He was almost five, and so alive
All alone, but still he’d strive
He could thrive, and survive
On one bowl a day
Of rice and corn
Another baby born
To a mother with AIDS, HIV
To her god I hear her plea
Please, not me
Oh god not me, I won’t be
Here to see
My baby turn three
Just set me free
Don’t take him, please take me
So he set her free, and she left this land
And now instead of hers, he holds my hand
I try to step quick but I’m in quicksand
This boy turns six and tries to change fate
He runs to school, but he’s already late
So we run hand in hand, not too slow
I made him a promise that I wouldn’t let go
But it’s getting harder for him to breathe
He needs a break, too often it seems
He coughs up blood and I hope this doesn’t mean
He’s living with a disease unseen
He tells me it’s his birthday today
But he’s still sick and cannot play
I know I’ll have to take him away
To get the test he tried to delay
So still I sit and hold his hand
As the doctor gives the test we demand
And the result comes back seven years too late
And I hate the world for this moment in fate
I see in his eyes what I won’t let him see in mine
This little boy will die, in time
And I wish instead the energy could leave me
As it left his mother, so swiftly
Anything but this little boy
Why couldn’t death just pick a new ploy
I look at him but do not weep
If he can’t jump I’ll have to leap
Skin so dark and eyes like stars
Wide enough to chase speeding cars
So time it came and time it went
And soon this little boy’s spirit was spent
But I held his hand as he said goodbye
As I promised him, I would not cry
And as the night became so still
I sat and let the quiet fill
All the air and every thought
And all the love this little boy brought
And when I look at my hand I still see his there
I’ve never seen a more beautiful pair
He was almost five
And so alive…
***Do something to help this holiday season. Be the change.
December 13, 2009
November 27, 2009
Holidaze
If I’m being honest, I think I owe it to myself and to anyone else reading, to write a few words pertaining to what happened next. There’s always another page, always another story, always a next.
It’s been slightly over one month since my return to the big city. It has blurred by in a mixture of express trains, walk-up buildings, and quite entertaining dates when I can find the time. I'm in real estate, I hear myself casually drop at least three times a day, maybe because I'm proud of it, maybe because I'm prospecting, or perhaps just because I've begun to breathe it every waking moment. You have to, this is New York City. Go hard or go home.
Coming back to New York was a multi-faceted experience. Everything looked different and the same all at once. I was a new me, I had a new perspective, I was better, stronger. But no matter how far I had come, some things were still there, as expected, waiting. They begged to be reckoned with, beckoned my temptation and I fell for it...but only for a second.
More often then not I find myself thinking about my time in Africa. I think about how even though I so strongly wanted everyone to feel it, to learn from it, to understand it...I've come to accept that it really was for no one other than myself. I'm the only one who can truly understand, who can truly learn from it, who can bring to mind in a single heartbeat the kids, the smells, the sound of Kenya. And I keep it with me, every day, along side my grocery list and taxi receipts and weekend plans. Most people don't have the time it takes to truly hear you, but all in all, I realize I don't need them to.
It's true what they say about reciprocity, you know. When you're finally ready, when you're finally done, when you can finally say goodbye...it doesn't matter if the other person is there to hear you, to know it. You won't need them to know either way. Because the only one who ever really needed to say goodbye...was you.
‘Tis the season...Christmas in New York. Coffee burns my tongue as I sit behind a window watching the snow fall; I think about plans to ice skate in Central Park and new romance amidst apple cider and spiced rum. New beginnings, new endings, and an anticipation of the unknown. Love Actually and Miracle on 34th Street play repeatedly on DVD players and TBS specials, the tree lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center is advertised in the New York Times, and once again I know...anything seems possible.
It’s been slightly over one month since my return to the big city. It has blurred by in a mixture of express trains, walk-up buildings, and quite entertaining dates when I can find the time. I'm in real estate, I hear myself casually drop at least three times a day, maybe because I'm proud of it, maybe because I'm prospecting, or perhaps just because I've begun to breathe it every waking moment. You have to, this is New York City. Go hard or go home.
Coming back to New York was a multi-faceted experience. Everything looked different and the same all at once. I was a new me, I had a new perspective, I was better, stronger. But no matter how far I had come, some things were still there, as expected, waiting. They begged to be reckoned with, beckoned my temptation and I fell for it...but only for a second.
