Gwennie's Girl Read online

  ‘We’re almost there!’ shouted the pilot as he struggled with a map in front of his face, a map that did not want to fold properly.

  Lizzie took it, smoothed the crease lines and handed it back.

  ‘Keep an eye out for this river,’ he shouted, pointing to a blue feature. ‘That’s the border and we’re not authorised to enter Rwandan air-space. We have to stay out. The camp is this side, anyway.’

  ‘This river is the border? Then we are over Rwanda,’ said Lizzie. ‘We’ve passed that river.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘We should see it soon.’

  ‘We have passed it!’ this time, Lizzie yelled.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Very sure. There was a bridge over it.’

  ‘Oops. Around we go, little bird. Let’s get out of here. We know what they do to unwelcome planes in this country.’

  The Rwandan President’s plane had been shot down—that was the signal for the genocide to begin. Better stay out of that airspace! They wheeled and headed back. Sure enough, there was the river and the bridge. ‘Must have missed it,’ called the pilot laconically. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for the camp.’

  They found it, a dense concentration of blue plastic with a few white constructions that seemed to huddle together. The pilot headed for a clearing a few miles away, and they arrived on a bumpy paddock where sacks and boxes of supplies were being unloaded from cargo planes and transported to the camp. It was already hot, and it was a scene of glistening black backs sweating in the sun being directed by bossy-looking white blokes in khaki shorts, with equally bossy-looking clipboards. About half an hour after they had touched down, the inevitable white four-wheel drive vehicle came up the track in a swirl of red dust. A tall Irishman with a red beard and tired eyes greeted them, sighed when he saw the pile of equipment, helped them load it and then headed back to the camp. The tracks were rough, just clearings of potholes and dust.

  ‘Be a bloody mess when it rains,’ said the Irishman. ‘Maybe you lot can convince people that we need better equipment and more supplies.’

  ‘We’ll do our best.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the only reason I let myself be talked into looking after you,’ he grinned.

  Lizzie had seen this situation many times. Workers on the ground struggled to feed and shelter refugees who were often traumatised, always physically weak and needy on arrival. Media people flew in, demanded use of scarce transport and time from over-stretched personnel. It could only be justified if their stories and images resulted in additional resources and supplies. Of course, the media lot was rarely held accountable for how well they did or did not do their job or whether their work resulted in anything more than titillating their readership and keeping editors happy with their expense sheets.

  ‘We’ll try,’ she said.

  Lizzie and the group settled into the compound close to the food depot and began their days in the camp where more than a quarter of a million people were living in an area estimated at about two kilometres by two kilometres. Shelter in the camp was a blue plastic sheet. No one said shelter from what. There were just blue plastic waves that rippled with sadness, desolation and remembered violence. Just blue plastic, tied with grass onto frames made out of bent sticks. Many of these refugees were urban folk and Lizzie wondered how she would have managed if asked to draw on her communal memory to build a home this way.

  Small fires smouldered in front of each shelter, and Lizzie was to discover the constant smoke that gave surreal mistiness, particularly in the mornings and evenings. Children seemed always to be in danger of running into the fires as they wove their way around the highly packed area. They were also in danger of being lost. It was difficult to navigate, and, once out of sight of a particular shelter, it was no easy job to find the way back to it again. There were a few dusty roads for vehicles, and the main landmarks were the distribution compounds with the white rubber storehouses Lizzie had seen from the plane.

  Along one of the tracks, a “downtown” had sprung up and she marvelled again at the entrepreneurial strength and skills of people determined to survive. One space was littered with black tufts of curly hair from a barber. In another area, some young men repaired bicycles. A group of old men mended shoes. There was very little cash in this economy, but there was still some trading and bartering. Cigarettes were scarce and commanded high prices. Late afternoon saw a sort of “beer” available, and particularly the young men seemed to get access to it. At that time of day, all females stayed well clear of this area.

  In the camp, Lizzie saw women sitting silently, staring into a space she could not share, did not want to share. She heard the stories. She saw the suffering faces of young women, old women, girl children. All the workers believed what one dared pronounce aloud, ‘Every female who has made it this far has probably been raped—and more than once—the old women and the kids too.’

  She heard of the woman who was so afraid of the soldiers and youth gangs that, with her baby on her back, she jumped into the river and hid for hours in the dank weeds. She waited, waited, waited. When she thought they had gone away, she scrambled, trembling, out onto the riverbank. She had survived. Her baby on her back had drowned.

  There were teenagers and little girls, who had been separated, had somehow been allowed to escape, stunned and afraid. How would they manage? Who would protect them now with no mother to take the force of attacks, to keep them in the ignorance that mothers knew little girls—and little boys—deserved?

  At night, in the African darkness and the susurration of a sleeping camp, Lizzie and the other workers gathered for some semblance of comfort in the dying glow of the last embers of the fire. Sometimes, they talked of what they had seen and sometimes they decided silently not to talk of what they had seen.

  The camp was in a constant state of movement from well before dawn until after sunset. Women and children walked for water.

