Let's Talk About Rape — Empowering survivors, changing the narrative

That night, I felt as if I too were dead, as if the earth had collapsed beneath us.

ALINE

Conflict-related rape survivor from the DR Congo

I was born on January 1, 1988, at 4 a.m. at the EFESKI Health Center in Walungu, in a family of seven children—four girls and three boys—in the South Kivu province of the Democratic Republic of Congo. At that time, my father was a nurse, while my mother, a farmer, took care of the children.

The day I was born, my mother experienced no obstetric complications in the maternity ward. However, just a week after my birth, I became seriously ill and was sent back to the hospital for treatment. Despite my fragile health, the hospital staff could not determine the cause of my illness. External signs continued to raise doubts about my survival. Doctors frequently attempted to assess the condition of my bones through surgeries on my spine and legs, but these procedures were unsuccessful, leaving visible scars on my body to this day.

When I was eight months old, my parents believed I had died. They brought my lifeless body home for burial. It was only when my body was wrapped in cloth that a doctor friend of my father noticed signs of life and insisted I be taken back to the hospital.

ALINE

Let’s Talk About Rape® is a collaborative project with a therapeutic approach, where survivors set their own agenda and use a shutter release cable to take self-portraits as a powerful tool for healing and reclaiming their narrative.

Aline, Lake Kivu, Kamembe, Rwanda, 2024

In November 1988, when I was eight months old, my parents believed I had died. They brought my lifeless body home for burial. It was only when my body was wrapped in cloth that a doctor friend of my father noticed signs of life and insisted I be taken back to the hospital.

In the middle of the year 2000, unrest broke out in the village of Izege due to the FDLR (Democratic Force for the Liberation of Rwanda) Hutu rebels, known as the “interahamwe.” Initially welcomed as refugees in 1994, these rebels became increasingly violent with the rise of the AFDL (Alliance of Democratic Forces for Liberation). They withdrew into the forests, transforming into terrorists who began to pillage, massacre, and rape.

On the night of November 12, 2000, when I was 12 years old, our family was at home after dinner. As we settled into bed, we suddenly heard the crackling of bullets mixed with cries that seemed to approach our house. Fear gripped us all. Armed men dressed in coats, with torches in hand, burst into our home; they were the Hutu-FDLR, known as Interahamwes.

Aline, Lake Kivu, Kamembe, Rwanda, 2024

Through intimidation, they demanded my mother’s goats, which she had raised. When our older sister refused to comply, they shot her in the head right before our eyes. Her blood splattered across the living room walls. In a desperate attempt to defend her daughter, my mother was stabbed in the stomach and died instantly. Helpless, we watched as they took all our goats and many other valuables, leaving us to grapple with the brutal murder of my mother and sister. It was a tragedy that filled us with despair for the future.

That night, I felt as if I too were dead, as if the earth had collapsed beneath us. We made the difficult decision to leave Walungu and seek refuge in Bukavu, in the commune of Bagira, near the KAHUZI BIEGA National Park.

Almost two years later, on October 14, 2002, after the deaths of my mother and sister, my brother Adolphe returned from Walungu, where he had been caring for our father, who was also gravely affected by these events. He informed us that our father’s health was somewhat stable.

Later that night, cries of “Mulamuke! Mulamuke!”—which means “Wake up! Wake up!” Interahamwe militiamen from KAHUZI BIEGA Park invaded our neighborhood, spreading terror and destruction. They looted homes, killed people with bullets, and slaughtered others with machetes and knives, systematically raping women and girls.

ALINE

That day, an unsettling incident occurred in the commune of Bagira: a vehicle belonging to the BASEDEKE family mysteriously caught fire in broad daylight. By nightfall, after enjoying a meal together, I was filled with an inexplicable sense of dread, as if something terrible was about to happen.

That day, I was taken into the depths of the KAHUZI BIEGA National Park along with my brothers and others from our community. We were forced to carry stolen goods for two days. I became a sexual slave to one of the leaders of these brutal men. More than a year later, we were released without having been killed, but the psychological scars we carried felt insurmountable.

Today, I am a single mother of eight children. The father of my seven children abandoned us three years ago due to the traumatic events I have shared, from which I will spare you further details.