The Face of Congo

November 16th, 2009

I will never forget her. I knew she was coming to the hospital today. When I was told that she had arrived, it crossed my mind that I should isolate her somewhere tranquil, away from the thronging crowd of patients.

I am ashamed that I decided not to, since there were only six paediatric malnutrition patients left to see on the ward round so we would be there soon enough. By the time we got to external consultations the screaming made me realise what a mistake I had made.

All I could see at first were three concerned male nurses huddled around something. Watched by fifty faces, I rushed forward, told them I would take it from there, and me and the girl’s mum walked her to the consultation room.

I am not a Paediatrician. Neurological examinations on children are difficult enough in England. But in French, that’s being translated into Kinyarwanda is worse. On a ten year old girl who two months ago was raped by a soldier, side by side with her mum who was raped by another at the same time.

They then took the girl away alone into the forest. Her mother spent a week looking for her. She found her covered head to toe in welts and unable to speak. She screams every time she sees a man. She has the scars of where they tied her up by her right wrist.

They then took the girl away alone into the forest. Her mother spent a week looking for her. She found her covered head to toe in welts and unable to speak.

She has been seeing the MSF psychologist for a presumed severe grief reaction with physical symptoms. It took us almost an hour to conclude that she was brain damaged.

She used to sing in the church choir and do dance performances, her mother said. Now she shuffled along with a stiff gait and a lack of coordination on her right side. She seemed unable or unwilling to swallow her own saliva and dribbled through the entire consultation.

The nearest CT scanner is in Kigali, Rwanda. Even if we find what I presume is a cerebral contusion or a haemorrhage there is nothing that we can offer her. Except a bit of love. And bubbles.

I walked home trying to hold it together for the 100metres between the hospital and our base, past the other ten year olds skipping by the water fountain. I waved but avoided eye contact with MONUC (UN peace keeping force) who were parked with a tank outside the church.  The tears arrived before I made it to the front gate.

Within moments of entering my room I was sobbing inconsolably. I thought about the bubbles. I have just returned from R&R in Kigali with bubbles and balloons to entertain the paediatric ward.

I walked back to the hospital. “Zawadi” I said to her and her mum (“Present“ in Swahili).  I sat cross-legged on the grass and taught her how to blow bubbles. She smiled, once.

Then I went home. And excused myself from the 4:30pm medical-logistical meeting to lock myself in my bedroom and cry some more.

I have eaten an entire packet of chocolate. I am now going out to play football. We the expats are playing football with the village kids as training for the next match. It will do me good to remember what happy healthy children look like. I even bought new white and green trainers in Kigali that I cannot wait to try out.

But somewhere on the road are a girl and her brave mother on the bumpy ride back home who will never be the same again, with nothing that the medical team in Mweso could offer, except a bottle of bubbles.

Tags: Children, Mweso, Sexual violence