I love my new gorilla pen.

Efficiency may not be a strong point here, but at least things get done. I last wrote about how I was supposed to get my money back from the tourism office for my lack of Gorilla trekking. Well, it was supposed to happen before noon on Thursday (the day I left, or so I told them), but did not occur. So, I went back in on Friday with a look of death in my eyes. The man I was dealing with, Faustin, was slightly scared and invited me to sit down. He called the travel agent, who was trying to keep my money, to come in and bring me cash or she would be suspended. While we were waiting for her to arrive, he gave me some handmade Rwandan baskets and a…gorilla pen. With a whistle. Then he asked me what I was going to tell Canadians about Rwanda. He was very concerned it wouldn’t be positive. Then he asked if I was single.

Eventually, the chick showed up and gave me my money back, in cash form. No bank transfer required, and I’m heading to Egypt with real money as opposed to an ATM card and a hefty load of hope.

We split up a little recently—mostly, I split off from the group. The others went to church with Faustin, our guide. I wasn’t feeling it (which was good, as it was super Evangelical with people speaking in tongues) so I bailed and went to Bourbon Coffee, the expat Starbucks with free wireless internet. I met up with Sara’s mother’s group, randomly (there is also a group of 30 Canadian educators here, mostly from Ontario) and we headed over to Hotel des Mille Collines (Hotel Rwanda) for a drink. Mmm drink.

Another great Bourbon Coffee experience occurred the next day—when we met a survivor at the UTC. I had been put in touch with this gentleman by an acquaintance who said he was incredible, and someone I definitely have to meet. Without knowing anything at all about him, I felt like we should try and meet—and was it ever worth it. He’s an incredible young man, only 29, who is working for an organization that does education and promotes peace and understanding in schools. We learned that Rwanda doesn’t actually teach Rwandan history—not modern history, that is. It is difficult to teach and not pit students against each other, but there is also no denying historical fact. Patrick, the survivor, also told us a bit about his life and of his dream to help other survivors. He used to play on the hills of Kibuye and herd cows with his grandfather, who used to tell him marvelous stories. He was a city boy, but was always happiest there and didn’t want to leave. His grandfather was well respected and known, but rivals sent the Interhamwe after him and he was killed on the hillside while herding his cows. His grandfather had even given Patrick a cow, and he hoped to find at least that one—unfortunately, it had been killed an eaten by the Interhamwe—who stole all of his grandfather’s cows and buried him on the hillside. His dream is to someday build a house on that land and buy a herd of cows—so that survivors can live there and be given another chance. Truly an incredible guy.

Tonight was Sara’s bday—I won’t say what age because she’s sensitive about it—and we took her out to dinner at a fantastic restaurant with a strange name. AMAZING pizza. Don’t make any comments about the food choice- I’ve been eating a lot of beans and rice and it was a welcome change!

C’est tout for now—leaving very soon. Not quite ready to say goodbye to this country!

Efficiency, where art thou?

As most people know, I am super anal retentive about organization. I have lists upon lists to organize my life, and always travel with a detailed itinerary in case anything goes wrong. I have had to try very hard to adapt my life to Africa-- "ca va aller" is not a good enough answer for me. Unfortunately, that's just how things work here. Today, I got another lesson in this. And I dealt with it in my personal style. Oops.

As I mentioned earlier the gorilla money is $500 USD which is to be refunded to me. So, I went to see Esther, the woman at the toursim department, that the Park Warden forwarded me to. At the park, I was told I just needed to take my ticket back and they would refund my money. I protested, saying there was no evidence that I didn't see the gorillas and anyone could have said they didn't go and gotten theit money back. They assured me they would tell this chick, and she would know I was coming. I asked for a handwritten note explaining the situatuion, but they also denied that as unnecessary.

As you've likely guessed, I got here and was told I needed a written report and the other copy of my ticket. Exactly what these guys HADN'T given me. They also hadn't told her I was coming. I was told by the incredible helpful (please read this as dripping with sarcasm) Esther that it was a major process and would take weeks, to which I folded my arms, sat back in my chair and responded "I'm foreign. That's not good enough." Not as mean as what I said to some Indians, but a close second.

