Damn.

While I jumped around and teased and took funny photos and cartwheeled and snickered and giggled with my small street-boy neighbors last weekend, one of my Congolese friends was talking with them, individually, about how they ended up ON THE STREET.

Of the eight pre-teens he talked with, two told him they had been gang-raped by militias. Two of eight two of eight two of eight.

One boy (apparently) said it very quietly at first and my friend had to say “What? What? What?” and this kid had to repeat, repeat, repeat.

I love Goma but sometimes it lulls you into a false sense of security with its physical beauty and then the war is able to sneak up behind you and knock the air from your lungs.

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What the hell were we doing asking them to tell their stories, anyway?  I'm terrified of doing harm.