A Thousand Sisters by Lisa Shannon Read Free Book Online

realize that there is someone caring for me so that I can go on living. As I am handicapped of one of my legs, God arranged it in such a way that you can do what I could not do for my family. May God Bless you for that.
    In 2005, robbers dropped in at night in our home and killed my husband and cut off my leg. They also killed one of my children and
burnt my house. Here in Bukavu, I am an internally displaced person. I come from an area located sixty kilometers drive from Bukavu.
    I am a mother of four.
    War is a very bad thing. But I’m thankful God has enabled you to comfort us.
    Thanks.
    Generose
    I march her letter over to Oregon Senator Ron Wyden’s office, where he’s holding his weekly meet and greet for constituents. I’m the only person who shows up, so we talk for a half hour about Congo. He reads Generose’s letter.
    â€œThey cut off her leg!” he says, shocked. “There are so many horrific situations like this, but what makes Congo stand out is the brutality. When were you there?”
    Embarrassed to admit it, I answer, “I’ve never been to Congo.”
    I’m so tickled that a letter written by a woman in the Congo has landed in the hands of a U.S. Senator. I stop by Union Station and pick up postcards of Washington monuments framed with cherry blossoms and I write to Generose. I make rudimentary diagrams that outline the way the U.S. government is structured, so that Generose will understand how high up her letter has gotten. I suppose I want to offer her one of the few shreds of silver lining available after a loss, the modest comfort that a loved one’s death has not occurred in a vacuum, but that something meaningful might spring from it .
    A batch of new sponsorship packets arrives around the same time. The photos of new sisters always seem to have the self-conscious look of those who are unaccustomed to being photographed, but these four portraits say something else entirely. Though their paperwork looks no different than that of other Congolese women, their furrowed brows and downcast eyes convey distress. They look transparent, beaten down. Something especially bad must be happening in or around the Women for Women center they all attend called Walungu.

    Back at Women for Women’s D.C. headquarters, Sumana, the group’s media person, tells me she wants to pitch my story to national magazines. Later that day we hop across the street to rummage the magazine racks at Borders, hoping to spark some ideas. As I thumb through women’s magazines, Sumana leans over to me and whispers, “I know that woman. She’s with [a major national magazine].” Without blinking, she pounces on her long-lost colleague. They swap updates about the last few years, since their joint stint in the White House press corps. Then Sumana launches into her Women for Women pitch, motioning for me to join them. “You have to hear Lisa’s story. Well, Lisa, you’ll tell it best . . .”
    Pitch myself ? Ugh. I stumble—practically choke—while the reporter listens politely. When I finish, she turns back to Sumana. “We get hundreds of pitches for stories on someone who crawled across the country on hand and knee for some good cause.” She sizes me up. “Have you been to Congo?”
    â€œNo. Not yet.”
    She turns back to Sumana and says, “We might consider a story on letters between women, but just make sure it’s not who you’d expect. You know, not someone who looks like they eat granola.”
    Whoa there, lady. I don’t eat granola. It has way too much sugar.
    Sumana jumps in, trying to salvage the contact. “I know a sponsor who would be perfect . . .”
    I retreat to the magazine rack, trying to hide out behind Elle or Glamour or Cosmo , wondering what part of this perfectly pressed, all-black suit from Saks Fifth Avenue identified me as granola. All I can figure is that my silver 1920s art nouveau