I forgot my camera batteries. How could I forget the batteries!?! Probably because this whole workshop was put on by my space-cadet self. We drive 30 minutes along uncomfortable roads only to realize we forgot the DVD. Aimable had to catch a moto all the way back and pick it up. And I reach in my bag to snap a photo of the sun falling across the face of the guy sitting in front of me to find out that I left the batteries as well. (So go figure that I would blindly stumble up the road two hours later than anticipated, late for a meeting and not feeling so great. Awesome.)
Back to business though. I could not take photos for the website, which is my job description. So I had to write what I saw.
My shadow lays long on the ground to my left. Gliding over packed sand and hedges of cacti as I walk into the mud-constructed building where Aimable addresses 120 prisoners.
The sun was setting through the triangle holes in-between the mud bricks and straw roof. The rays cast orange beams across the side of black faces. Faces furrowed with years of stress, holding empty eyes that sadly stare downward. Faces belonging to men who have only known prison and camp life for 17 years now. Men whose wives are embarrassed to be married to murderers, and thus have children of other patronage. Men who are guilt-ridden by their involvement in the genocide.
Heads in their hands and knees in their chests, individuals and pairs are scattered all over the volleyball court and surrounding grass patches. Children scream on the hillside, birds chirp and twitter as the sun sets on 120 broken men confronting their pain.