Having fled their homes and survived, many women in Darfur now live in fear.

In the Ta'asha area, a group of women, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, is gathered. Horses feed on the green grass, and a baobab tree stands tall in the distance. At first glance, it is the perfect picture of peace, of quiet village life.

But look around, and one sees the grim reality — women trying to build a structure strong enough to

shelter their children when the skies open and heavy rains pour down, caressing crying children, searching for food, looking fearfully to the left and right, or searching for signs of more violence to come.

Many of the women who have been forced from their homes by the ongoing conflict in the region lost loved ones as they escaped. In the midst of their mourning and having arrived in camps with few if any belongings, the terrible fear of being raped is added to their worries. Being attacked while fetching water or firewood is something that can force them to flee again. In Hasaba and other areas, rape victims simply disappear to places where they can hide their shame.

The women have lost all that was their life up until a few months, weeks or days ago. "Most of our men have been killed by Janjaweed," they say. "It is only us and our children." This small settlement of internally displaced persons is more or less a camp of widows.

"These women live in fear, yet they continue their daily routine, collecting firewood and water that is needed for their survival," explains protection manager Sarah Khan in Darfur. "That demands a lot of respect."

ACT/Caritas is now looking into supplying stoves that are more fuel-efficient. This will protect some of the women of Darfur. As the populations in the camps grow, greater demands are being placed on the environment, and women have to walk farther for firewood, putting themselves at even greater risk. "Therefore, it is a priority for us to find a solution for this," says Khan.

While the women of Hasaba talk about gunships, men coming on horses, the looting and the setting of their homes on fire, another helicopter circles around. Watchful, the women continue sharing small bits of their stories. When words no longer serve to communicate, body language takes over.

"They killed five members of my family," cries Balga Ahmed. The old woman should be spending her days enjoying the fruits of a long life of work, or telling her grandchildren about the bravery of their ancestors. Instead, she has become an internally displaced person, a number added to the tragedy of Darfur, on the run from her own home, from her own history.

Nine kilometers away, at the only source of water in the area, the women of Hasaba wait with their empty jerry cans. They no longer dare to walk alone to fetch water. Several women have been raped. "One was chased by Janjaweed. She was running for her life. They caught her. She was raped," recounts one woman. "Another women was raped by ten men," tells another.

When asked if one of the rape victims would share her story, the answer is, "No, no." When asked why, "They are no longer here," is the reply. After having suffered the ultimate terror, victims become ghosts in their own land. Some will never return. Among Muslims, it is a great shame to be raped, and out of the shame, many disappear. "Some go to Nyala. They are too ashamed to face their relatives and the rest of us," the women say.

Rape is a sensitive subject, something that is not spoken of in detail. But the women of Hasaba, Mershing, Otash and many other settlements and camps say that the rapes in Darfur are continuing. They fear their rights will be violated again if they leave the IDP camps — even inside the camps.

Some stories will never be known and will live on only in the souls of victims and in the mothers of children conceived by rape in this cruel conflict.