It took an hr of calling various people to organize how to do this--apparently, I have to write a letter and the Park Warden, who knew what he was supposed to do but was just trying to screw me, has to write a report and send it along with the other copy of my ticket, via BUS to Kigali. I also have to get the third copy from my travel agent and take all of these documents to another office and lose my mind on some guy named Faustin, who will supposedly give me my money back if I say I'm leaving tomorrow and am in a rush. I might also throw in some law comments (there is a clause in the contract about full refunds upon illness) and the classic tourist line about how I'll never come back and I spent a lot of money here.

The real lesson might be bureaucracy is slow as hell anywhere, but can be expedited in Africa if you use your "bitch voice" and refuse to leave an office until someone deals with your problem. In Canada, you'd just sit there for 5 weeks.

Murambi. One of the worst crimes in history.

I awoke this morning around 5am, to the city-wide call to the mosque. In cities where there is a large Muslim population there is an early morning prayer call that sounds like something between a song and a speech. This is the second one I’ve woken up to in Africa, and I always wonder what’s going on for a second before I remember. After a stellar freezing “shower” (read: drip from a tap) we headed out for breakfast and off to Murambi Memorial.

Murambi was a technical school where over 50,000 were killed. The Tutsis in the region were hiding in churches but became too numerous and were told by the town leaders to go to the school where they would be protected. They were attacked 4 times, but it was the last attack that destroyed the resistance. The Tutsis were suffering starvation and dehydration, and at 3am late in April, the Interhamwe slaughtered the refugees.

We were guided by a Hutu woman whose Tutsi husband and two sons were killed at this site. She saved her daughter by carrying her on her back and fleeing to her hometown after the massacre. It strikes me each time we go to one of these sites and the guides have almost universally survived the savagery themselves and lost everyone they loved. Yet, they are there. They are walking through the bones and the bodies and sharing the site with tourists taking pictures. I don’t know if I, despite how much I would want the events remembered across the world, would be able to do that. Murambi is a particularly difficult site, with many buildings holding the full remains of people. They have been preserved with a type of paint or thin plaster and the looks of horror and pain are still etched on their face.s I don’t have any pictures… I felt similar to how I did in Majdanek, Poland, in that I felt like I was violating something sacred. It was heartbreaking.

I don’t really have anything else to say at the moment…. It’s very bright today and I think I’ve got sunstroke. Again. Feeling not so hot…we’re going for lunch and a few liters of water right now. Maybe I’ll be able to reconcile some of these events and have something more insightful to say later on… but I don’t expect much. Today I felt like I really saw the genocide. And now I feel empty.

Rwanda and the Congo!

Internet has been limited over the past few days, and while I know it may be positive and help me learn to enjoy life and live without constant access to the outside world, I am still unable to find the joy in being without the world wide web. I know that’s a sad thing, but it’s the truth and I admit it.

After the ill-fated Gorilla adventure (ill for me, that is) we headed to Gisenyi to stay with Daniel’s family. They are the nicest people in the world and opened their house to us immediately—they even had our shoes washed. The home was lovely and was the first time I’ve seen HOT WATER in weeks. Most showers in Africa are cold water only—if there is a shower. So, we’ve been having ice cold ones for a long time—the hot shower was a real treat. As was the massive and amazing supper. After a fantastic meal we headed out to “take tea” on the veranda and have an impromptu dance party where local African daces were taught. We were not the best of students, but it was a valiant effort and much fun! I’m pretty happy to have an African family

now—they invited me over anytime and truly make everyone feel at home. With 8 children, I suppose that would be second nature!

We decided to take an exciting side-adventure at this point, as the family is Congolese but livesin Rwanda. We had all discussed going to Goma with enthusiasm, but weren’t sure if we would really do it. This morning, we did. We all piled into the jeep and set off for the border—some 3 minutes away. Alexis took out passports to get them stamped and the Congolese authority said he would keep them and we’d deal with the “formalities” later. As you can imagine, we were not

impressed by this but Alexis said that we should trust him to deal with it and so we did. We left our passports with Congolese customs officers. To save anyone a heart attack while reading this post—we got them back without incident.

Goma was amazing, and not what I expected. A volcano devastated the region 8 years ago, and people have built their homes on the volcanic rocks left behind. Much is still black and charred, and with such a lack of vegetation it makes the area looks desolate. Aside from this, there is a clear lack of happiness in the people of Goma. In Rwanda, everyone is happy and smiling and excited to see us—even if their own lives have been unimaginably difficult. In Goma, everyone seems sad. There is extreme poverty and extreme wealth, with no visible distribution. Perhaps comparing to Rwanda is unfair—Rwanda is 15 yrs out of war and the DRC is still in it.

