The Genocide is a slippery reality
Most days I play with my Rwandan brothers, laugh with the kitchen staff, go dancing with my hosts, and travel around to the tourist destinations around the country; most days I don’t dwell on the fact that 14 years ago the country was torn apart by neighbors hacking each other apart with machetes. Instead I enjoy the friendly hospitality of everyone I come across, I appreciate that Kigali is one of the safest capitals in Africa, I go to work, and then to play.
But all of the sudden it comes up: the G-bomb.
For Example:
I was excited to fly to Thailand. My older brother was getting married and my whole family was going to be there – the first time we were going to be all together in five years. I was gushing over breakfast to my Rwandan family about how happy I was to see my family, my favorite people in the whole world, all at the same time. All eight of us! I asked my host-dad how many siblings he had. “We are 4.” “How many brothers and how many sisters? What birth order?” “I am the only boy, and the youngest now.” “Now?” “My two brothers were killed in the genocide.” “Oh.”
Another time we were eating dinner at a restaurant with a bunch of family friends. They were chatting away in Kinyarwanda and all laughed. I asked the guy next to me what was so funny. “It’s hard to explain in English” “So try!” “The virgin is always fresh, fresh as the Genocide (laughter)” “That’s funny?” “Yeah. The Horror of Genocide is always fresh, just like a virgin. (More laughter). Maybe its just Rwandan humor.” Yeah, maybe.
Then last night, I was playing Crazy Eights with the boys when Hope turned the channel to France24- a debate on the report put out this week on the role of France in the Genocide. Beside the floating heads of the debaters was news reel from 1994, showing bloated bodies, refugees and panicked faces. I stopped playing for a second to watch the news, trying to catch the French as it rattled past. The boys clamored for me to continued playing, then when I was unresponsive, sat and watched it with me. “Grandma was killed in the Genocide, right mom?” said Enzo. “Yes, she was.” replied Hope. And then the news switched to something in Iran and we went back to our card game.
But all of the sudden it comes up: the G-bomb.
For Example:
I was excited to fly to Thailand. My older brother was getting married and my whole family was going to be there – the first time we were going to be all together in five years. I was gushing over breakfast to my Rwandan family about how happy I was to see my family, my favorite people in the whole world, all at the same time. All eight of us! I asked my host-dad how many siblings he had. “We are 4.” “How many brothers and how many sisters? What birth order?” “I am the only boy, and the youngest now.” “Now?” “My two brothers were killed in the genocide.” “Oh.”
Another time we were eating dinner at a restaurant with a bunch of family friends. They were chatting away in Kinyarwanda and all laughed. I asked the guy next to me what was so funny. “It’s hard to explain in English” “So try!” “The virgin is always fresh, fresh as the Genocide (laughter)” “That’s funny?” “Yeah. The Horror of Genocide is always fresh, just like a virgin. (More laughter). Maybe its just Rwandan humor.” Yeah, maybe.
Then last night, I was playing Crazy Eights with the boys when Hope turned the channel to France24- a debate on the report put out this week on the role of France in the Genocide. Beside the floating heads of the debaters was news reel from 1994, showing bloated bodies, refugees and panicked faces. I stopped playing for a second to watch the news, trying to catch the French as it rattled past. The boys clamored for me to continued playing, then when I was unresponsive, sat and watched it with me. “Grandma was killed in the Genocide, right mom?” said Enzo. “Yes, she was.” replied Hope. And then the news switched to something in Iran and we went back to our card game.
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