More often then not I find myself thinking about my time in Africa. I think about how even though I so strongly wanted everyone to feel it, to learn from it, to understand it...I've come to accept that it really was for no one other than myself. I'm the only one who can truly understand, who can truly learn from it, who can bring to mind in a single heartbeat the kids, the smells, the sound of Kenya. And I keep it with me, every day, along side my grocery list and taxi receipts and weekend plans. Most people don't have the time it takes to truly hear you, but all in all, I realize I don't need them to.
It's true what they say about reciprocity, you know. When you're finally ready, when you're finally done, when you can finally say goodbye...it doesn't matter if the other person is there to hear you, to know it. You won't need them to know either way. Because the only one who ever really needed to say goodbye...was you.
‘Tis the season...Christmas in New York. Coffee burns my tongue as I sit behind a window watching the snow fall; I think about plans to ice skate in Central Park and new romance amidst apple cider and spiced rum. New beginnings, new endings, and an anticipation of the unknown. Love Actually and Miracle on 34th Street play repeatedly on DVD players and TBS specials, the tree lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center is advertised in the New York Times, and once again I know...anything seems possible.
September 8, 2009
Homecoming
Today, I'm coming home. I will arrive tomorrow at JFK airport, the same place I began this journey, almost eight months later.
I caught a one way flight and moved to Kenya for six months. I slept in the bush next to elephants and rode on the back of a motorbike across the cradle of humankind. I feared for my life in a dodgy Mombasa hostel, and taught school children Math and Science. I worked and lived amidst the street kids of Kibera, and watched my orphan toddlers grow up. I traveled to Rwanda during the genocide anniversary, and saw the churches where thousands were murdered. I went white water rafting down the mighty Nile past Ghandi's ashes, and turned 25 in a cottage in the Ngong Hills. I moved in with a popular artist, then moved to Cape Town, South Africa. I swam with Great White sharks, I climbed mountains, I got a job as a waitress in a cafe bar. And then...it was time to come home.
"...I speak to you because I cannot help it. It gives me strength, almost unbelievable strength to know that you are there. I covet your eyes, your ears, the collapsible space between us...all the while I will know that you are there. How blessed are we to have each other?"
--Valentino Achak Deng, What is the What
Maybe I inspired you, maybe I entertained you, or maybe I taught you something not about me, but about yourselves. Either way, I thank you for being there with me. And I hope next time you're faced with a decision, you might just think again, and decide you're not afraid to jump.
I caught a one way flight and moved to Kenya for six months. I slept in the bush next to elephants and rode on the back of a motorbike across the cradle of humankind. I feared for my life in a dodgy Mombasa hostel, and taught school children Math and Science. I worked and lived amidst the street kids of Kibera, and watched my orphan toddlers grow up. I traveled to Rwanda during the genocide anniversary, and saw the churches where thousands were murdered. I went white water rafting down the mighty Nile past Ghandi's ashes, and turned 25 in a cottage in the Ngong Hills. I moved in with a popular artist, then moved to Cape Town, South Africa. I swam with Great White sharks, I climbed mountains, I got a job as a waitress in a cafe bar. And then...it was time to come home.
"...I speak to you because I cannot help it. It gives me strength, almost unbelievable strength to know that you are there. I covet your eyes, your ears, the collapsible space between us...all the while I will know that you are there. How blessed are we to have each other?"
--Valentino Achak Deng, What is the What
Maybe I inspired you, maybe I entertained you, or maybe I taught you something not about me, but about yourselves. Either way, I thank you for being there with me. And I hope next time you're faced with a decision, you might just think again, and decide you're not afraid to jump.
September 1, 2009
"Black Taxis"
"So do you know how I get to the beach from here?" I ask the tall woman behind the counter. "Taxis are quite rare, you need your own transportation," she tells me. "Well what about the shared minibus taxis?" I've seen them frequently since my arrival. "Oh..." she pauses, caught off-guard then lowers her voice, "...well, you could take the black taxis...but I wouldn't recommend it." As she feigns a look of pity, I tell her that would be perfectly fine to me, and walk out the door.
