That last paragraph is not meant in any way to suggest that W4W’s work is partial or incomplete. In fact, their work is extraordinary in the maximum. I was visiting with only 20 out of the thousands of Congolese women they have reached, and this group is not finished yet with their “topics.” It just means that it takes all of us NGOs working in partnership to provide a complete solution to an exceedingly complex and varied series of life-challenging problems that confront the poor. We specialize in health: prevention, creating recognition of problems and treatment-seeking behaviors, treatment, products and services, and we’re damn good at it. Women for Women teaches traumatized, victimized, poor women to bathe, to learn to feed themselves, to read, count, write, parenting skills, social skills, money skills, a trade. Together we empower and protect the whole woman.

Back on that lush, soft grass, we danced, caroused, ululated, clapped, bumped, hugged and smiled. At the very end, I led a passionate salute to Zainab Salbi, founder of W4W. Her name rang through the air in a series of joyful waves, sung by beautiful, clean, fresh-smelling, literate, skilled, empowered standing-tall Congolese women!

And at PSI we’re already brainstorming about how to cooperate more, to hire their graduates as peer educators, to present reproductive health activities as new women come in, and more.

There is a new-looking compound set incongruously in Goma’s ruins. In Cambodia, such villas are built by pimps. I wondered what kind of people could afford such a palace in one of the poorest countries on Earth. I was grateful to learn it was, in fact, my next destination, and was dressed with a Unicef badge. It is a medical clinic that specializes in genital reconstruction for raped women. Yeah. You read that right.

Women squat at the facility hoping for services someday (they are that busy). Some of the women I visited have lived there for years. They were squatting in the courtyard, washing their clothes or the children. They were sitting blankly on beds. All looked unbelievably traumatized and dark. Most clutched babies and a few were pregnant by their rapists. One was disfigured from having been burnt, her otherwise night-black skin raw and pink.

I wish I could tell you more about this clinic, but it was Sunday and there was some confusion in the coordination of our day; the director had left thinking we weren’t coming. I hope to learn more and when I do, I’ll share it with you.

A clutch of women in a doorway, mute and scared, stared at me when I wished them a good afternoon and said good-bye, and thanked them for letting me visit.

Passing back into Rwanda was simple. No mysterious delays. No attempts at extortion or graft. On the DRC side a menacing figure approached the car, demanding our documents when he knew good and well they were already inside; one simply does not encounter such intimating acts in Rwanda. The breeze off the lake began to blow freshly again and the leaf cover from beautiful old trees provided shade. On a grassy lawn, a wedding was in progress with a magnificent view of the mountains. At the hotel, I sat near hibiscus and plumbago to write this diary; my friend from the gift shop brought me ceremonial ankle bracelets with bells for traditional dancing.