We did a tour of Gisenyi after getting back to Rwanda, and headed off on the long, bumpy ride to Kibuye. The road was not recommended, but was a few hrs faster than the alternative, more navigable, route. Maybe not our best decision ever. I usually take the back of the jeep because I don’t get as carsick by being thrown around—thanks to the extensive pharmacy I brought with me. But this was insane. We were tossed around for 3 hrs getting to Kibuye—at one point my head hit the ceiling and I heard my neck snap. That was a great moment. We finally hit our hotel and passed out for a few hours of blessed sleep.

This morning, we briefly visited a church where many had been killed. Kibuye was a Tutsi area, predominantly, and as such the fighting was most deadly and bloody here. We also were lucky enough to met with Josephine, a Hutu who sheltered Tutsis in the war. She took in 5 at a time, and by cover of darkness snuck them to the shores of Lake Kivu where she had hidden boats to take them to the Congo and out of the war. She also recounted the story of Thomas, a child who came to her. She protected him despite the opposition of her husband, and eventually when it became too dangerous hid the child with her parents. After the war, he was raised as her own son and is now studying in Kigali. As for the people in her town, they are afraid of her. They don’t trust her after finding out she protected Tutsis—but she just smiles and seems grateful for life. An amazing woman.

We headed off on another gem of a road to Bisesero, the site where 30,000-50,000 were killed.

The area was called the “Hill of Resistance”, where Tutsis banded together to fight back against the Interhamwe. Unfortunately, they were massacred in June 2004. We met a man at the site whose entire family—parents, 11 brothers and sisters and wife—was murdered in the area. He is all that remains. It is a strange thing, to walk into a room of human skulls. I want to say it is sad and horrific, but those are clearly implied. What surprised me was how little emotion I felt—indifference is a terrible thing, but I cannot comprehend that each of those bones was a person. I know it is real, but it does not seem to be. Like the Holocaust program and my experiences in Poland, I don’t believe I will fully synthesize this information until I return home and have more time to think.

We are in Butare now, ready for our last day outside Kigali and our last set of memorial sites. Murambi Memorial is known as the most visceral and difficult of all the sites, so I am personally not looking forward to it. But, this is the job we are here to do and the lessons we are here to learn.

Lesson: The Internet is Not Universal.

It's Monday evening and I'm sitting in a Butare internet cafe. I promise I have lots of new and exciting blog updates-- but I dont have enough time to post now.

Let's just say, there is an entire post entitled CONGO...as I went there yesterday.

Everything is good and we are all well. Getting back to Kigali tomorrow, and will have plently of stories to share! Hope all is well at home.

xo

"This is my personal hell"

So, last I updated you, we were heading to Ruhengeri to see Gorillas.

Let's just say, the entire process was a challenge.

First, we left the city and realized the road was disasterous. It was 3 hrs of rocks and bumps and thrashing around... but we had a good time singing Disney and hymns. I figured, on that road would could probably use some "amazing grace".

We got to our hotel location. A couple random, sketchy drunk guys came out to get us to our rooms. Turns out, it was a house and we had to choose which house we wanted to rent. There were 6 people, and we wanted to be economical... so, we went around to check out which would be the better deal.

The First House - We walked in and it was dingy and yellow, with some sort of substance stain coming from the ceiling down the wall. Ok. Whatever. Then we walk into the kitchen and there is a giant puddle of water that has dripped out from under the sink. WTF? Is this normal? I start laughing and have to leave the premises to avoid being rude, but it as a laugh or cry situation and all I could do was laugh. Heartily.

I calmed down a little and we moved to the next house. House 2, shall we say.

House 2 - We walked into a little living room with chairs and sofas. Not a bad start, despite the salamander running around on the ceiling. Checked out the rooms...fair. But, they did have double beds, so we could all share and cut costs down. Con--no mosquito nets--an absolute must here. So we decided to go with this place for the night and have them bring us nets.

Well. While they were net-hunting, we checked out the bathroom, which looking and smelled like it had been inhabited by animals. There was no toilet seat or paper, and the toilet leaked into a puddle around your feet. Sexy.

