Radio in hand, I step out of the office. We are all equipped with radios in the event of danger on our travels. As I look out of the window on my way to Mugunga settlement, I see military presence on the road.

I arrive at the settlement and see Gabriel among the crowds of people who are waiting to receive some kind of distribution. Along the side of the road women are crouched down selling wood that I am told they gather from the nearby woods and plantations.

Gabriel sees me look over and anticipates the question that I am about to ask him. "These women, when they go to collect wood, they are often chased by armed men. Not every day, but often." I ask Gabriel who he thinks is responsible for protecting him and his family and the people within his community. He sighs, "We ask the government to protect us - it is their responsibility. In spite of our own security arrangements we are still scared. If armed men come in the night, what are we to do? How can we defend ourselves?" I look at him and say nothing - I cannot answer his question.

I walk through the settlement with Gabriel, I cannot help catching the eye of Maisha, who I saw yesterday. I remembered him because he looked so unwell, like many of the children here. I am told that his name means life; it's a tragic irony as Gabriel tells me that this child is extremely unwell and is suffering from malnutrition.

People are walking back and forth through the settlement; some holding jerry cans, others with bundles of sticks in their hands. Gabriel directs me towards his wife, who is sat down with her child wrapped around her waist with material in the traditional way that women carry their children here. In her small shelter a fire burns. Next to it is an old man lying down on a bed of molten rock; I later discover that it is her father, who is 90 years of age. I cannot help wondering how many times he has had to live like this over the years.

Gabriel's wife, Mukishimana motions for me to sit down beside her. After ten minutes of sitting on the rocks, my backside is numb. I cannot imagine what it must be like to try to sleep like this.

Having heard from Gabriel how vulnerable women are when collecting wood to use for the fire, I want to find out from Mukishimana how she feels doing this daily chore in the knowledge that there are dangers.

"If I go to fetch wood to use for heating or to sell I know that there are armed men out there and that I can get raped. As women we are scared. We don't know what we can do about it. I heard about one group of women who went out to gather wood, and they were chased by men with guns, who tried to rape them. One woman fell while trying to get away from them. She resisted and they broke her arm and tried to take her away. Fortunately, she managed to get back here with only a broken arm." I ponder upon the word 'fortunately': what has the world come to when someone is deemed lucky because they have 'only' had their arm broken?

I have already been told that people have little to protect themselves but I want to find out from Mukishimana how women go about trying to assure their own security. "To try and protect ourselves we go in numbers. We get widows and old women who do not have children to accompany us. As a mother, I am scared for my daughters; they sometimes go to work in the banana plantation nearby to get something to eat. I know it's not safe but for a whole day's work they get a banana, which gives them something at least. I worry that I will lose my strength and energy and that I'll no longer be able to look after my family."

I look over at Mukishimana's father, Sehene, about a metre away from me. The lines on his face tell a thousand stories. He asks if he can speak with me and of course I want to hear what he has to say. I go over to sit beside him and for a moment we look at one another and we both smile. The look on his face suddenly changes as he breaks the silence that for an instant seems to speak more than words.

"I have three daughters and three sons. My three sons were killed recently in the fighting. They were taken hostage first when they were trying to flee the violence. My wife died of illness this year - I'm a widower now. My sons' bodies should at least be sent home so that I can bury them, but I can't even go home myself, not until there is peace."

He tells me that this is all that he has to say. His words are few but they speak volumes for him and for so many other people who I have heard over the last few days have suffered a similar fate. As I leave, I too am speechless.