Holding Back the Shame
continued...
"Beatrice took her to a nearby doctor, who confirmed that she had been raped, though it appears that she was not completely penetrated – which may be good news for her future, as virginity is highly prized and a necessity if a girl wants to marry"
Most victims of rape come to the centre initially to get antiretrovirals, medicine that can prevent HIV infection. It needs to be administered within 72 hours to be effective, and has to be taken for 28 days. There has been a widespread, effective campaign to educate the Burundian population about Aids, and people here are terrified of it, though in relative terms it is not as bad a problem here as in other African countries: 8.3% of adults are HIV-positive in Burundi, compared to 20% in South Africa, 25% in Zimbabwe, and 36% in Botswana. Rape victims attending the clinic are also medically examined, tested for STD, and counselled by a psychologist.
old son whose father is her rapist.
There are follow-up appointments one and six months later. While the antiretrovirals may draw victims to the centre, the counselling they receive is a helpful bonus. Célestine, one of the psychologists at the centre, is not so afraid as me to ask difficult questions. She shows me an outline of the questions she runs through and issues she covers with each victim. They range from specific details of the rape – Where did he touch you? What did he say? Did he hurt you? – to questions about other aspects of the victim’s life that have been affected: How do you feel about your body? Are you able to sleep? Do you worry about safety? Who do you feel you can talk to?
By talking them through what happened, she helps them to purge themselves of the experience. For some, Célestine will be the only person they talk to about the rape. That is the case with Françoise, the 60-year-old grandmother. A widow of several years, she wears a green, yellow and orange headscarf, from which black and grey curls poke out. During the counselling session, Célestine makes constant eye contact and half-smiles as she speaks softly and calmly with Françoise, keeping her talking.
Though I don’t understand Kirundi, it sounds like Françoise is telling her what happened in great detail. She shows little obvious emotion, but now and then she leans to one side and puts a hand to her forehead. “She’s ashamed that a woman her age would be raped,” Célestine explains when I ask about the gesture. “She hasn’t told anyone and never will.” She’s only come to the clinic now – two months after the rape – because she’s got pain in her abdomen. (Tests reveal Françoise has contracted an STD.) She lied to her children about why she’s come all the way to Bujumbura. At the end of the session, Françoise looks directly at me for the first time.
“I want to know about you,” she says. That seems fair, so I tell her what I can and show her a photo of my son. “Only one child?” she says. “I thank God that I have had so many children!” I take her pity on the chin. When I promise to keep her secret safe, Françoise smiles at me. For this piece I have changed her name, and those of all of the rape victims and their families. Françoise’s age is relatively unusual. Half of rape victims in Burundi are under 18, and many are very young girls – perhaps because they are clearly virgins and thus will not pass on the Aids virus. A few rapists even believe that sex with a virgin will cure them of their own HIV status.
I hear of other superstitions as well: sex with a dwarf will bring you luck; sex with an old woman will bring you wisdom. At the centre I meet girls 5, 10, 14, 17 years old who have been raped. The youngest victim I meet at her home, about 10 km from Buhiga, a northern town where MSF has recently started to take charge of victims of sexual violence, alongside the provincial hospital it supports and a nutrition centre. Christine is two years ten months old, and the previous week was raped by a man employed by her mother to help round the house.
The atmosphere here is lighter than you would expect given what has happened. In part this may be due to decent material circumstances. The house – a hut by western standards – is bigger and better built than others I sat in, made of new local bricks and a tin roof. The kitchen floor may be packed dirt, but it is full of food – branches of bananas, tins of oil, sacks of manioc flour. There are two beds, and a table with solid wooden chairs rather than stools made of boxes.
Christine and her mother, Beatrice, wear clean, new-ish clothes – Christine in a white dress and striped sweater, Beatrice in a red and white shirt, a green and white sarong, and a scarf hiding her hair. Beatrice has five boys and another girl, all in school as we talk. An 11-year-old neighbour looks after Christine when Beatrice is working in the fields or selling rengarenga – a leafy vegetable similar to spinach – at the market. Clearly they are better off than some if she can afford to send so many children to school and pay a houseboy too. Here even the poor hire others poorer to help out. Money helps, of course, but the positive atmosphere I attribute largely to Christine and Beatrice themselves. Christine is a solid, feisty little character, and the moment I meet her I know she’s going to be OK.
Most children her age who have been through such a traumatic experience would be terrified of strangers, but Christine is only momentarily put off. Soon she is giving us good long looks, her round face curious, her chin set, her gaze straight. She obediently stands with her mother for a photo taken from the back, but can’t resist looking around at Tom – not peeking timidly, but staring, sizing him up. Her mother Beatrice is equally charismatic. A small woman with a fine-boned, expressive face, she speaks in a soft voice that still carries, like a well-trained singer. She is clear in her beliefs, and it is easy to see where her daughter gets her determination from. Mother and daughter are obviously crazy about each other. As we sit inside while a sudden rainstorm hammers on the roof, they keep their arms wrapped around each other, Christine happy and cheeky on her mother’s lap.