  At the outlet near a mud-clogged small lake, pipes brought clear water, and people crowded constantly to fill buckets, plastic bottles or plastic jerry cans. Some of the younger children spent hours trying to get a turn at the outlet, and Lizzie saw one little girl finally fill her bowl and wriggle out between the legs and the bodies. She put the bowl on the ground to rest and it tipped over. She burst into tears.

  A young woman had a plastic jerry can but no stopper for it so she worked to plug the hole with grass so she could lift it onto her head. She had made a grass “crown” that helped with the carrying. Each time she lifted the heavy jerry can, more water sloshed out. The handle was broken. As Lizzie watched, she seemed to despair and just plopped onto the ground looking exhausted before she even began the long trek back with what water would still be in the can when she completed her trip. It was difficult to know which was worse, fewer treks with heavier loads or more treks with smaller loads. No one had a choice. They used whatever they could get for carrying.

  Firewood was the other great necessity. Each day, the supplies were further and further away as the trees were cut and hauled back to the camp. Without the pangas, which had been used as weapons and confiscated at the border crossing, branches often had to be tugged off by hand, a clumsy, back-breaking task. Some women had to carry babies on their backs as well as the wood on their shoulders or heads. Distances were long. People were existing on minimum food distributed by the UN and charities. Many people were still in shock. One night, there was a report that five women had not returned from gathering firewood. The next morning, the word was that they had been raped and killed. Another night, the black quiet was disturbed by shouts of a mob screaming and yelling. In the darkness, Lizzie and the crew could not find the source of the outcry, but next morning they were told a lion had been to the camp. It could of course have been a conflict between the groups.

  There were many more young men in this camp than was usual with refugee concentrations. Many were the Hutu kids from the youth groups stirred up to be part of the killing sprees. They had fled before the inco
ming, avenging Tutsis so now the camp was a volatile mix of killers, escaped victims and survivors, and many of the younger teenagers clung together, obviously bullying their way around the camp.

  On one occasion, Lizzie got separated from the crews and found herself lost in the labyrinth of shelters and fires. She realised she was alone, again, and there was no one to help her. A familiar ghost of terror invaded her consciousness. A crowd gathered, a circle of young boys, a ring about eight to ten deep with her in the centre of the small tightly packed space inside the mass of bodies. It was like being at school when a fight broke out. Lizzie’s memories were all of night and a single attacker who still came in her dreams, but she recognised the same threat in these jeering, cat-calling kids, many of whom had probably killed, raped and had nothing much to lose.

  She knew that she would not be seen from outside. She was short, and she was well hidden. The boys slowly tightened the circle. They are enjoying this. They know I am scared. Scared? I am terrified, Gwennie. Again? Deal with it. Don’t be a coward again and this time you can scream. You can yell for help and someone might come. Say something. Say something, Lizzie. Think woman, say something. They only speak Swahili. I don’t speak Swahili. French. Some of them speak French. Summon your meagre and appallingly accented French. Say something. But do not look scared. Was that Gwennie again? What do you mean, don’t look scared? I am terrified. Smile, Lizzie. Smile at this teenager in front of you. This teenager has probably murdered people, maybe lots of people. This circle is getting smaller and smaller. Smile. Say something.

  It was amazing how much French Lizzie discovered she knew. The slow inching forward stopped when she greeted them and asked the guy in front his name. She introduced herself. Oh, Gwennie would have been proud of her! She explained she was here with television cameras. There was some interest when this was translated, but some began to look uneasy. Quickly she mentioned food supplies and money. People “outside” knew that the refugees were in need of food and money. She and the television would tell them to send more food and money, much more food and money because people like these young men needed much more.

  Now she had their attention as those who understood translated for the others, and the circle seemed less overtly dangerous. She burbled about needing to get back to the enclosure so she could write about the young heroes of Rwanda. Oh really, Lizzie?! But they were buying it. Poor little kids. They were, after all, kids who had been roused to do horrific things. That did not excuse what had been done, what they had probably done. They were a mob, but a mob of kids and she did not know their stories—was only guessing. Now, clearly, they were no longer intent on killing her. If they ever had been. Control your imagination, girl.

  Then the questions came. Did people in America really know about them here? Yes, people in France and England and Australia too. They would see them on television? They would see them when Lizzie and the others went back. (If you let me out of here alive, that is, boyos…)

  Some began to melt away from the circle. They did not want to be seen. Lizzie realised how young some of these kids were and how desperately afraid and how lonely they must be feeling because they were kids who had been caught up in a frenzy of killing and violence that would haunt them forever. As the crowd around her dispersed, one boy stayed as the last of the others left her with grins and mocking bravado about being television stars.

  Lizzie began to walk on, looking for the crew or, at least, hoping to find her way back to the compound. The youngster walked with her. Then he said in French as poor as Lizzie’s, ‘You believe in justice?’

