Tag Archives: remembering

Chains

Ghosts are intriguing. The livings’ concern for the dead ranges from the childish, playful notion of white sheets with eyes that glide through walls to the hair-prickling fear of the paranormal. Do they exist? Can the living see them? Can the living talk to them? Why do they exist? Are they trapped until revenge for crimes committed against them in life is achieved? Are they on earth to warn the living? Warn us of what? Should we listen? Should we worry about vengeance taken against us? Ghosts are so fascinating that every culture has some lore, tradition, or taboo associated with them.

Ghosts are lasting. Unlike giant ants, rabid birds, and green Martians, ghosts still hold our cultural imagination. However more troubling is the double entendre here. The identity of a ghost is lasting: the un-dying. They do not go away.

Hauntings harm both the living and the dead because both parties remain trapped. It is real easy to tell someone that they need to just let go of the past. ‘Let go of the relationship, he left you and you need to move on.’ ‘Let go of the abuse you went through, it is over and you need to move on.’ ‘Let go of the ideas you had about how your life should look, the reality is now and you need to move with it.’ But why does no one suggest that the ghost be the one to move on? After all, it is the ghost who is holding on to something when clearly he should just die. Yet they are stuck in an ephemeral state, and keep the humans they haunt trapped in a cycle of replaying what could have or should have been over and over and over.

Ghosts are sneaky in the way they reside in smells, songs, and settings. Although you walked out on me, ending the plans for our future like a flame being snuffed out, the smoke of that fire constantly comes back to cloud my vision and sting my eyes. Because every time I smell that soft sticky sweet smell of your perfume I can feel you holding my hand and listening to the secret of my goals.

How I wish you would just die. But like the autumn leaves, you cling to the now dead branch and flash colors so loud that you cannot be ignored. At least the impending winter is a guarantee death to the fall leaves. The cold will soon settle heavy upon the fragile bodies of a no longer living, but not quite dead leaf, and force it to the ground where it will find the peace of decay. You? You just linger on, holding me captive by your random visits. It would be a lot easier to “just move on” if the hopes and dreams and passions and pains would die, if the ghost of what once was would die.

How do you kill a ghost? The person has already been killed once. You already died once before. I had to learn to live without you, so why are you back? I’ve never felt so wicked as the day I approached you and asked you to die again. “I thought you’d be happy to see me again,” you said. Well I thought I would be too, but your presence comes with a tether to old memories and dreams that I don’t want.

At first they told me to try yoga and herbal tea before bed. This was a nice distraction, but no solution. When you started showing up consistently, they told me to try prayer. This was as effective as a cardigan in a snowstorm. Now they say I need to ignore your sightings, and put the thoughts of you out of my mind. I have to wonder if it really is up to the living to get on with things. Why is no one telling you to let go of me?

Is this my old chain? / My mind is away,

How long have you been gone?

And the cold winter’s aged / The soft of your face.

And I can’t move on. Linger on / Linger on / Linger on

No I can’t move on.

-“Autumn Trees”, Milo Greene

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Remembrance, Forgiveness, Reconciliation, Development, and Gorillas

So why are you in Rwanda? Well chances are, you are somehow involved in forgiveness, reconciliation, empowerment, development, or studying/visiting the gorillas. And when you are constantly in the midst of these types of discussion, and these efforts, it is easy to forget how far the country actually has come.

This is the official week of remembrance.  April 6, 1994 President Habyarimana’s flight from a peace process in Arusha, Tanzania was shot down and he was killed.  Rwanda was instantly launched into chaos by the popular hate radio stations calling for the extermination of the people behind the attack on their president.  What followed was 100 days of killings and man hunts that are normally reserved for horror films.  Rwandans say 1 million were dead by the time current president Paul Kagame and his rebel forces took control in July of 1994.  Western estimates generally put that number at 800,000, but either way, the number of dead given the number of days it took is astounding.

It is far too easy to criticize Rwandan society and progress from the inside of an American run NGO or an organization focused on reconciliation.  But 17 years ago, there was nothing here at all except for some corpses and ruined buildings.

This is why we remember. To know where we came from, in-order to have hope for where we are headed.

