Journalism for the public good, or why I write Chills

There are things wrong in the world that need fixing, and journalism can sometimes do that.

Fearless reporting, a behind-the-curtains look at how journalism is made — and an unabashed point of view. Welcome to Chills.

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Last year, Substack nominated my series called “How a Journalist Chases a Monster,” which tells the backstory of how I reported a painfully frightening story in the Democratic Republic of Congo, for a Pulitzer. Since so many of you are new to Chills, I want to introduce you to the series — it shows how I report difficult stories, and why I write this newsletter.

A communal kitchen in the village of Kavumu.

Here’s Part 1, and a quick overview:

I never knew my work as a journalist could actually save people’s lives. Then I went to the Democratic Republic of Congo, and my world shifted on its axis.

For three years, little girls — aged 18 months to 11 years old — were being kidnapped from their impoverished village, Kavumu, and raped. I’d first heard about these cases while I was briefly in the country when the violence began. I wrote articles about what was happening, but the government of Congo couldn’t care less. There were no investigations or attempts to stop these horrific attacks. Finally, I realized I couldn’t continue to report on this from my home in New York City. The only way to truly understand what was happening would be for me to walk again on that red earth, and speak with the girls themselves. I needed to go back — back to a place where an array of militias might kill you at a moment’s notice, a place where a whole village lived in fear of what may come in the night.

Here are some of the facts, and rumors, circulating when I arrived: Because large families in a one- or two-room shack made of mud and branches rarely woke up as their girls were stolen, people said the perpetrators were using some kind of sorcery to keep everyone asleep. Villagers thought there was some kind of magic powder blown over the houses. (There is a widespread belief in witchcraft in Congo.) The government had finally assigned an investigator to look into the crimes. Just one. And when I met with some of the survivors’ families, they told me that they were standing guard as long as they could each night, afraid to sleep.

Within a few days, I had a strong feeling I knew who the ringleader of these rapists was, but it would be dangerous to follow my gut. The man was the head of a makeshift militia that was squatting on a plantation — militia members had murdered the land’s German owner back in 2012 — and, most shockingly, he was a member of Parliament. I soon confirmed with the investigator that I had identified the right guy.

As for the “sorcery,” I believed there might be a version of truth behind it. Congo is a place where everything grows. So, if the ringleader owned a plantation, couldn’t he grow a soporific?

After a couple weeks in the country, the investigator told me he was just waiting for the government to sign arrest warrants and then he would round up the men. I stayed a little longer. Nothing happened.

Finally, I returned home and wrote a long story for The Guardian, but I’d promised the investigator I would wait for him to make arrests before publishing anything; the last thing I wanted to do was jeopardize that process. And for the next six months I waited. Four more girls were kidnapped and raped, bringing the total to close to 50 attacks. Frustration wore me down.

Then I had an idea. Since no one knew why the Congolese government wasn’t signing the warrants, maybe I could use my reporting to nudge them? My editor agreed with my idea that I publish an op-ed in the paper before my big story. In it, I basically threatened to reveal everything I knew, including the incompetence of the government, if the authorities didn’t act.

I went to bed after the piece went live.

Four hours later, I woke up and checked my phone. I had a message from the investigator: “We just arrested the MP and 68 of his men. You can go ahead and publish everything now.”

Never in my life had I imagined that I could help stop an atrocity like what was going on in Kavumu. Yet I did, and along the way discovered that I had an unexpectedly powerful weapon in my quiver: Journalism.

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Chills is self-funded, without ads. If you want to be a part of this effort, of revealing how difficult reporting is made — of sending me to places like Ukraine to report for you — I hope you will consider subscribing for $50/year or $7/month.