South Africans still refer to each other as Blacks, Whites, and Coloureds, and are satisfied with judging each other in this respect. The reminents of apartheid are uncomfortably blatant, and I find it disheartening to be put in such an ostentatious category. White South Africans I've met find it confusing that I'm dying to head into the townships, but to be honest, I feel much more comfortable amidst those surroundings. I haven't heard hardly as many overtly racist remarks from black South Africans as I have from the whites, though I'm sure I'd rather not know what they are thinking. There's a place I like to go in Cape Town. It's a walk-way near the train station void of all white people. There are cheap boxes selling food, vendors hawking anything and everything, and a few benches. I like it because it reminds me of Kenya. At the moment I'm sitting next to a woman smelling of sweat and obnoxious floral perfume, which blends with the odor of garbage and greasy food. I'm reading a book about Zimbabwe and am not in the least bit surprised with how comfortable I feel. I've come to love my moments of being alone.
Last night I shared a dorm room with seven male tour guides from Zimbabwe and Kenya respectively. Though nothing should surprise me anymore, some things still cause me to take a step back and laugh at my circumstances. One morning at my restaurant my dorm mate Ed came in, and out of breath proclaimed, "Jen, I just got out of prison! I was arrested last night for not having my passport on me..." I love my friends. The other week I rented a car with two English mates, and drove around the coast to see penguins, surf and beaches, and picked up a hitchhiker along the way. I went out last weekend and managed to lose just one shoe. I hiked to the top of Table Mountain in one hour and ten minutes, then wanted to roll all the way down due to exhaustion. Life is a funny thing sometimes.
Stories. We all have them. The more living we do the more interesting they become, and the more your eyes carry hints of secrets. All you have to do is ask, and the quiet brown-haired boy with a surf board becomes a British Marine, and the blond girl with glasses next to you in the raft is working with refugees in the mutiny that is Sudan. And today, I'm the girl that would rather take the black taxis...
South Africans still refer to each other as Blacks, Whites, and Coloureds, and are satisfied with judging each other in this respect. The reminents of apartheid are uncomfortably blatant, and I find it disheartening to be put in such an ostentatious category. White South Africans I've met find it confusing that I'm dying to head into the townships, but to be honest, I feel much more comfortable amidst those surroundings. I haven't heard hardly as many overtly racist remarks from black South Africans as I have from the whites, though I'm sure I'd rather not know what they are thinking. There's a place I like to go in Cape Town. It's a walk-way near the train station void of all white people. There are cheap boxes selling food, vendors hawking anything and everything, and a few benches. I like it because it reminds me of Kenya. At the moment I'm sitting next to a woman smelling of sweat and obnoxious floral perfume, which blends with the odor of garbage and greasy food. I'm reading a book about Zimbabwe and am not in the least bit surprised with how comfortable I feel. I've come to love my moments of being alone.
Last night I shared a dorm room with seven male tour guides from Zimbabwe and Kenya respectively. Though nothing should surprise me anymore, some things still cause me to take a step back and laugh at my circumstances. One morning at my restaurant my dorm mate Ed came in, and out of breath proclaimed, "Jen, I just got out of prison! I was arrested last night for not having my passport on me..." I love my friends. The other week I rented a car with two English mates, and drove around the coast to see penguins, surf and beaches, and picked up a hitchhiker along the way. I went out last weekend and managed to lose just one shoe. I hiked to the top of Table Mountain in one hour and ten minutes, then wanted to roll all the way down due to exhaustion. Life is a funny thing sometimes.
Stories. We all have them. The more living we do the more interesting they become, and the more your eyes carry hints of secrets. All you have to do is ask, and the quiet brown-haired boy with a surf board becomes a British Marine, and the blond girl with glasses next to you in the raft is working with refugees in the mutiny that is Sudan. And today, I'm the girl that would rather take the black taxis...
August 9, 2009
Cape Town
"Jen?!....JEN!" Wait, you cannot be serious. You're not telling me that within two days of my arrival to Cape Town someone is already yelling my name from across the street. But indeed, it is true. It's my new brunch friends from a couple mornings prior. I think I'm starting to like this place...
