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yoga-chic, with the requisite alterna-girl nose ring
and flowing hair. Kelly spends her working life as a Pilates instructor and her free time blogging; she describes herself as a “peacemaker, justice seeker, healer, and dreamer.” Despite the suburban love nest she shares with her husband, at 35 she has the kind of idealism and passion that would make her right at home in a women’s studies class on almost any college campus.
    I’m thrilled to have a Congo partner in crime . We take off to a grassroots advocacy conference in D.C., where we chase policy wonks down hotel corridors, quizzing them about how to launch a movement. At the Darfur discussion panels, I’m the woman in the back of the room asking, “Why is there no advocacy focus on Congo?” After the conference, I continue the outreach effort and pick up the nickname “Ms. Congo” in the process.
    Kelly and I return to Washington to meet with every Africa or relief or genocide prevention organization that will talk to us. We are also spinning plans for a trip to Congo. I leave Ted at home to fend for himself on these trips, and he doesn’t object; we can use the space.
    Kelly and I schlep our way up Pennsylvania Avenue, exhausted after wrapping up our seventh meeting of the day. The Capitol stands in front of us in its undeniable grandeur , but the beauty is lost on me in my end-of-day brain-fry. I’m sticky in my black wool business clothes and weighed down from the oppressive humidity. I want to shake off the day. Instead, we talk in loops, regurgitating and processing everything we heard in our meetings. Almost everyone we’ve met has their hands full with Darfur or HIV or debt relief. Some are very supportive, promising to do what they can. Others are quick to lecture us. “You need to get it: You can’t save Congo.”
    I’m so tired I can’t even track what I’ve just said. I’ve all but checked out from the conversation when I hear Kelly refer to my efforts as “just pity.”
    Just pity? As a child of New Agers (bless my mother), I’m all for self-reflection. But given Kelly’s quiet manner, I’m surprised at her quick jump from analyzing her own motivations to judging mine. It hits me like a slap.
    So this is what it’s like under the microscope: Now that I’ve stepped out, the pressure is on. I’m expected to work from the exactly perfect, most
enlightened and politically correct place in my soul. Flawed methods and motivations will be observed and noted. This is a problem; I have not spent semester after semester studying how to be an activist. I have no idea what I’m doing. Like a lot of people, I’m afraid I won’t make a difference, but mostly I’m afraid of doing it wrong. In public.
    Should I curl up in the fetal position and process? Do I need to stop and go see a therapist or spiritual guide to deal with my ego? Wait to be perfect before I start? What about effort polluted by ego and naiveté, buoyed by grandiose dreams? What if I can’t save Congo, but I try anyway? Would it be better to do nothing?
    Did the abolitionists really think they could end slavery?
    Did the anti-apartheid movement really think it could ban apartheid?
    Does Save Darfur really think they can save Darfur?
    Who do they think they are?
    Defensive, I spit back, “I’m doing this because I care.”
    Â 
    WHILE I AM IN WASHINGTON, my mom calls to tell me that a batch of letters has just arrived from our Congo sisters. The letters are full of news about their children, their favorite classes in the program, their business activities, prayers and blessings, and their hopes for the first democratic elections in their country since 1960, which are scheduled to take place this summer. My mom faxes the letters to the nearest Kinko’s. One stands out.
    Dear Sister,
    We are doing well here in Bukavu. I was very happy to get your letter and to