The Moment That Changed Everything

The Moment That Changed Everything

By Lorna Owens

It was an ordinary Sunday evening in 2010. I was sitting quietly, watching 60 Minutes with a cup of tea, when Anderson Cooper’s segment appeared on the screen — “Rape as a Weapon of War.” It told the devastating story of women in the Democratic Republic of the Congo — over two million women, raped and discarded in silence.

At first, I was stunned. And then I was angry. “Why isn't the world doing something about this?” I said aloud.

And then a voice came — clear, undeniable. “It’s you.”

The next morning, I called Harvard University. They had been mentioned in the story, and I wanted to go with their team to the Congo. I spoke with Dr. Van Hoesten, who warmly welcomed me to join their medical mission.

But before I could finalize my plans, another call came — this time from a young woman named Kaleba Kasungo. She said, “I’m from the Congo. Let me take you there. You’ll see everything — just as you would with Harvard.” I said yes.

Not long after, I boarded a plane with my dear friend, attorney Marcia Narine, and journeyed to the Democratic Republic of the Congo through Rwanda. At the Kigali airport, we were met by Father Pasquale and spent the night in a monastery before he drove us to the border town of Goma.

What we encountered there was like a scene from a war film: tanks lined the roads, smoke lingered from an old volcanic eruption, the streets were broken, chaos reigned. I finally understood why the U.S. State Department warns against travel to the region. Marcia turned to me and said quietly, “You know, I took out more life insurance.” I laughed nervously, asking, “Why are you telling me this now?”

We were hosted at the home of Dr. Lucie from HEAL Africa. That night, we sat at a long wooden table with other volunteers — doctors, healers, and humanitarians from across the world. The energy was sacred. The mission clear.

The next morning, Dr. Joseph led us to the women — survivors, fighters. Women who had endured the unthinkable and still found a way to rise. We sat in a quiet room while they told their stories. Stories of terror, of children born from violence, of bodies broken and lives forever altered. We listened. We cried.

Days later, we crossed the river into Bukavu by boat and visited Saint Joseph Hospital, where we would partner for years to come. There, the doctors shared stories of women suffering from fistulas caused by violent rapes. We met survivors, held their hands, and stood witness to pain that shattered all distance.

Eventually, we drove high into the mountains, crossing past rebel zones. Our destination was Mwenga — a remote village tucked into the hills of Eastern Congo. As our car turned a winding corner, I gasped. Before me stood hundreds of women, dressed in vibrant African cloth, standing in the heat and dust. I thought they were heading to market.

“No,” our doctor said gently. “They’re here to see you.” I wept.

They had walked for hours, some for days, to meet a stranger. To meet someone who had come to listen. Someone who would not look away. They told us stories of massacres, of 13 people buried alive, of children lost, of healing still far away.

Later, the United Nations questioned us and strongly advised against going further into the mining zones, where coltan — the precious mineral used in smartphones — fuels both technology and terror. That night, we learned of a nearby massacre. Five bodies lay in the street as we descended the mountain. That is the reality of the Congo.

And yet, I chose to serve there.

I returned year after year, bringing doctors and nurses to train Congolese medical staff in complications of pregnancy and newborn resuscitation. But perhaps more meaningfully, we returned to the most remote places — places where mothers delivered babies on bare ground in the rainforest — and trained traditional birth attendants in basic care, handwashing, safe birthing practices, and when to seek hospital support.

We packed thousands of clean birthing kits in Miami — simple but sacred: gloves, soap, a clean cord tie, razor blade, alcohol swab, and a biodegradable garbage bag as a protective mat. All tucked into a Ziploc sandwich bag. That bag became a lifeline — a symbol of dignity and safety.

When Ebola threatened lives in the Horn of Africa, I traveled to Somaliland to the Edna Adan University Hospital, where I trained nurses in infection control and hand hygiene — essential, life-saving knowledge.

Today, I serve in Ghana at Wisconsin International University, where we provide full four-year scholarships to young women to become midwives. This is how we fight maternal and infant mortality — not with charity, but with capacity, dignity, and education.

We are able to do this because 15% of every product sold through Desert Sage Lifestyle Wellness — teas, candles, body care, the book Desert Sage: Wonderful World of Tea — goes to funding this mission.

This is my soul’s calling. To serve. To uplift. To fight for women who deserve safe birth, sacred care, and a future. From a quiet Sunday night to the heart of Africa, from law to love, from courtroom to rainforest — I have been called, broken open, and rebuilt. And now I walk with purpose. One mother. One midwife. One tea leaf at a time.