Well my friends, it's official. Within five days of my arrival to Cape Town, I got a job at a martini and tapas bar...and it is awesome. It fits right in with the story, I think.
Cape Town is nothing like Kenya...nothing. I had an extremely refined and trendy boutique owner tell me, from behind designer sunglasses and a babydoll dress, that they were very third world. I smiled politely. My first few days here went a little something like this: sitting on the floor in the middle of a hundred rowdy Afrikaans in the upstairs of a smoky pub watching rugby, then illegally scaling the side of a building and dancing on the roof, sitting on the top of a lion statue at midnight, climbing a mountain in the dark, staying out until five in the morning, and getting both an interview and a job offer in the same day. My first roommate in the hostel was a 61 year old woman from New Zealand, who within the first moments of meeting poured me half her bottle of wine. On my second night I spent five hours at a Cuban themed dive called Che Bar where I met people with names like Gideon, Kellen, and Ronelle, and I've been running into them ever since. Today at a shop on Long Street I heard a couple speaking Kiswahili and almost died. I spoke with them a little, mainly because I only know a little, and it reminded me of how much Kenya feels like home, and how much I treasure it.
So much has already happened, and it's only been a week. Cape Town is a mixture of San Francisco, New York, and Africa. The backwards culture shock is strong, but in a good way. I'm looking at everything wide-eyed like that of a child seeing the world for the first time. I wasn't ready to be thrown into this, but I think that's the best way for it to happen. I'm wondering how much longer this is all going to feel like a fairy tale. I mean, I could go home...but then what?
I presently shower daily, just because I can. There are cement sidewalks and real mattresses. I drink tap water, have real flushing toilets, water that doesn't run out and electricity that always works. I get paid for working, I eat tapas. I got my hair cut for the first time in over six months. Is it great? Yes. Is it better than Kenya? Ha...never that, never that...
Well my friends, it's official. Within five days of my arrival to Cape Town, I got a job at a martini and tapas bar...and it is awesome. It fits right in with the story, I think.
Cape Town is nothing like Kenya...nothing. I had an extremely refined and trendy boutique owner tell me, from behind designer sunglasses and a babydoll dress, that they were very third world. I smiled politely. My first few days here went a little something like this: sitting on the floor in the middle of a hundred rowdy Afrikaans in the upstairs of a smoky pub watching rugby, then illegally scaling the side of a building and dancing on the roof, sitting on the top of a lion statue at midnight, climbing a mountain in the dark, staying out until five in the morning, and getting both an interview and a job offer in the same day. My first roommate in the hostel was a 61 year old woman from New Zealand, who within the first moments of meeting poured me half her bottle of wine. On my second night I spent five hours at a Cuban themed dive called Che Bar where I met people with names like Gideon, Kellen, and Ronelle, and I've been running into them ever since. Today at a shop on Long Street I heard a couple speaking Kiswahili and almost died. I spoke with them a little, mainly because I only know a little, and it reminded me of how much Kenya feels like home, and how much I treasure it.
So much has already happened, and it's only been a week. Cape Town is a mixture of San Francisco, New York, and Africa. The backwards culture shock is strong, but in a good way. I'm looking at everything wide-eyed like that of a child seeing the world for the first time. I wasn't ready to be thrown into this, but I think that's the best way for it to happen. I'm wondering how much longer this is all going to feel like a fairy tale. I mean, I could go home...but then what?
I presently shower daily, just because I can. There are cement sidewalks and real mattresses. I drink tap water, have real flushing toilets, water that doesn't run out and electricity that always works. I get paid for working, I eat tapas. I got my hair cut for the first time in over six months. Is it great? Yes. Is it better than Kenya? Ha...never that, never that...
July 31, 2009
Part IV
The time has come to move along
Moving forward is moving on
When Africa starts to sing you her song
You'll never stay away for long
It felt right to stay, but she knew it was wrong
So one day she came, and then she was gone.
Her story begins back at the start
Her journey postponed with a break in the heart
But her life was moving sure and steady
She thought when storms came she'd be ready
But one day she looked up and something was wrong
She lost her self, her strength, her song
She knew not to where, but she was gone.