When the staff guy with the net came back, we realized he was loaded. He tried to put up the nets but was about a foot too short and kept falling over. Eventually, we called Daniel in to help and he tried to put Sara's net up. The fell and smoked the staff guy in the eye, while the rest of us howled laughing and were of no help at all. Eventually, they got that one up but had to get more help to put up the second. Mine involved driving a nail into the ceiling and hanging the net precariously off of that. Eventually, they both got up and we had nets... however, the beds were questionable too.

Before I had too much time to worry, I saw the door opening (no knock?) and in walked the

sketchy hotelier who has been trying to talk to me and Sara all night. He wanted a photo.

Back to the sleeping situation. I had no pillow, which I actually preferred after looking at the pillows of other people. So, I balled up my pants and shirt from the day and used them in pillow form. 

I should add, the cost was 3000 francs per person--ie $6.

None of us slept well last night, but we awoke at 530am-- happy to get out of there. We headed to the Gorillas in the Volcano National Park, and after getting a little lost twice we arrived and waited for our group. The people organizing clearly forgot about us, as we were only 3 (Daniel couldnt get a ticket to go) and we waited til the very end to get a group. It happened that there was no space, so we got our own group. Of three. We headed out with Edward, the lovely guide, and started up the road to the mountain. One thing I didn't account for? The massive amount of thick, red dust floating around. I breathed it in for about 2 minutes before I felt my lungs closing off. Anyone who knows of my serious dust allergy can imagine this was not a good scene. I didnt want to whine so I plodded along, getting less and less oxygen. I got mostly out of the bad, dusty part, but the entire 4 hr trek (on the trail we had,...there are multiple trails) would have been the same. I gave up at the top of a hill, at the

edge of the forest, when I was gasping and dizzy and almost passed out from no air. No Jordin Sparks references, pls. I was pretty sure I was screwed. I started back down the hill with a porter, gasping and hacking the entire way back and curled up on a concrete floor while a bunch of people stared at me.  Raffi had called Daniel from the top of the hill and told him the sitch, so he showed up with a puffer and pills of salbutamol--totally saved my life. 

Alas, I didn't get to see my gorilla friends. Perhaps I shall come again in the rainy season and check them out, or in the summer but more prepared with the proper medicines. I have EVERYTHING else that I could ever need, but didn't think about a puffer.

All is well now and Im at a nice hotel restaurant with wireless, waiting for Raffi and Sara to finish the Gorilla expedition.

Oh, and the $500USD that it cost? Refund, baby.

And the incomprehensibility begins...

The last couple days have been intense.

We had a get together at our house with a group of organizations and survivors, to talk about their experiences. Unfortunately, I was suffering from a self-diagnosed throat infection and took a nap/drugs while the visited. After I got up we were getting ready to head for supper, when another man came tour door. He introduced himself as Richard, and he was the happiest man I’ve ever met. He lost his family in the genocide, but has found a faith and strength that lets him continue to be smile. In fact, we commented on how young he looked and he said “it’s because I smile so much.” How one could continue to live, let alone smile, after such an event amazes me.

We’ve started the truly difficult days, and are heading into some of the hardest. We visited the Nyarubuye Memorial yesterday, where thousands were killed in a church. This is a common theme of the genocide, as in past violent outbreaks Tutsi who sought sanctuaries were safe as the Hutu didn’t follow. In many cases, the Tutsi thought this would be the same. It was not. In many instances, thousands of people packed into churches and were brutally slaughtered. The sites are visceral, with human remains visible at every site (we’ve seen, anyway). The Nyarubuye site had another interesting feature-- the statue of Mary had her lower arm hacked off with a machete. This was, apparently, because here nose was too narrow and long, like a Tutsi.

Today we visited Nyamata and Ntamara churches—very close to Kigali, but where thousands died. In the latter, mostly women, children and the aged. We also visited the Ibuka office, the kinyarwandan word for Remembrance. This story is relatively known—the Belgian troops who were guarding the Tutsi were recalled, and they left them to their deaths. Within minutes of their departure, the Interwamhe set them on a death march and eventually killed them after they were too tired to continue.

The most inspiring moment for me, thus far, was meeting Silas. Silas is a Hutu, who was in the army fighting the RPF. When he realized what was happening, he started smuggling Tutsi into Burundi. He saved 23 people in 3 days, before he was found out. He was warned that the army was coming after him, so he hid in Burundi until the end of the war. He is the equivalent to a Righteous Amongst the Nations, and risked his life to save others. This is, sadly, not a common story here.

