Illness and treatment only reinforced my determination to shake global indifference to the terrible violence in Congo.

Some people may think that being diagnosed with uterine cancer, followed by an extensive surgery that led to a month of debilitating infections, rounded off by months of chemotherapy, might get a girl down. But, in truth, this has not been my poison. This has not been what pulses through me late at night and keeps me pacing and awake. This has not been what throws me into moments of unbearable darkness and depression.

Cancer is scary, of course, and painful. It tends to interrupt one’s entire life, throw everything into question and push one up against that ultimate dimension and possibility of dying. One can rail at the gods and goddesses: “Why? Why now? Why me?” But, in the end, we know those questions ring absurd and empty. Cancer is an epidemic. It has been here for ever. It isn’t personal. Its choice of the vulnerable host is often arbitrary. It’s life.