HOLDING TIGHT to her family’s rations of oil and beans, Sylvie entered the medical clinic to find Neema, one of the nurses, seated at the admitting table reading a novel. There were no patients waiting, and Neema was one to take full advantage of a lull.

“Is Doctor Marie here?” asked Sylvie.

“She finishes at three on Saturdays,” Neema replied, barely acknowledging her. Sylvie knew that Neema didn’t like her, probably because Neema was Tanzanian and thought that a young Congolese like Sylvie had no business being so friendly with one of the doctors. “Come back on Monday.”

“I can’t wait until Monday!”

Neema tilted up her ample chin so that she was looking down her nose at Sylvie. “Well, you’re going to have to wait.”

But Sylvie knew where to find Marie. She left the clinic and set out for the compound reserved for foreign workers. Sylvie was reluctant to disturb her there, but she had to see her. Marie was her only hope for escaping the marriage trap that Kayembe had set for her, apparently with Olivier’s help. She followed a track that led from behind the clinic into Zone 1 of the camp, keeping her head down to avoid the stares of the men she passed. Women preparing food over cook fires threw hostile looks her way, knowing she didn’t belong in this part of Nyarugusu. The smell of cooking reminded Sylvie of the sack of maize she’d had to leave behind.

The foreign workers’ compound was surrounded by a high fence of thorn branches. Ordinarily, refugees weren’t allowed to go inside, unless they were delivering food or other supplies. A UN soldier was posted at the gate, an Asian man with the flag of some country Sylvie didn’t recognize stitched on his uniform. Sylvie swallowed her fear, trying to be brave as she approached him.

“I need to speak to someone inside,” Sylvie told him.

“No refugees,” he replied in halting French.

“But I work at the clinic,” she explained. “I need to see one of the doctors.”

The soldier didn’t seem to understand. “Go!” he commanded, shaking his rifle at her.

“Is there a problem?”

Sylvie turned to see the American aid worker, returning to the compound. He must have finished his shift at the distribution center.

“I need to see Doctor Marie,” Sylvie told him. The American looked wary. Perhaps he’d had enough of complaining Congolese for today. “Please,” Sylvie pleaded. “My name is Sylvie. She knows me. I work for her at the clinic.”

He thought it over for a moment, then said to the guard, “She’s okay.”

Beyond the gate, Sylvie saw green canvas tents instead of mud huts. It looked…temporary, as though the foreign workers might pack up their tents and leave Nyarugusu at any moment. Several white people, men and women, sat in camp chairs, sipping beers in the late afternoon sun. Among them was Doctor Van de Velde, the head doctor. When he saw Sylvie enter with the aid worker, he got up from his chair and came over.

“She’s not supposed to be in here,” he scolded the American. “What do you think you’re doing, Martin?”

“She says she works at the clinic,” Martin replied with a shrug.

Doctor Van de Velde looked at Sylvie, recognition dawning. “Only regular staff is allowed inside the compound,” he said.

“She only wants to talk to Marie,” said Martin—
suddenly her ally—earning a glare from the much older doctor.

“Please,” said Sylvie. “I just need to speak with her for a moment, then I will be gone.”

Doctor Van de Velde frowned while he thought it over. Then, reluctantly, he turned and shouted, “Marie!”

Marie emerged from one of the tents. She looked younger than she did in the hospital. Sylvie was surprised to see her wearing shorts and a skimpy top—a Congolese woman would never have dressed like that.

“Sylvie! What’s wrong?” she asked, crossing to her.

“I need to talk to you,” whispered Sylvie urgently.

Marie picked up on Sylvie’s plea for privacy. “Come inside the tent.”

“Don’t make a habit of this!” warned Doctor Van de Velde as the two of them headed away.

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” Sylvie whispered to her.

“Don’t mind him,” replied Marie. “What’s he going to do? Fire me?”

Inside the tent, there were two cots and a plastic storage bin with drawers. On top of the bin there was a framed photograph of a nicely dressed African-looking family—an older man and woman and two girls who looked like Marie.

“My parents and sisters,” explained Marie.

Sylvie stared at the photo. Marie’s family looked nice—happy, like Marie.

“What’s wrong, Sylvie?” asked Marie. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“When can I go to Canada?” she blurted. “I need to go soon!”

“Why?” Marie asked in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Please, how long will it take?”

“I don’t know exactly, but these things take time.”