The people Silas saved are now his family, as his own regards him as a traitor. The elderly women are his grandmothers, the children call him father. And he met his wife, amongst the women he saved. He has had children now, though hatred has not ended. Neighbours poisoned his children—one passed away from the attack.

There is more work to be done.

On a happier note, on the way out of Kigali for Ruhengeri (Gorillas!) we stopped at a Gacaca trial. This is the community court passing judgment on genociders. It was particularly interesting because a woman was being sentenced, and none of us had ever really thought of female attackers. Women frequently tortured, in brutal ways I have no desire to recount, and this one was sentenced to 30 years in prison. We also saw a long line, 2 by 2, of about 100 people cleaning roadsides with similar blue outfits on. These are genocideurs—perpetrators of the genocide who have been sentenced. 

We’re leave tonight for Ruhengeri—in the north of Rwanda. Finally—a sadness free day!

Happy Canada Day from Hotel des Mille Collines!

Today has been fantastic-- it started with a visit to Mille Collines, the famous "Hotel Rwanda" to talk with Zozo, the only remaining staff member who worked there before and through the genocide. Zozo recounted his story for us over a couple hours and some coffee. The genocide began on 6 April 1994 and by the 8th the telephone lines were cut and the only outside communication they had was that on the television--from CNN. The reporting was scant and just said Rwanda was in war, but it was all they had and it was on constantly.

Zozo said that when the Belgian Manager fled with the expats, he left the hotel to be open to whoever needed refuge there. Though there are only 104 rooms, over 1200 people were saved by hiding in Mille Collines. Many of the leaders in Rwanda today are survivors from that location.

Zozo's family was killed, but he survived and remarried a woman whose husband had been murdered. He now has 6 children and multiple grandchildren, and says that as awful as the world can be, "life does go on".

It was an honour to meet this man, and he was very friendly and kind. He is clearly very popular and well known in the community, and everywhere we walked multiple people would exclaim "Zozooooo!"

The horror that has occured here preoccupies our minds, but while these people do live with it, it does not preoccupy theirs. Zozo said it seems like long ago, and things have changed so much. This country is the safest in Africa, its people are beautiful and generous, and the society has come back from great division and terror. The resilience is inspiring.

One of the people we met, a 38 yr old who looked 25, said he looked so young because he smiled so often. After surving while your entire family died and you lived in fear on a daily basis, I cannot imagine finding the will to smile. These people are incredible.

for David.

I blogged yesterday about having visited Gisozi memorial museum—the AEGIS run museum based on Yad Vashem. I wanted to add this piece, as it was one of the most powerful for me. Things surrounding children are always the worst. For example, the museum has a children’s area with photos of murdered children and little plaques with their favourite things, best friends, last words, mode of death etc. listed. One 2 year old died by being smashed against a wall. The cruelty and inhumanity continues to astound me, no matter how much I think I know.

This child stuck in my mind because of his plaque, which I will transcribe below. Meet David:

David Mugiraneza was 10 years old.

His favourite sport was football.

He enjoyed making people laugh.

He dreamed of becoming a doctor.

He died from being tortured.

His last words were “UNAMIR will come for us.”

I was 10 years old when David died. If he had lived, he would be my age today, and he might be a doctor, or a father, or a teacher. He was denied his life because he was Tutsi.

It is a crime against humanity to be accused of being born.

Sometimes I find it difficult to explain why this project is so important—why genocide education is so important. I want to avoid the platitudes, like “if you forget history you are doomed to repeat it”, but it seems the best explanation I can give. “Never Again” has not proven to be a reality, and if we truly want to find peace, we must recognize that, as life, it is a process. It takes time. I truly believe this project is important, and with the right combination of luck and opportunity, we will have the chance to change the lives of many Canadians.

The Land of a Thousand Hills

Where to begin. Arriving in Kigali was par for the course—no bags, but at least someone did pick me up. A definite bonus. Raffi and Dan, Dan’s friend Yves and his cousin Conso greeted us in Kigali and we headed off to move into our house (I have a bednet!), which is rented for the two weeks we are here and is definitely a much better deal than a hotel—though, not my dream of staying in Milles Collines for a night…which is ok, since we are doing happy hour there instead.

