dizzy and feeling pain at my lower abdomen and my back. I went to get treated but I refused to be touched by a male doctor. I found a nice woman doctor who told me the problem is I have thoughts that my age cannot support and my body is troubled.

The burden of my thoughts makes me fear that one day I will go crazy. Each thought leads me deeper and deeper into myself. When my eyes open while in the dark in my room and I cannot fall asleep, I begin to interrogate myself. If there was a way to be sure that God would hear me, I would send a letter and wait for his response. If I cannot send him a letter, I need to find another means to communicate with him. I wish I could ask him all of my questions.

One night, as I lay in my bed and my head was spinning with all the questions, I started singing. It was around two in the morning. My mother woke up and asked why I was singing so late. I never wanted her to know how deeply troubled I am. That would worry her. I simply told her that I just wanted to sing. She was afraid because a lot of thieves circulate the neighborhood around this time of the night. She asked me not to sing. I stopped singing and was awake for a long time.

I wonder when I will cease to have all of these worries.


(Excerpted from "Outreach", a newsletter by Women for Women International)