“We [Congolese] try hard to break the silence about all the rape, the sexual slavery, but the entire world remains in silence. Congolese blood is in the street, and no one says anything. It is so painful. You have no idea.” — my friend Gorethy Nabushosi, a Congolese attorney who fought for women’s rights in her home country and now lives in McKinney.

• This blog entry is blatantly stolen from an op-ed piece I have in today’s Dallas Morning News. Well, I guess it isn’t really stealing since I wrote it, but just so you know.

Gathering to honor women on Mockingbird Bridge at White Rock Lake

I grew up a middle-class family in small-town Texas. My dad called me Princess and Blue Eyes. I wanted to be the first female quarterback of the Dallas Cowboys so my dad tossed the football with me for hours in the yard to practice.

I was never stoned or had acid thrown in my face because my dad heard rumors that I kissed a boy. I was never sold into sexual slavery because my parents needed money and were too uneducated to ask questions. I have never had my genitals cut out because my parents felt I couldn’t be married otherwise.

I graduated from college and traveled around Europe in my mid-20s, never afraid to try anything because my mother taught me to speak up for myself. I married the man I love, gave birth to two healthy boys with excellent medical care, and make a living working out of my home that has running water and electricity.

I have never been raped while gathering water for my family. If I were raped, my husband would not abandon me. I’ve never suffered a fistula — from rape or a dangerous childbirth — leaving my body uncontrollably leaking urine and feces. I’ve never been put on the outskirts of my town by my family for the wild animals to kill because of a fistula.

As Clyde told our boys, you don't have to be a woman to support women.

I am lucky. Because all those things that have never happened to me — or to you or to any woman or girl you love — happen every day in other parts of the world, most often in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East, as reported by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn in their book Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide.

Kristof and WuDunn’s book and organizations like Women for Women International are bringing attention to International Women’s Day on its 100^th anniversary today. Women for Women, which connects women in the Western world with women in war-torn countries, is bringing together women from Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo on a bridge that connects their two countries. This peaceful joining of hands is a symbol of bridging the countries’ differences and ending the war that has plagued the region since the Rwandan genocide in 1994 that killed almost one million people spilled over into Congo, killing another 5.5 million.

Women (and men) will gather on bridges elsewhere in the world, too. You’ll find me on Mockingbird Bridge over White Rock Lake in my very first celebration of International Women’s Day.

International Women’s Day was first celebrated in Europe in 1910 and is now an official holiday in 15 countries. Yet in the United States, where we buy greeting cards for pet birthdays and kindergarten graduations, it goes by without notice.

My friend Gorethy shared her experiences in Congo, then held hands with us as we honored women worldwide.

Gorethy Nabushosi, a Congolese attorney who fought for women’s rights in her home country and now lives in McKinney, has a theory about why American women haven’t historically celebrated this day — because they have a voice and freedom.

Gorethy is the founder of Congo Restoration, which pairs orphans with brutalized women, giving the children a stable home, the women an income and — most importantly — a respectable place within a society that considers them among its lowest members.

“We [Congolese] try hard to break the silence about all the rape, the sexual slavery, but the entire world remains in silence. Congolese blood is in the street, and no one says anything. It is so painful. You have no idea.”

Gorethy will be on the bridge with me.

I am humbled by women like Gorethy, by the women in Congo, by the women who came before me to make my life what it is. And on International Women’s Day, I will stand in unity with the millions of others around the world who are waiting for me do the same for them. I am lucky. I do have a voice. And I intend to use it.

Women in Nigeria celebrate Int'l Women's Day

And in Canada

And in Scotland

And in NYC

“There are people in the world so hungry that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.” — Mahatma Gandhi

I first met Gorethy Nabushosi, founder of Congo Restoration, over hot tea at a La Madeleine up in McKinney, a drive from near downtown Dallas I wouldn’t usually be too thrilled about making. I hate suburbs. I hate driving outside “the loop.” But a friend from UMCOR (the United Methodist Committee on Relief) had emailed — including photos of orphans in the Democratic Republic of Congo — and wanted me to connect with her.

Gorethy Nabushoshi, founder of Congo Restoration

So there I was. When she walked into the room, I was hooked. When she started talking — her beautiful Congolese accent a mix of Africa and Europe, of worry and hope and passion — I was mesmerized.

And still am.

