Chanceline

Chanceline, just three days old. Photo: Matthew De Galan/Mercy Corps

One day last week I visited the health centre in Muja, a town 15 miles north of Goma, just west of the army checkpoint. It is a place of crushing poverty, even by DRC standards. Three-fourths of the children are undernourished. People earn less than a dollar a day. Water, jobs, food — everything is scarce or simply unaffordable.

There was but one patient in the centre — most of them are empty, as people can't afford the fees — and it was a new mother. This was a Friday, and her daughter had been born on Tuesday. Three days old, tiny and beautiful. The mother is the wife, or girlfriend, of a soldier. Some of his gear was in the corner — no weapons, just a backpack of sorts. Apparently, the wives and girlfriends of soldiers don't have to pay — thus her presence. Is this a formal Ministry of Health policy? Or is it simply impossible to demand payment from a father with a gun?

The mother was young, maybe 18, and pretty. She sat smiling, looking at her baby, quite alone until we came into the room, which had half a dozen simple beds. She looked up at us — myself and Honorine — and seemed a bit bewildered, but smiled. We chatted with her for a bit and I asked the baby's name.

"Chanceline," she said. "Parce qu'elle va avoir de la chance."

Lucky. Because she will have good luck.

* * *

Mugur heard at a WFP meeting that Pierrot, the Italian journalist we had dinner with, has gone missing in Sake. I call him, but get no answer. Later I am at the Ihusi Hotel and stop by the Internet room, where he sends his files. No sign of him. The attendant says he has not seen him for three days, that he was due back two days ago but has not shown up, not called. I try again later, but his phone is turned off.