She had a mission and didn't stop
She knew exactly what she'd have to drop
To make some room for something more
Something with backbone, honesty, core
She booked the flight and plans were drawn
Mustered up courage to be life's pawn
And then, one day, she was gone.
She discovered others and then found herself
Wounded and blind and in bad health
Then she slept in the cradle of humankind
Found inner strength and peace of mind
Drying others' tears stopped her own
Changed the paradigm of all she'd known
Found things she realized she had all along
And then, one day, her pain was gone.
She knew her time had come to leave
Lessons learned and granted reprieve
Packed her bags to carry on
Bid her liberation adieu, so long
Armed with her transformation of brawn
She switched the lights, curtains were drawn
And then, once again...she was gone.
Moving forward is moving on
When Africa starts to sing you her song
You'll never stay away for long
It felt right to stay, but she knew it was wrong
So one day she came, and then she was gone.
Her story begins back at the start
Her journey postponed with a break in the heart
But her life was moving sure and steady
She thought when storms came she'd be ready
But one day she looked up and something was wrong
She lost her self, her strength, her song
She knew not to where, but she was gone.
She had a mission and didn't stop
She knew exactly what she'd have to drop
To make some room for something more
Something with backbone, honesty, core
She booked the flight and plans were drawn
Mustered up courage to be life's pawn
And then, one day, she was gone.
She discovered others and then found herself
Wounded and blind and in bad health
Then she slept in the cradle of humankind
Found inner strength and peace of mind
Drying others' tears stopped her own
Changed the paradigm of all she'd known
Found things she realized she had all along
And then, one day, her pain was gone.
She knew her time had come to leave
Lessons learned and granted reprieve
Packed her bags to carry on
Bid her liberation adieu, so long
Armed with her transformation of brawn
She switched the lights, curtains were drawn
And then, once again...she was gone.
July 30, 2009
Moving On....
"I'll go kicking and screaming." --AJL
Wow. Has it really been six months?
It all started with Facebook. A picture popped up on my news feed of an old high school friend I hadn't spoken to in years. He was caught in the middle laughter on a bench with five other baby Africans. I was sold, I made the decision right then that I was going to Africa. Six months later I packed up my apartment and said goodbye to the mess that was my life in New York. It's now been six months to the rest of the world, but for me, lifetimes. There are many things that I'm happy to leave in the past, right where they should be kept, and even more that I'm happy to bring into my future. When I compare my state of mind then to my state of mind now, the most significant difference in the way I feel, is strong.
We all came for different reasons. We came from different places in our lives and on the planet. For some, it was a step into the unknown, a leap of faith. For me, it was a yes instead of a no, a plane ticket instead of metro fare. When I left, I wasn't sure why I came, or what I would find, I just knew it was something I hadn't yet realized I needed. I was right. We are all looking for something. For answers to our questions, reasons for our lives, a purpose to carry out each day. Did I find this? I found this in the hands I held and the faces I washed, in the laughter and questions of my classrooms, in the gratitude of the street vendors to receive an extra 40 cents, and in the scraped knees of neighborhood five year olds. I realize now it wasn't about what I would find, but rather what would find me.
I hear sometimes we must travel great distances to find in ourselves what was there all along. By discovering others, I discovered myself. I learned the importance of being a familiar face, to share a meal...or a hand. I learned to love myself through the unconditional love of a stranger, and to appreciate myself for the right reasons. It wasn't always easy, I learned to accept harsh realities every day. I had to think three times about everything I encountered. I discovered my boundaries, and where to draw the line of self-disclosure. I learned that giving more attention to myself is more important than getting it from others. I learned to speak my truth, but know when to keep it to myself. I remembered who I was and above all, to stay true to myself. Africa--she took some of me...and I took some of her.
To my kids: Yes, once more, I promise I will not forget you.
"But she was happy; she knew the time had come to stop."
--Paulo Coehlo, Eleven Minutes
See you all soon.
Wow. Has it really been six months?
It all started with Facebook. A picture popped up on my news feed of an old high school friend I hadn't spoken to in years. He was caught in the middle laughter on a bench with five other baby Africans. I was sold, I made the decision right then that I was going to Africa. Six months later I packed up my apartment and said goodbye to the mess that was my life in New York. It's now been six months to the rest of the world, but for me, lifetimes. There are many things that I'm happy to leave in the past, right where they should be kept, and even more that I'm happy to bring into my future. When I compare my state of mind then to my state of mind now, the most significant difference in the way I feel, is strong.
