So April is back. Or rather, it’s on its way out, really. But, as with every April month since quite a while now, a question that for most of the year whispers from the back of my mind comes running to the front: How do I keep alive the memory of those I lost in the Genocide?
On the surface, the question seems pretty simple. And people always have answers. They have them many, ready and pretty straightforward. Almost rehearsed:
- You have to remember them.
- You have to make them proud
- Be the man they’d want you to be….
Well here's the thing. I’m part of a generation that’s being called the “Post-Genocide Generation”. That means my peers and I were either very young during the genocide, or born after it. Now, people assume this pretty much solves it for us: It’s not our place to remember. We were lucky enough to not be around, and that should be the end of it.
But Genocide does not work like that. It is evil, insidious, and makes sure its aftershocks are still felt long after the deed itself has been done. Imagine growing up seeing the house always full of guests at various occasions, like Christmas, but where not nearly enough of them are relatives; growing up without ever seeing any of your grandparents; or every year in April, seeing those few relatives seem to withdraw to a far off place where you can't reach them; or seeing them suddenly start crying out of the blue, because the smallest detail: your laugh, your eyes, or the new haircut you got reminded them of a brother, a parent, an aunt who’s no longer there.
And when you finally learn the truth, you feel the shock of it in your very bones. You lost more than 80 relatives because of something as trivial as the shape of a nose. Your mother had both parents and 7 siblings, but she is now left with one sister. The sister had a husband and a bunch of children but is now widowed, with only two children remaining. Suddenly the testimony of the massacres in the churches is no longer just a story to your ears: you know that that cousin you’ve lived with for the past few years barely made it out of one. You find yourself trying to imagine how he must have felt when he got separated from his mother and only saw her again in a Burundian makeshift camp.
You find yourself wondering where you would be today, had you been born just a few months before; would you even still be alive? You find yourself thinking about all those relatives you will never know: Would they have liked you? Would you have liked them? At those occasions where your house is full of people, you start visualizing one relative or other: maybe Noheli would have been that uncle who always drinks a little too much and talks a little too loud? Maybe Beatrice would have been that aunt who’s always got wind of some intrigue or other like she’s the neighborhood NSA?
But those thoughts vanish as quickly as they came, and you're left to wrap your mind around one cold, hard fact: You will never know. You will never know these people you have come to love. They will never be able to share your highest or lowest moments. They will never be part of your greatest achievements. You will not see them at your graduation, or at your wedding. They won’t be there when you welcome your first child into the world. All because someone decided for them that their lives weren’t worth a thing.
Look my point is, being born after the genocide doesn’t shield us from its ugliness. All that stuff I mentioned has shaken me to my core, but I know it’s NOTHING compared to what some of my friends have gone through. So when it comes to the duty to remember loved ones, to keep their memory alive, we too feel concerned.
Now the problem, at least for me, is that I don’t know the first thing about them. I have no shared memories of them to hold on to. I don’t even know what most of them looked like since so few pictures survived. Most of the surviving relatives find it hard to talk about them, and I can’t really blame them. On more than one occasion I realized that the memory of their death is more vivid than that of their life. No one wants to awaken that monster.
So in the end, my question remains unanswered. I love the people I lost. I don’t know them, but I love them, deeply. I don’t want them to simply fall into oblivion once my elders are gone or once I’m gone. I know of course that living the best life for me, a life of purpose and impact will go a long way to honor them. But I also want something more intimate, more personal. And for me, having vigils every once a year and reading names off a list doesn’t quite cut it.
I wrote this because I’m hoping I’m not alone. And I’m hoping that maybe someone with an answer will end up reading this post. If you happen to be that someone, well, I’m hoping you won’t just keep scrolling.