As an outsider with stores of academic knowledge on the “art of reconciliation”, I can easily see what else must be addressed, who needs to do and say what. This is a vital trait for a conflict mediator. But for one living with and (trying to) build(ing) relationships with the local population, I too must remember how far the people have come.

This society is traumatized. Undoubtedly so. I don’t want to think about what life was like here 17 years ago. Neither do they. But this week alone I have heard the Youth Minister, the Executive Secretary of the National Commission Against Genocide, and three pastors talk about the necessity of remembering the past.  Because, they all say, covering over the pain and memories, or ignoring them entirely, does not heal anything.  World Vision’s representative said “pain that is not transformed is transferred.” To prevent the continuation of hatred and bitterness, it is important to recognize the pain, address the pain, and transform it.

So yeah, the society is hurting. There is still so much I can point out that must be said and done. But if I can remember where they were 17 years ago, I can recognize the insane progress they’ve made. And if they can remember where they were 17 years ago, they might recall the intensity of the pain, and recognize what produced such pain, and ultimately understand how to avoid a repetition of the horrors created by underlying and unaddressed hatred.

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Of Rain and Bones

I love good hard rains.  The kind where if you decide to walk out in them, you might as well bring shampoo and soap and shower while you are it.  This will explain the giant smile on my face as I walked up the hill to meet Aimable (A-ma-blay) (Program Trainer for As We Forgive). Well the rain, and the fact that I have the ability to laugh at myself. Because I was not walking up the hill, but running, in pirate-themed rain boots, with a giant plastic poncho flapping about my legs and holding a teeny tiny red umbrella. If I was afraid of standing out because I’m white, I should give that up now; because my demeanor clearly made me a sore thumb.  Running turned out to be entirely unnecessary too.  Aimable didn’t arrive for another 30 minutes, giving me sufficient time to stand guard with the 20 other Rwandans waiting out the rain under the local store front.

One moto ride and 30-minute bus ride I found myself walking along the side of the “highway” towards a church site where an estimated 50,000 people died in the genocide.  Because this is the last Saturday of the month, most services are shut down or on a slow schedule (the last Saturday of every month is reserved for community re-building work).  So the first two gates to the memorial we approached were closed. Short story is I went for one very loooong walk down a red dusty road.

The church has been left as it was 16 years ago.  Bullet holes cover the tin ceiling and mark the sides of the entrances.  Inside, benches are covered with all the clothing and personal effects of the victims.  The piles of clothes are faded in color now and covered in dust, but still reminders of lives once lived.  Beneath the church, and in cellars dug in the courtyard, are all the remains.  Those with family members to claim the bodies are collected as family units in coffins labeled with the family name.  Those left unclaimed were arranged according to age and the bones laid out on shelves.  We walk down steep concrete steps into the dark underworld to gaze upon the slashed and smashed skulls of murder victims.  As I walk back up, I catch a glance at my feet and cringe.  I’m still wearing my pirate-themed boots and notice that I have tiny skulls and cross bones all the way up my thighs.  Above ground in the center of the church is an altar covered in a dirty white sheet with a collection of jewelry and identity cards on top.  I found out that it is not a dirty white sheet, but a bloodstained sheet.  Upon this altar, a pregnant Hutu woman was cut open after she chose to hide with her Tutsi husband rather than live with her brothers.  This altar serves as a tribute to her life and that of her unborn child.

This country holds dearly to its memorials.  There are several, in villages and cities all across the country; said to serve as reminders of what evil does.  Sort of a “lest we forget” mentality, made clear to me as Aimable prayed for me at the end asking God to protect me from the spirits that might make me fall into evil, as the killers were lead astray.  Walking away left me more with a heavy heart for the rest of the country right now.  It is good to remember, but it is better to move forward wholly.  Not just in economic growth but also in mental healing.

We stopped for a late lunch and watched an impromptu concert turn into a Saturday night dance club.  Another 30-minute bus ride and moto trip brought me back to the local supermarket.  I bought flour so I could make bread tonight and had to turn back for an umbrella.  It was pouring again when I walked back into the safety of my home.

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