We all came for different reasons. We came from different places in our lives and on the planet. For some, it was a step into the unknown, a leap of faith. For me, it was a yes instead of a no, a plane ticket instead of metro fare. When I left, I wasn't sure why I came, or what I would find, I just knew it was something I hadn't yet realized I needed. I was right. We are all looking for something. For answers to our questions, reasons for our lives, a purpose to carry out each day. Did I find this? I found this in the hands I held and the faces I washed, in the laughter and questions of my classrooms, in the gratitude of the street vendors to receive an extra 40 cents, and in the scraped knees of neighborhood five year olds. I realize now it wasn't about what I would find, but rather what would find me.
I hear sometimes we must travel great distances to find in ourselves what was there all along. By discovering others, I discovered myself. I learned the importance of being a familiar face, to share a meal...or a hand. I learned to love myself through the unconditional love of a stranger, and to appreciate myself for the right reasons. It wasn't always easy, I learned to accept harsh realities every day. I had to think three times about everything I encountered. I discovered my boundaries, and where to draw the line of self-disclosure. I learned that giving more attention to myself is more important than getting it from others. I learned to speak my truth, but know when to keep it to myself. I remembered who I was and above all, to stay true to myself. Africa--she took some of me...and I took some of her.
To my kids: Yes, once more, I promise I will not forget you.
"But she was happy; she knew the time had come to stop."
--Paulo Coehlo, Eleven Minutes
See you all soon.
July 19, 2009
The Beginning of the End...
I almost made it the entire six months, but alas, my wallet was finally lifted. Stolen by use of diversion, on a matatu en route to a children's orphanage...oh irony. On the upside, this officially makes me a real Nairobian.
It's my last two weeks and I'm coasting. All in all I'm pretty satisfied--three different orphanages, three different schools, empowerment groups, two NGOs, corporate work, an HIV/AIDS womens' group, ZanaA website, and one article on African history. I'm also checking out an NGO called PASSOP (People Against Suffering, Suppression, Oppression and Poverty) as soon as I get into Cape Town. Last weekend I traveled back to Karatina and Nyeri town to bid adieu to all my kids upcountry and of course, Mama. The kids were amazing. The babies had grown so quickly, and some of my kids even started crying when I walked into class. No Mungiki sightings, thankfully, and I finished my 12th book throughout this trip. Read Three Cups of Tea. Seriously, read it.
Anywhere you are in Kenya...upcountry, the bush, the dirt, city centre...no matter where, if it's a Sunday, you hear the singing. Starting at 7am, you will hear the glorious sound of church music, and it's actually so beautiful. It's the one day where everyone unites, across tribes, across ages, across economic status, everyone is one. I will miss that, terribly...
It's my last two weeks and I'm coasting. All in all I'm pretty satisfied--three different orphanages, three different schools, empowerment groups, two NGOs, corporate work, an HIV/AIDS womens' group, ZanaA website, and one article on African history. I'm also checking out an NGO called PASSOP (People Against Suffering, Suppression, Oppression and Poverty) as soon as I get into Cape Town. Last weekend I traveled back to Karatina and Nyeri town to bid adieu to all my kids upcountry and of course, Mama. The kids were amazing. The babies had grown so quickly, and some of my kids even started crying when I walked into class. No Mungiki sightings, thankfully, and I finished my 12th book throughout this trip. Read Three Cups of Tea. Seriously, read it.
Anywhere you are in Kenya...upcountry, the bush, the dirt, city centre...no matter where, if it's a Sunday, you hear the singing. Starting at 7am, you will hear the glorious sound of church music, and it's actually so beautiful. It's the one day where everyone unites, across tribes, across ages, across economic status, everyone is one. I will miss that, terribly...
July 13, 2009
Part III
I have a sharp mind and a sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion
And it probably has once or twice, I have a notion
And for that I'm sorry.
Some tears actually froze, off the tip of my nose
And became ice. And the ice became daggers
So I keep them staggered
As ammunition.
