Cesarine Maninga carrying
a load of charcoal,
which she sells at a
local market in
Bukavu, Democratic
Republic of Congo.
Years of war — when men
were off at
battle, killed or
returned to find no work
— gave eastern Congo its
legions of female
bearers. ‘‘I don’t have a
choice,’’
Ms. Maninga said, bitter
resignation in
her voice. ‘‘I have to feed my family.’’
It’s around 6 in the morning
and the sun is slowly rising, a clear sign that Cesarine Maninga must leave. In
one practiced movement, she straps a 50-kilogram sack of charcoal to her back, tosses
the rough rope around her head and trudges off toward Bukavu, capital of South
Kivu province in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo. Ms. Maninga, 43, is just
one of hundreds of women who ply this trade each day, lugging loads of up to
100 kilograms, or 220 pounds. On this morning, she hopes to sell makala — dry
charcoal used for heating and cooking. She will walk almost 10 kilometers, or
about six miles, with the heavy load, a trek she makes at least twice a week. ‘‘I
don’t have a choice,’’ she said, bitter
resignation in her voice. ‘‘I
have to feed my family’’ — 11 children, and an unemployed husband. Women like
Ms. Maninga are a common sight on the streets of Bukavu, striking not for their
looks but for the outsize burdens they carry. In French, they are les femmes
transporteuses; in Kiswahili, they are called babeba mizigo. Whatever the
language, the job is the same: Female carriers are human pack horses. Several
international surveys haverated Democratic Republic of Congo as the world’s
worst place to be a woman. Often, these studies focus on gender violence.
According to a study published in the American Journal of Public Health last
year, 48 Congolese women are raped every hour. For years, various militia and
rebel groups have used rape as a weapon to destroy communities. Across eastern
Congo during these years of war, women have acquired an added burden, that of
bearing heavy loads. Horses, donkeys and trucks are too expensive, residents
say. The roads, if any, are so bad that the few miles between Ms. Maninga’s
mountain shack and Bukavu are nearly impassable, except on foot.