We have worked together for a few months now but never shared a meal (except for the hot tea at La Madeleine). I’d heard about and met many of her children and looked forward to an opportunity to get to know them better. So right before Christmas, we shared a meal and heard more about their story.

Gorethy was an attorney back in the DRC. She became interested in women’s rights in a country where women have very few. When she fled Congo more than a decade ago, she could’ve never known the role women’s rights — or the lack thereof — would play in the war that has plagued her country. Rape is the weapon of choice in this war. The United Nations Human Rights calls the DRC the “the epicentre of sexual violence against women today.”

When she, her husband and six children fled Congo, they went to Cameroon. She came to the United States, got her asylee status (taking 1 1/2 years), then her family followed. Her husband — who spoke three languages but not English — landed in New York City, bought bus tickets for the lot of them, then his wallet was lost or stolen. He and the children, ages 5 to 12, traveled for two days with no money and no food. He a trained pharmacist, she an attorney, they have very little here as their years of education mean nothing.

She got a call from a friend back in the DRC about a year ago. Please come and help, her friend said. So she did. She went to a hospital that treats rape victims. Helping women was her background, so she assumed this would be how she would help her country. But the women wanted to know about their children, children who had been left behind when their fathers were killed and their mothers were raped. When Gorethy arrived at the village, locals brought out hundreds of orphans. She took in 30, rented a house, found people to help there, and returned home to her family. For the past year, she spends most of her energy trying to help these 30 children and — when she can allow herself a moment to look at the bigger picture — helping put her country back together.

Bachishoga Maheshe, 6

Bachishoga Maheshe is one of the children at the orphanage. He’s 6. His parents were rounded up and shot by rebels. Three days later, he was found under his bed still hiding.

Marlene Nsimire, who is 3, also lives at the orphanage. Marlene was raised without a father and her mother turned to prostitution before being captured by rebels.

Marlene Nsimire, 3

She was held as a sex slave until she was killed.

One day last month, I posted Marlene’s photo on my Facebook page, trying to help Gorethy get sponsors for these children. A Facebook and real-life friend Robyn immediately posted that she’d like to help. A typical poor college student, she said what she’d really like to do is adopt Marlene. Since she couldn’t do that, would $10 a month help?

Although Gorethy and Robyn are incredibly different — Gorethy a middle-aged Pentecostal woman from Africa with seemingly unshakable faith; Robyn a liberal atheistic college student whose world includes very little gray — I wanted the two to meet. I thought Gorethy might enjoy meeting someone who was so moved by what she was doing. I thought Robyn, a young woman who will no doubt do amazing things in this world, might want to meet someone who was already doing so.

And so, our second African feast was planned.

Gorethy brought her husband, Bona, five of her six children, and a traditional dish of tilapia, rice and vegetables. Robyn brought her parents and the most beautiful and divine chocolate cake I’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying. We prepared two African soups, had some wine and African red bush tea on hand, and ciabatta bread.

Robyn's chocolate Guinness cake

I put the boys in charge of decorating the table. They decided candles, African statues, and angels were appropriate. We barely fit around two tables pushed together. Every chair and every leg touched the next. We heard the story of their journey to America. We enjoyed the food everyone brought together (they  enjoyed the ciabatta so much we sent the rest home with them). Later we sat by the fire (her children gathered around, fascinated by the process of starting a fire indoors) while Robyn made plans with Gorethy to make blankets for each of the orphans.

My faith lies somewhere in between that of Gorethy and that of Robyn. But — full of soup, bread and tilapia; high on chocolate and Africa — I felt something very God-like in my living room that night. I know those orphans see God in Gorethy, the woman who brings them bread and so much more. And they will again see God when she brings them the blankets that Robyn makes. Oftentimes, I think our souls are just as hungry as these children in the Congo. But on this night, mine was bursting.

“The teeth are smiling but is the heart?” — Congo proverb

Since coming home from my first trip to Africa in September 2008, I have plotted to go back. My first trip was to Rwanda, site of the 1994 genocide where a million or so people were killed in a three-month period. My second trip, I believe, will be to the Democratic Republic of Congo, Rwanda’s next-door neighbor.

3-year-old Marlene Nsimere, an orphan at Congo Restoration

I have recently met a wonderful woman from the DRC, who has sparked my interest in her homeland. Her name is Gorethy Nabushosi. She was an attorney back in Congo, as she calls her country. Because she fought for women’s rights, she had to flee 10 years ago, leaving behind her husband and six children, who joined her almost two years later. About a year ago, she returned home for the first time, finding a hospital full of rape victims and a village full of orphans. She took in 30 of them and started Congo Restoration, an organization she hopes will help those 30 sweet children and so many more.