Better ammunition than an al Qaeda mission
Or the civil mob of al Shabaab insurgents in Somalia
Civil civilians by the millions
Killed. I mean how can you call a war...
Civil. Or
Holy. Take your land
Your religion but then what do you really
Have?
Or what about the war against the people? The silent war
Against the people, who won't keep their mouths shut anymore
Isn't stealing jobs the same as stealing money from pockets
Or launching rockets
To destroy a nation, that might have had a chance
To help itself further advance
Yes Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister
You let your people kill
Your people. Fight
Your battles for you--so you won't have too. Might
You be saying your blood is worth more
Than the blood they spill from each other or
For the people...by the people?
Your greed makes me sick
I spit on the ground take mud and smear it
Across your face you disgust me
A disgrace...to all
You're just as bad as the owners who called their slaves n-ggers
Then blamed it on a race
To the finish line.
And today in this hour we uncover the power
Whose hands spilled the blood, before a hot shower
And tried to bury it
Deeper than the corpse of the people
Who carried it.
See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
Long after the men in the street stop fighting
But my fingers won't.
They decide the length of this ride when
My emotions subside but usually
They don't.
They keep writing. They tell the story that won't
Come out of the mouths of the kids who can't tell me why
They flinch when I brush by
The trouble is now Mwafrican, that means I'm African
Even more than my language or skin that I'm in
Kuja me child and sema your story
She called me I listened I told her my story
Say what you want but Africa knows
More than your words that you speak cause it shows
But she doesn't.
She's tough but she cries. You'll see her real tears in deception
And lies.
In girls on the street, 11 years old
Prostituting themselves just so they can eat
And you let them. Just sit on your throne watch from your seat
Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. President
Dry Africa's tears and she'll dry yours.
See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
I have a sharp mind and sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion.
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion
And it probably has once or twice, I have a notion
And for that I'm sorry.
Some tears actually froze, off the tip of my nose
And became ice. And the ice became daggers
So I keep them staggered
As ammunition.
Better ammunition than an al Qaeda mission
Or the civil mob of al Shabaab insurgents in Somalia
Civil civilians by the millions
Killed. I mean how can you call a war...
Civil. Or
Holy. Take your land
Your religion but then what do you really
Have?
Or what about the war against the people? The silent war
Against the people, who won't keep their mouths shut anymore
Isn't stealing jobs the same as stealing money from pockets
Or launching rockets
To destroy a nation, that might have had a chance
To help itself further advance
Yes Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister
You let your people kill
Your people. Fight
Your battles for you--so you won't have too. Might
You be saying your blood is worth more
Than the blood they spill from each other or
For the people...by the people?
Your greed makes me sick
I spit on the ground take mud and smear it
Across your face you disgust me
A disgrace...to all
You're just as bad as the owners who called their slaves n-ggers
Then blamed it on a race
To the finish line.
And today in this hour we uncover the power
Whose hands spilled the blood, before a hot shower
And tried to bury it
Deeper than the corpse of the people
Who carried it.
See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
Long after the men in the street stop fighting
But my fingers won't.
They decide the length of this ride when
My emotions subside but usually
They don't.
They keep writing. They tell the story that won't
Come out of the mouths of the kids who can't tell me why
They flinch when I brush by
The trouble is now Mwafrican, that means I'm African
Even more than my language or skin that I'm in
Kuja me child and sema your story
She called me I listened I told her my story
Say what you want but Africa knows
More than your words that you speak cause it shows
But she doesn't.
She's tough but she cries. You'll see her real tears in deception
And lies.
In girls on the street, 11 years old
Prostituting themselves just so they can eat
And you let them. Just sit on your throne watch from your seat
Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. President
Dry Africa's tears and she'll dry yours.
See my problem is I start to write
And I keep writing
I have a sharp mind and sharp tongue
But only one
Will cut you out of emotion.
July 10, 2009
Hotel Rwanda
There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun...but there is a church in Rwanda that makes you wonder if that same sun ever even existed. It’s not some blockbuster hit with an Academy Award winning actor named Don Cheadle. It’s real, it’s raw, it happened. It has the power to grab your heart, rip it from your chest and tear your preconceived notions into a thousand different pieces.
