Nyarubuye, Rwanda, April, 1994
When I was born, I never knew that I would live to see war. I never knew that war would define me, define my identity or dictate the way my life would be. I never knew that war would be the single handed demon that would make one's family a memory, relegated into the annals of history as mere faces, nameless, forced to remain silver filaments of thread in the labyrinthine depths of the survivor's mind. I never knew that war leaves a tattoo etched in indelible ink, like a scar burned into one's skin, never to be erased.
“Keep this inside the sack I gave you.” I told my son, giving him a lump of bread wrapped in leaves, sometime this morning.
“Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.
I am still not sure what we were preparing for, or where we were going. For days together, Mama and Data had been telling me of tales of massacres in their village, and it was obvious that it was only going to be only so long before it was our turn.
I looked down at Habimana, my first born angel. God exists, his name told me. I remind myself every time I call out to him, of just that. It is an amulet, a safeguard against impending doom. Habimana, Habimana.
: Genocide http://.blogspot.com/2012/02/genocide.html?spref=tw
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