“I don’t have time!”

Marie held up her hands to slow Sylvie down. “Not long ago you were mad at me for pressuring you to go,” she said. “What’s happened?”

Sylvie began to tremble. “Olivier told Kayembe I’ll marry him. My brother has given me away.”

Surprise played across Marie’s face, then anger. “I’ll speak with your brother—”

“No! It’s too dangerous. Olivier has become one of Kayembe’s men.”

“How? What’s he doing for him?”

“He won’t say,” said Sylvie, the words tumbling out now. “But Olivier knows how to drive a truck now, and Kayembe told me he’s bringing coltan out of North Kivu. Maybe Olivier is working for him as a driver.”

“Kayembe is breaking the law by bringing coltan over the border,” said Marie when Sylvie stopped to catch her breath. “I’ll report him to the Tanzanian authorities and they’ll expel him. If he’s not here, he can’t force you to marry him.”

“No! If you stand in his way, he will make you suffer.” As Sylvie spoke, she realized her warning to Marie applied to herself as well. If I say no, he will make me suffer. Not only me, but the whole family, too.

Marie shook her head in disgust. “He thinks he runs the place!”

“He does run it,” replied Sylvie.

Marie stared at Sylvie, the complications sinking in. “C’mon,” she said at last, heading out of the tent. “There’s someone we need to talk to.”

Sylvie kept up with Marie’s brisk pace as they crossed an open area to a rounded metal hut. Inside, Marie sat down at laptop computer, like the one Sylvie’s father used to have back in their village, only newer.

“Have you ever Skyped before?” she asked.

“What?” replied Sylvie.

“You’ll see.”

Marie’s fingers were dancing over the keyboard. There was a ringing sound, and after a few moments a young white man appeared on the computer screen. He was thin-faced, with reddish hair. On a shelf behind him there were many books.

Marie smiled. “Alain! Thank heavens you’re there!”

“Is everything okay, cherie?” the young man asked. “You’re calling early.”

From his eager concern, Sylvie wondered if the man was Marie’s boyfriend.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” she reassured him. “I have someone here who would like to talk with you.” Marie got up and indicated that Sylvie should sit in her place. “This is my friend Alain, in Montreal,” she told her. “He already knows a lot about you.” Suddenly timid, Sylvie hesitated. “Go on!” said Marie with an encouraging smile.

Sylvie sat and looked into the screen. She could see her own image in a small square in the corner. Alain’s face lit up when he recognized her.

“Sylvie!” he said, his voice slightly delayed and the video of his face jumpy. “I was just talking about you with some friends of mine.”

Sylvie didn’t know what to say in reply. Marie leaned down so that they were both visible in the little square box.

“Alain, tell Sylvie what’s happening.”

“Sure, okay. Sylvie, we’ve started a web campaign on the Internet to raise money for you to come to Canada.”

“A what?” asked Sylvie. She knew about the Internet, but she had no idea what a “web campaign” was.

Marie saw Sylvie’s confusion. She explained, “Alain runs a website keeping tabs on mining operations in the Congo, to raise awareness about the suffering that results from the fighting over coltan and other minerals.”

“We’re starting a campaign on the website about you, Sylvie.” Alain picked up from Marie. “About your situation as a refugee.”

“Basically,” continued Marie, “in order for you to go to Canada you have to be sponsored by people who are willing to look after you. My parents want to do that, but they’re retired and not wealthy. So Alain is using the website to raise the money you’ll need for travel, and to finish high school in Montreal.”

Sylvie’s heart leapt. “Thank you!” she sputtered to both Marie and Alain. “Thank you so much!”

“We can’t get ahead of ourselves,” cautioned Marie. “We figure we’ll need fifty thousand dollars to cover your expenses until you finish high school, more when you continue to university.”

To Sylvie, it was an unimaginable amount of money.

“When people see your photo on the website, Sylvie,”
said Alain, “they start to understand what is going on there.”

Suddenly, Sylvie’s face fell. She knew that the Internet went all around the world. Now people everywhere could see the ugliness of her scar. Her heart was pounding, her stomach lurching. Seeing her panic, Marie rested her hand lightly on Sylvie’s shoulder.

Alain looked worried. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the photo,” explained Marie. “Sylvie’s sensitive about…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Alain seemed to understand.

“Sylvie, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we had your permission to use it. We’ll take it down.”