We shared a meal with Gorethy and her family last week, which I’ll write about in my next post. She makes my heart smile, even when my teeth don’t want to.

In the meantime, here are some interesting facts about the DRC:

The Congo River

1. After Rwanda’s genocide, many of the genocidaires (those who killed) fled across the border into DRC. These Rwandans, combined with long-time political unrest, started a war, which, in 1997, overturned the government.

2. Since the war began, more than five million people have died from violence, famine, or disease, making it the deadliest war since World War II. The weapon of choice is often rape.

3. The DRC gained its independence from Belgium in 1960.

4. The country used to be called Zaire and should not be confused with the Republic Congo, another African country. Laurent Kabila, who became president in the coup of 1997, renamed the country the Democratic Republic of Congo.

5. Kabila was assassinated in 2001. His son, Joseph Kabila, is now president.

Rape victims reintegrating into their community

6. DRC is the 12th largest country in the world and the third largest in Africa. DRC is about a quarter the size of the United States with more than 2.3 million square kilometers and 68.6 million people. At least 1.4 million are internally displaced because of war while another 212,713 living as refugees in other African countries.

7. 47 percent of the DRC’s population is age 14 or under. Only 2.5 percent are over the age of 65.

8. Half of the country is Roman Catholic, 20 percent Protestant, 10 percent Kimbanguist (a Christian offshoot that started here), 10 percent Muslim, and 10 percent other.

9. Members of Uganda’s Lord’s Resistance Army continue to live in the DRC’s Garamba National Park, which borders Rwanda and is home to one-third of the remaining Mountain Gorillas left in the world.

10. A pasty white food called fufu, which is pounded into the texture of oatmeal, is a staple here and often eaten out of a communal bowl. Sweet potatoes, perch, bananas, and plantains are also common. Meat is not.

11. Traditionally, women serve meals to men, who sit in chairs. After they eat, the women and children eat what’s left while seated on the floor.

Civil war in DRC

12. French is the official language of the country, but most Congolese speak many languages.

13. War broke out again in 2008 along the eastern border with Rwanda.

How you can help:

• For $60 a month, sponsor an orphan of the war through Gorethy’s organization, Congo Restoration. Or share such a sponsorship with a friend: $30 pays for the child’s food, $30 pays for rent, medical care, housing, and school.

• For $27 a month, support a woman through Women to Women International, which works in war-torn countries around the world. Your letter of support to these women is as important as the money that helps them start their lives over with education and a trade.

• For $3 a week, help Invisible Children as it works tirelessly to set free the 3,000 child soldiers who have been kidnapped by the Lord’s Resistance Army in many African nations, including, as of December 2008, the DRC.

“I do like Christmas on the whole. In its clumsy way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill.  But it is clumsier every year. ” ~ E.M. Forster

The week before Christmas week is always insane. Farrah Fawcett insane; not really hurting anybody but enough to keep you on your toes. So much to do before the kids’ school break. Teacher gifts. Deadlines. Shopping. And maybe a little yoga or coffee with a friend to start the break with a smidge of sanity.

I promise to enjoy the holidays, starting Thursday. Until then, the calendar is full:

Sunday: Clyde has been craving biscuits and gravy so we’re having breakfast for dinner. Always a hit around here. We got a bag of juice oranges from co-op last week so think we’ll have some freshly squeezed wtih it. One of my absolute favorites. Every time I drink it, I remember how Clyde squeezed god knows how many when I went into labor with Noah because that’s what I wanted to drink throughout the entire labor. It was perfection.

Monday: Everyone’s home all evening. Think I’ll toss together some angel-hair pasta, tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, parmesan with some crispy kale. I’m trying a gluten-free pasta so all hell could break lose. To counter that, I’ll bake some bread in the bread maker. Warm bread and butter make any meal a happy one.

Tuesday: Noah and I will be at rock climbing from 5-7, so a soup made in the afternoon sounds about right. This zucchini and rosemary soup is divine (the croutons are key and should at least be doubled).

