I remember like it was yesterday. This month and this year will accompany me to my grave. It was 7 p.m. when everything changed.  We sat like a normal family in the living room for dinner. That was the last day I saw my father, my mother, my brothers and sisters. Today, even though my life has changed, the danger is still outside.

My name is MASIKA (not my real name), I am the youngest and the survivor in my family. I have no father, no mother, let alone brothers and sisters. Curious to know why?

Well, it was on a Saturday, October 19, 2019 at 7 p.m. We were sharing the evening meal, when we suddenly heard the sound of boots. Outside, there was silence. The sky was intoxicated with smoke, houses went up in smoke. Panic had caused the inhabitants of the city to come out of houses, people were running here and there. I was with my older sister. We headed for the main road which unfortunately was overwhelmed by Allied Democratic Forces/NALU (ADF/NALU) rebels. Finally, we sheltered in an unsanitary dwelling, my sister affectionately caressing my dense hair. Too often, ADF rebels are anonymous. Here, they have a face.

Even though it was dark, the shards of the burning houses reflected the light back on their faces. A few minutes later, I heard the door of the apartment close. They’re right there inside.

Scraping of boots on the floor, the closet door opens. Tucked under the tablecloth, I had stopped breathing, I felt my muscles contracting, I tell myself that if someone finds me, I’ll die. All of a sudden, I smell alcohol and hemp. The door to the apartment closes, but not completely. I see everything. I see man becoming an animal. Moving away from one’s consciousness. Centuries of evolution, to get to this point. I feel myself sinking into my hole, crying, my face devastated. I scream silently, while my nails scratch the dirt. I know that on the other side of the door my sister is begging him. They celebrate, they laugh, they sing in Arabic while raping my sister. There were about ten of them. I heard my sister’s voice, from plea, to screaming, to screaming, and then silence. She’s dead. The rebels, unmoved, don’t care. I don’t know how long this scene lasted. I saw the night disappear and reappear. Then, the chaos ended, without warning, the tornado suddenly dissipated. I felt dehydrated, starving, God only knows how many hours after the massacre, the ADF disappeared.

A few years later, I decided to leave the city of Beni and settle in Goma. At the time, I was living with a host family. One day, a training opportunity knocked on my door. It was an online training on entrepreneurship. I participated and found a way to orient myself in a different way. I switched to journalism, a profession that opened up a lot of opportunities for me, even though I didn’t find what I was looking for, which was to have the opportunity to tell my story, to fight for human rights.

After several months of research, I got in touch with women’s associations fighting for the same cause, and I noticed that the in-depth psychosocial support component was missing. That’s how I came up with the idea of opening a psychosocial care center to teach women and men who have stories like mine or worse to leave the state of trauma towards a perfect healing.

Yes, I was strong, I didn’t have enough money to hire a psychologist, but I used the internet to come out of the closet. Every day, I read at least one book, listened to a song, and did crafts for my healing. I’ve overcome the situation despite it over the years. Today I have a large team of psychologists who take care of patients.

Every day, we see at least one woman who has been raped and has lost hope. It was when I moved to a different location that I knew who I was and what was inside me. I urge young people to change environments when necessary to create opportunities for themselves. Don’t wait until you have an experience like mine or experience unemployment before you decide to leave your comfort zone.