“No, don’t,” replied Marie flatly. Sylvie turned to her in surprise. Whose side was she on? “Look, it’s your decision,” Marie told her, “but when people see you and find out about your life, they start to understand what’s going on in the DRC, how lives are being destroyed because of blood minerals like coltan. People need to understand the human cost of the things we take for granted. When they see your picture, they get it. Sylvie, you could help lots of other Congolese.” Sylvie turned her head away. “If only you could see yourself the way others do,” Marie coaxed gently. “A beautiful girl. A smart girl. A strong girl.”

“I don’t care about others,” Sylvie said, her voice thick with emotion. “I care about my family.”

“Remember, eventually you’ll be able to help them, too.”

Hope and fear tugged at Sylvie, pulling her in opposite directions. Seeing her torment, Marie squeezed her shoulder.

“It’s okay. I’m pressuring you too much,” she said. She turned to Alain. “Let’s give Sylvie some time to think.”

But Sylvie was already thinking. She had to do whatever it took, she realized, to save the family from Kayembe, and from Nyarugusu—it was what Papa would have wanted her to do, even if it meant exposing her ugliness to the world. She looked into the computer screen and told Alain, “You can use the photo.”

“Good!” replied Alain.

“But my family needs to come, too,” she said. “All of us. My mother, my sister, and my two brothers. ”

Sylvie and Alain both hesitated.

“Sylvie, that’s a lot more complicated,” replied Alain.

“I’m not leaving without them,” she told them. “All of us must come.”

Marie took in a deep breath. “Okay,” she nodded, after a moment.

“But Marie—” Alain began to argue with her.

“I know it won’t be easy, Alain,” Marie told him, “but we have to find a way.”

Alain didn’t look convinced, but Sylvie saw the determination in Marie’s face and took heart. In the tug-of-war going on inside her, she allowed hope to pull her away from fear.

 

IT WAS ALMOST DARK by the time Sylvie reached home with the beans and oil, jumping at every shadow as she hurried along the track that led to Zone 3. If it wasn’t safe for a girl to walk alone through the camp in the daytime, a girl alone at night was assumed by many to be a prostitute, and free for the taking. All the way, she worried about how to explain to her mother that she had no maize. But when she entered the hut, she was surprised to find Mama seated on the dirt floor with Lucie, the two of them measuring handfuls of cornmeal from a full sack by the light of a kerosene lamp. There was some tinned meat and fish stacked beside the sack of meal, even fresh tomatoes and an eggplant.

“Where did all this come from?” asked Sylvie, half suspecting.

“Soldiers brought it!” reported Lucie, the sticky dough webbing her small fingers.

Sylvie realized, This is how Kayembe thinks he can buy me! She wanted to take the food and toss it outside, but then what would they eat?

“Were you too lazy to carry the maize yourself?”
remarked Mama as Sylvie set down the oil and beans. When Sylvie didn’t reply, she made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Gifts always come with a price.”

She thinks I slept with him! Sylvie’s face went hot with humiliation.

“I don’t want his gifts, and I did nothing to get them!” Sylvie snapped back. She saw Pascal seated on the sleeping mat, tossing a small stone back and forth between his hands, sulking. “What’s wrong, Pascal?” He didn’t reply.

“Mama says you’re going away. Is it true, Sylvie?” asked Lucie.

Now Sylvie understood why Pascal was pouting—she had promised him she would never leave him. She turned an angry look on Mama, who continued shaping dough balls for frying, avoiding Sylvie’s eyes. What had she hoped to gain by telling the children? Did she want to turn them against her?

Pascal looked up at her, glaring defiantly. “Go where?”

“To Canada.”

“What’s that?” asked Lucie.

“It’s a country, in North America. Across the ocean. We’re all going,” she told them. “Pascal, do you hear me? All of us will go.”

“We should be going home,” stated Mama, keeping her gaze fixed on the dough. “Think about your father. What if there’s no one here when he comes? I’ll die waiting for Patrice, if I have to. If you go, you’ll go without me.”

Sylvie looked from Mama to Pascal, tossing the stone between his hands harder and faster, his hurt and anger building. She couldn’t break her promise and leave him, any more than she could leave Mama. Either they all went to Canada, or they all must stay here. And if they stayed here, the only way to protect the family would be for her to give herself to Kayembe. She cursed hope for tricking her into believing there could be another way. But it was her own fault. She had let hope lift her heart, and now it had so much further to fall.