Genocide

I was lying in bed the other night, trying to sleep, and thinking about Seraphine. She, like so many people here, is still horribly traumatized from the genocide. Every time something bad happens to someone else, she feels it as if it’s her own tragedy. (If you’ve ever read “The Secret Life of Bees,” I think she’s a lot like the character May in that way.) She cries all the time, even over little things, and she doesn’t feel safe in her own house. (Her next door neighbor is Tutsi, but killed other Tutsis to save himself during the genocide, which just makes things worse.) I can’t imagine what it must be like to live your entire life with the memories that she has, and to be afraid all the time.

Even though it’s been 12 years, you can still see the effects of the genocide everywhere. It’s perhaps easier for me to see than some, because my organization works specifically with genocide survivors, but I really think there are very few people in Rwanda that have not been affected in some way. Every time I see someone who is missing a leg or a hand, I can’t help but wonder if someone cut it off with a machete. Sadly, the answer, in most cases, is probably yes. Sometimes, when I’m walking down the street, I realize that the very place I am standing was once covered in corpses. Kind of a jolt, that. Henriette, my friend who is getting married in July, is excited for the wedding, but also very sad that there are so many people who should be there but are dead. Her fiancé and his two sisters are the only people left alive in his entire family.

Marianna, Nathan and I went to one of the genocide memorials last week – it’s very well done, and very moving. The last room was, for me, the hardest to get through. It’s called “Tomorrow’s Lost,” and it’s full of pictures of children who died in the genocide, all donated by their families in memoriam. Each picture has a caption that says the child’s name, age, favorite food, personality quirks, sometimes their last words, and how they died. Some died in their parents’ arms, others were thrown against walls. One little girl, no more than three years old, was killed when she was stabbed in both eyes by the Interahamwe. Now I can’t get her out of my head.

Sorry for the downer post…this is just what was on my mind today…