Perspective

When I was in Gihembe (one of the two camps) on Wednesday night, I stayed with a friend of Jessica, Père Maurice. Father Maurice, a Jesuit, is the Country Director of Jesuit Relief Services in Rwanda, which handles the education services for children in Gihembe camp. He is from the south of France, but has worked in different parts of Asia, Africa, and South America. His house was great, and the meals were refreshing; among other things, we ate pasta, pineapple, salami, cheese, and bread.

Anyway, on Wednesday night, Pere Maurice asked if we would like to watch a movie that he had purchased that day in Kigali, Shooting Dogs. It’s a British movie about a group of Catholic teachers and clergy in Rwanda during the genocide. He had also invited two neighbors to come over and watch the movie with us. The movie itself was okay; I think Hotel Rwanda is better and historically more accurate. It was what happened after the movie that blew me away.

After it was over, Pere Maurice said in French-accented English “Let’s talk about these things because sometimes these things are difficult to see and we can talk about them.” We had to speak in French because the neighbors were not comfortable in English, so I was lagging in the talk. After a bit of discussion, Pere Maurice turned to the two women (the neighbors) and said in French “I hope this wasn’t too difficult for you to watch.” They both pleasantly smiled and said it was not. Later, the woman on the right said “Oui, j’ai perdu mon père dan le génocide.” Then the other smiled just as politely, and said “Et j’ai perdu mon père, ma mère, et mes deux frères.” In English, the first said “Yes, I lost my father in the genocide,” and the second said “And I lost my father, my mother, and my two brothers.” We had basically just watched a reenactment of how their family members were killed.

At first I wasn’t sure if I had heard or translated correctly. But, fearing that I had, I covered my mouth and sat silently as the rest continued the discussion. Father Maurice wrapped up the conversation, and told us that he had to take the women home. They walked out first, and as Père Maurice lagged behind, I stopped him. When the women were out of earshot, I said to Père Maurice, in English to make sure that I understood, “Did they just say that they lost all those people; her father, and her father, mother, and two brothers?” Completely straight faced, he said “Yes, there are many people here like that. It is not…uncommon.”

I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say or think; I had read and studied the genocide, but it is so distant when it is just a part of your homework. I went to bed and thought firstly about how both of those women had spoken of their dead family members so candidly and openly, as if it were completely natural, and secondly, about how we can begin to reconcile what we consider pain with the pain these people have endured. I decided that it was a conversation to have with Père Maurice for another day. As he would say, we will sit and talk and drink whiskey.

PS – I have since realized that in my last entry I forgot to mention what Muzungu even means. It is the local word for “white person.” The kids are really yelling “white person! white person!” Not all the kids are happy to see me though; this past Thursday I waved to a baby a few feet away. It took a good look at me and started to cry uncontrollably. I am telling myself that it was just scared of me because I am white, not because I have an exceptionally hideous face.