Wednesday: Rock climbing, guitar, church Christmas program practice. Everyone rolls in about 7:45, but I’ll have an hour or more before that to get dinner on the table. Have some tofu in the refrigerator so we’ll go with lemon baked rosemary tofu served with leftover soup and some frozen squash in red sauce I made last month. Not perfect but goes together well enough to not be offensive. Maybe I’ll try the homemade bread trick again.

Gorethy joins us for dinner

Thursday: Our second African feast! Very much looking forward to sharing a meal with our friends from the Democratic Republic of Congo and from church. I’m making my favorite African soup, and Noah’s favorite veggie version from his Jumbo Vegetarian Cookbook. Will get some ciabatta bread. I believe Gorethy Nabushosi (founder of Congo Restoration) is bringing tipalia and rice, a DRC mainstay.

Friday: Breakfast together on our way to the school holiday program or lunch afterward. We’ll play it by ear as the kids are done at 11 am, and Clyde took half the day off. Book club Christmas party for dinner.

Saturday: Tricky one. Boys are spending the night with friends Friday night so they wouldn’t normally be home for breakfast. But Noah has rock climbing at 10 am, then is going home with a friend from there for another sleepover and we won’t see him ’til Sunday. Sounds like delivering blueberry muffins or donuts to the Saturday morning pickup is our best option.

“When planning for a year, plant corn. When planning for a decade, plant trees. When planning for life, train and educate people.” — Chinese proverb

When planning through Friday, write a list and stick it on the refrigerator.

As is often my Monday routine, I organize the week’s food once I get everyone off to school and work (one of my greatest pleasures, I must admit; after my banker husband was off-and-on unemployed for 14 months last year, it still gives me a thrill to see him drive away to work every morning). I start with a my low-tech version of a spreadsheet (pictured), which includes the vital info on where we have to be each night. Sadly, it’s no longer ever a case of whether we have something to do on a weeknight — it’s just a matter of what, when, and how far away in Dallas traffic it is.

I love the mundane task of planning a weekly menu and grocery shopping. It’s meditative for me, just like cooking. I look at what we’re doing, how much time I’ll have to cook, what I got at the fruit & vegetable co-op that weekend, what’s forgotten in the freezer, what’s on sale at Whole Foods, and what my family is eating these days (which seems to change hourly with my 12-year-old; as of Halloween night, Kit-Kats are now out of favor).

Who needs Excel?

This week’s offerings thus far:

• Monday: Arroz con pollo (a recipe from one of my dearest friends, given to her by the Cuban woman who waxed her legs in Port St. Lucie, Fla., in the ’90s) with a French baguette, fresh mozzarella, basil and Roma tomatoes. A true Mediterranean mish mash. Bought some fake chicken to try a version for Noah (the vegetarian with the suddenly unpredictable taste buds). Never tried it before so we’ll see. In a pot on the next burner, you’ll find the tried-and-true version where a chicken so kindly has sacrificed its life.

• Tuesday: The vegetarian has a campout with his class, which means two things: One, guess we’ll all get up early to have breakfast together before he leaves (I suspect this request will not be popular). Two, T-bones steaks all around. Since they were on sale a couple of weeks ago at Whole Foods, I got three, so my 9-year-old carnivore will get his own plate-sized steak. He’ll be thrilled (and likely have leftovers for Wednesday’s lunch). Red potatoes and green beans on the side.

• Wednesday: So far, I just have brats and okra. Since I hate okra, I probably should find something to add to that.

• Thursday: Running-around kind of afternoon so gnocchi (frozen) with a pesto cream sauce, some yummy bread out of the breadmaker, and salad. UPDATE: What am I thinking? Rock climbing 5-7 pm for Noah, 7:15 pm football game for Sawyer. Leftover arroz con pollo and maybe a salad if I’m feeling ambitious (which seems doubtful by the time we all walk back in the door at 8:45 pm).

• Friday: African soup with friends who are coming over to work for this weekend’s Global Village Market at my church. We’re stealing the Starbucks idea of putting fabric in coffee travel mugs for Congo Restoration. Thinking about inviting friends from Zimbabwe. Maybe my first African feast? We’ll see. I can’t wait. A chilly autumn Friday night with bowls of hot soup, buttered fresh bread, red wine, and friends to help orphans in the Congo — perfection.

My 12-year-old son doesn’t think we can pull this off, this daily dining together. I say all it takes is a little planning and a lot of intention — in thinking about dinner, in what we hope our children will remember from their childhoods, and in what we hope they will pass onto their children and world.