We’ve already done a lot in Kigali, and it’s only day 3. Most of the genocide sites, the really difficult places, are yet to come. When we first got here, we tested out Rwandan mass transit with a “bus”—basically a cargo van that you hop on and off of for .30 cents. We also checked out the local Starbucks—called Bourbon Coffee. We are very lucky to have a Rwandan on our team, who not only speaks Kinyarwandan, but also is related to most people in Kigali and ensures we have lots of homes to visit. Our first was a visit to Conso’s house, where she fed us a fabulous African meal—sort of a casserole dish, made out of beans, eggplant and plantains (a banana-like potato). It was the best African food I’ve tried so far! And, it was free. Definitely a nice touch when everything else is so expensive. For breakfast, we bought some bread and peanut butter, and have been having those and some juice at home before heading out for the day. Peanut

butter is a fortune here, but was definitely worth every cent.

We have met some amazing people here. The National Commission in the Fight Against Genocide was one of the best—the Executive Secretary of the Commission met with us and discussed Rwanda, the genocide, the future, and showed a lot of interest in our programme. We also met with a widow’s organization, which offers counseling and medical services, amongst others, to Rwandan genocide widows and young women. They also have a business side, where Rwandan widows create items—dolls, jewelry, bags, baskets etc—and the organization sells them, providing income to the women. I bought a lovely doll, which I carried around all day, and who will live in my house forever as a reminder of the amazing women we met. Many lost everything—husbands, children, sisters, brothers, parents… one cannot imagine the type of strength it would take to even continue living after that experience.

Camp Kigali was another incredible sight. Anyone who has seen a Rwanda genocide-based movie will know of this story—and those who have read about it will know more accurately. Basically, after President Habyarimana’s plane was shot down, the Prime Minister received de facto control, but was killed with her family before having the chance to address the nation. She was being guarded by 10 Belgian troops, who had no idea that the Hutu

militia who showed up offering to guard the PM actually intended to kill her. They left her with the Hutu militia and returned to camp with other militia members. After they realized what was happening, they tried to fight back and were killed by a grenade blast and gunfire from the Hutu militia. The building itself is littered with bullet holes and signs of the horrors that occurred there. There are also messages written on a blackboard by family members, decrying Dallaire as blind and heartless for having done nothing. This is an interesting juxtaposition to the position in Canada, where he is a hero figure. The memorial itself is 10 pillars, each representing one killed Belgian soldier. The pillars have notches representing the ages of the soldiers-- one has 25 notches, etc.

We have also visited the Library and Info Centre of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda-UNICTR, the Institute for Development and Research for Peace (poorly translated from the lovely French), and AEGIS, a British organization that does amazing work in Rwanda. The best experiences in my view were the Gisozi Memorial Museum and the Memorial service we attended. Gisozi is based off of Yad Vashem in Jerusalem, which I have also visited, and is a beautiful centre of remembrance for not only the Rwandan genocide but others as well-including the Hereoes, Jews, and Armenians. The museum also houses a garden-like grounds area, as well as the burial site for 50,000 people. Interestingly, the museum has been attacked by grenade 3 times in the past few years, most recently killing a police officer at the gate. The hatred isn’t dead—just as it isn’t dead from the Holocaust or any other systematic, cultural form of discrimination. But in Rwanda, peace is the only option. We were told by one of our speakers, “what other choice do we have?” Rwanda is so small and densely populated—peace must be found for the country to function. President Kagame has been instrumental in creating this peace, and people in this country appear to LOVE him. He has brought stability, peace, education, and hope to a people who had lost it.

The other experience, perhaps the best so far, was visiting a Rwandan memorial service. My friend from the March of Remembrance and Hope, and SHOUT, invited us to attend the memorial service for his father, a doctor who was murdered I the genocide. It was a celebratory service, lasting many hours, where people shared stories and music, memories and dreams of a man they all loved and continue to miss. They also expressed pride in my friend and his sister, and talked about how proud their father would be today to see their success. It is a strange thing—to attend a service in a language you don’t understand (kinyarwandan) and yet to somehow understand what is being said. The passion and love this man had for his family was so clear. And in knowing his son, who is one of the kindest, gentlest people I’ve ever met, I know he must have been all of this and more. And, this is only one story. One of a million.

I read today that the Rwandan genocide is not a genocide of a million. And the Jewish Holocaust is not a genocide of 6 million. Instead, it is murder—one after another—millions of times. It is millions of acts of brutality and evil, and we should not lose our conception in a number we cannot envision. It is one life, and then another, and another…

There are dogs howling outside…not sure what’s going on, but it doesn’t sound positive. Time to go to sleep, I think. A bientot.