  This was no time to quibble. ‘Yes,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘You think, if we have killed, there is any chance we might escape justice?’ He was close to tears, and Lizzie could feel the fear in the question. She stopped walking and put her hand on his arm. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked at her. You are asking me for absolution? It is just not that easy, mate! Well, it should not be that easy! But, yes, people might forgive you, I suppose. They will either not believe what you have done or they will not care or they will figure I deserved it.

  ‘Madame?’

  Stop, Lizzie. This is not your story. It is just a frightened boy asking for reassurance. She inhaled, said she believed there was a chance of forgiveness. She did not believe he deserved forgiveness but she said it. Liar! She made it easier for this boy—and hated herself for it. Why should he be forgiven if he had been part of the rape and slaughter?

  But she put every ounce of conviction she could muster into her voice and said firmly, ‘Yes. Yes, even if we have killed, we might find acceptance. We might be able to make up for what we have done and start our lives all over again.’

  Lizzie didn’t really want to believe it, but this kid needed something. It was all she could offer. He looked at her, nodded his head and said, ‘You must go this way.’ He escorted her back to the compound where the guys had begun to panic about losing her.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, stay close to us,’ snarled Sam.

  She could see he had been worried so Lizzie didn’t bite back. They were all tired. They were luckier than the refugees in that they had small tents. They slept on the ground but they had sleeping bags and could use their packs as pillows. Each morning, they were given a soup-sized bowl of water for washing and cleaning teeth, and each morning and evening, some women cooked for them. It was always rice and bananas or bananas and rice, but it was prepared and served with a smile and there was hot, black coffee. Two women did the cooking on a fire they kept going all day. One was a Tanzanian woman, Mary, who looked about eight months pregnant, had been a programme director with a local charity when the flood of refugees burst over the border.

  Long before the international aid agencies arrived, the Tanzanian villagers had opened their doors to help the refugees. They were poor people with small farms providing just enough food for themselves and their families so their generosity was not of the “sharing-what-I-don’t-really-need-anyway” variety. Their simple houses were full to overflowing, and everyone ate less than he or she needed so everyone could eat something. Lizzie saw local people with half a blanket—blankets had been cut in half to share. When the big aid industry operators arrived, the contribution of these communities was ignored.

  Mary had decided she could be useful organising the cooking. ‘Too much bump in truck,’ she smiled, patting her bulge. ‘I stay here and help.’

  The aid workers, Lizzie and the crews all started work before sun-up, about five o’clock or a bit earlier. As they staggered out of their tents, the fire was burning and water was boiling, and when by eight or nine o’clock at night cameras were put away and reports finished by torchlight, the fire was still going and there was still boiling water for coffee. Then Mary and the other women cleared up and, at last, could rest.

  One night, Lizzie was slumped against a pile of wood, tired and filthy dirty again. She had just picked her way into the latrine and was trying to remind herself that she was lucky to even have one. The boards were soggy and squelchy, the stink was strong and squatting in jeans was not easy to do when you were in fear of over balancing and, ugh! the horrid possibility of putting your hand down to right yourself. Really, Lizzie, what is a woman your age doing here when she had the option of the parents and teachers groups and preparing for the local school fete?

  ‘You are tired, Lizzie?’

  Lizzie looked into the dark eyes of this pregnant woman who had, at last, finished the task she had taken on to help others more in need. Lizzie made the effort. ‘Sure, we’re all tired. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Good. Is good. You do good work, Lizzie, to help here.’

  Sam called from the other side of the darkness, ‘Lizzie, over here.’

  The two women smiled at each other, and Lizzie left the light of the main fire and groped her way to where the men were together, lounging against one of the trucks in the gloom of a smaller flame.

  ‘Here, girl, take a swig,’ said Sam. He hand
ed her a bottle of Ballantyne’s Scotch Whisky. ‘Our Norwegian friend brought this with him and decided to share it.’

  Lizzie was not going to ask what had “persuaded” this sharing. It had been an ongoing joke that the vain blonde had even carried a mirror and had a secret hoard of goodies that he was keeping to himself. She didn’t much like whisky but the sense of camaraderie, the welcoming smiles of the men, the space made for her in the circle suddenly filled her with a sense of real happiness, here in the midst of so much suffering. She was lucky, that was true. They drifted closer to the smaller fire and stayed there for nearly an hour, time when they could have been sleeping. The bottle circulated, each one giving it a swipe with a sleeve or a shirttail before passing it on. Yes, she was happy in all her filth and tiredness.

  Then a female voice said, ‘Lizzie, you come.’ Lizzie realised that the main fire was still burning and Mary had not yet gone to rest.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not wrong. Lizzie, you come. You…,’ Mary gestured to the small circle of men, ‘…you, you all stay here.’

  They were all intrigued as Lizzie followed Mary back to the main fire and the men stayed, watching. On the fire, which had clearly been built up again, was a large pot of water.

  ‘You, Lizzie, now you can wash and feel better. Take clothes off. You can wash.’ Mary pointed to a small enclosure where cloths and sleeping bags had been hung to create some privacy between tents. With a grin to the men, she pointed her finger like a mother directing children, ‘You, you all stay. Lizzie tired. Lizzie will have warm water to wash. But not for you.’