Jen

There's a war on war

I can't even believe that it's July 2nd already. Where has this year gone?

I felt odd today. I saw this couple I used to know; one that I spent a lot of time with last summer, and I didn't say hello to because I felt uncomfortable. They were a couple that Pat and I used to hang out with, and now that Pat and I are no more, saying hi almost felt wrong. I'm sure there are a lot of not-so-nice words traveling around his group of friends about me, so that made me even more uncomfortable. But not saying hi probably made me look like an asshole too. It kind of feels like I've been through some sort of divorce. We had to split up our stuff and our friends. Although this break up happened many months ago, it still feels fresh when situations like these pop up. It makes me feel disappointed in myself. Then I think about how much happier I am, and how I am in a much better situation and then I realize that no matter how much you don't want to hurt that other person, you really have to think about yourself and how you feel. . .

How touching.

Anyway, I find my self kind of alone on this upcoming holiday. Friends and family are out of town and here I am, in Chicago.

Then I think about my friend, Brian, who will be coming home from Rwanda very soon. He wrote me this incredible e-mail and I knew I had to post it.

8:30 pm

Sitting on the balcony of the hotel. It is not late, but it is dark and I'm tired and the heart of Kigali shines subdued below. Yes, so: we're here. Rwanda. It seems strange to finally be here; to see it. I've pictured it so many times, in so many ways- a tiny spot on a map, a detailed map; it's hills, Kigali. I've imagined that it looks like, imagined myself here, imagined the genocide. And now I'm looking at it, finally.

The sun set as our minibus flew around the hills leading from the border. Dark came hard and fast. The headlights would shine momentarily on an object before speeding on- endless lush greenery, punctuated for an instant by a face, a freeze-frame body caught walking or staring or talking. It would catch houses, one alone, or several in a row, some stretching out to tiny villages. And you wonder, you can't help it, it isn't even intellectual, just a question shooting from your gut, so instant and basic it isn't even worded: what happened here? What happened to this person? Did they see horror? Did they inflict it? House it? You catch yourself thinking this and you chastise yourself- don't over dramatize. But you can't. You can not over dramatize. It did happen, and it happened everywhere in this lush country.

I stop writing, light another cigarette, look at the intersection. This isn't the heart of the city, but this is a fairly big intersection, but size hardly is relevant. At almost every intersection drunken militiamen set up roadblocks, stopping every car. If there were any Tutsis, they butchered them on the spot. Right there, for sure. There is no question about it.

Dominika said she felt uneasy being here- not unsafe, but uneasy. I agree. Evil happened here. I have never been to the death camps, never experienced anything like this, and it makes me physically ill for a few reasons. Every time I've made eye contact with someone since arriving I shudder internally. Because they know. They know why I'm here: I'm here because of the genocide. I'm here because of what happened to them, because it horrifies me, and, even more, it fascinates me. I'm a gawker. I have a purpose, but I'm still a gawker. I wouldn't be here were it not for the pull the genocide has on me. It's horrible, and I hate myself for it, but I can't help it. Somewhere I wanted this, this palpable unease, this sense of evil, this surety of ghosts. A car drives through and I can see it stopping, I can see someone dragged out screaming, hacked to death, terrible things.

Stop: Pause: another cigarette. I wanted this, yes- I am dramatic and delight in the idea of my own sensitivity. But. No, not this. I had no idea it would be so strong, so real, so sincere.

I realize something. This stupid goddamn narcissism means something, is giving something. Because I'm here and because everyone knows why I'm here, and because imagination comes from a more brutal reality here, the genocide is still happening. There is still someone whimpering under my bed, dying in the street, killing unstopped. Do you see- life has paved over the horrors, routine over terror, but it is still here. To deny that, to pretend it didn't happen, to ignore the fundamental basis of reality in Rwanda, to scold myself for indulgence is to betray truth, to kill history, to shape the present to how it makes me comfortable.

This realization doesn't cure my unease, but it lets it rest easily. I finish my last cigarette, and before I go in to sleep, I watch a woman cross the street and disappear down the hill, alive.

Brian

Can you even imagine? And here I am talking about my break up.

Ok, enough seriousness for the day. See you on the 3rd.