It’s a beautiful city, Kigali; it’s a beautiful country, Rwanda. The hills are rolling, green and serene, and there is a peace and calm you wouldn’t expect when just a few years prior there was complete anarchy amidst genocide. This months marks the 15th year anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda, and I’m here. I can’t really believe it, to be honest. I watched Hotel Rwanda for the first time about one year ago, and I never would have guessed that I’d bring myself to sit at a table in the Milles Collines, or stand facing thousands of bones in two of the churches that housed some of the largest mass killings of the genocide.
It began with the German, but ultimately the Belgian colonization that divided them in the first place. There were two tribes, Hutu and Tutsi. In most instances, the Tutsis were classified as those having less than ten cows, and Hutus were those with more. It was that simple. And so it came to be that the Tutsis made up the minority, the lower class. The first attempt at genocide was in 1992, and unsuccessful. It was during that time that the Tutsis were compiling the RPF and gaining strength, but the Hutus were always a stronger power, thus civil war. Then one day, 6th April 1994, the President’s plane (he was a Hutu) was shot down (said to be by the RPF), and utter insanity ensued. The order was given to kill all Tutsis; to kill those married to a Tutsi, those with Tutsi children, and those Hutus who were sympathetic to the Tutsis. Friends killing friends, family killing family, it was kill or be killed. The order was given by the government. Government got the common people to commit this genocide for them. Government supplied the weaponry. It lasted for 100 days. Those who fled stayed in the swamps for months. Some died merely because of the living conditions throughout their time of refuge.
Ntarama and Nyamata are the locations of the two churches where thousands of people were trapped and killed by the masses. Merely being inside takes one’s breath away. I came face to face with all the clothing left behind by the dead, strewn on the rafters and hung on the walls. There were skulls of children, men, and women. The smallest skulls were the hardest to bear. There is an eerie, cold, secluded feeling to it...forgotten almost, yet frozen in time. I could close my eyes and see the chaos, the destruction, hear the screams, taste the fear. There were school books, shoes, and shards of metal once used to kill the victims. In the front right corner there were shelves of plates, cups, and bowls found among the kitchen remains. In the front left corner was a chest full of school books. Some were in tact; some were splattered with brownish-red and burnt in half. As one of the guides picked up a book and flipped through it, we came across a date that read December, 1993. This was the math book of a child in 7th grade, and it became all too real. In the back of the church, rows and rows of skulls and bones were lined up and stacked on shelves on top of one another. Some of the skulls were crushed, and you could tell the way in which they died. Some had names written on them, those that had been identified. One of the skulls had a sharp shard of metal cleanly pierced through it and into the eye. This brutality is sickening.
The Rwandan President has recently warned Kenya: “Do you see what happened here, you should learn from us, you are going along this same path with your political violence!”
It was the second church that was the hardest. It was called Nyamata. Both of the boys acting as guides, 21 and 24 years respectively, were in the church when the Hutu army came to attack. They sought refuge there because back in 1992, the church was a safe haven, and they thought it would again be a false alarm. This time they weren’t so lucky. The boys were 6 and 9 years old at the time, yet they are still so raw with their recollections. The genocide began on a Tuesday, and the killers came on the second day. 10,000 Tutsis were killed within those walls. The first boy saw his mother killed with a panga (sword) and her limbs cut from her body. He showed us the underground catacombs where coffins held 30 bodies each. The other shelves held thousands upon thousands of bones, stacks and stacks of the nameless. The only way a new body is identified is if the killer comes forward to admit to the family the precise location in which he killed their beloved. He must ask for forgiveness. Piles of clothes were scattered, practically covering the floor. At the front was the altar, the once beige-colored cloth draped over the top was now stained with dark brown dried blood. A few identity cards were lying on top. And in the back were hundreds of bags. Carrier bags, shopping bags, they were filled with newly uncovered bones, mostly unidentified.
The second boy held his story within the weight of his eyes, the thick glassy shield over his irises, too numb for memories. They were bloodshot red, and most of his story was translated, the little English he could speak. He said he cries a lot, it’s difficult for him. He said it’s hard to tell, you can look at a person who dresses nicely, who walks and talks like a regular person, but they are dead inside...He said it was hard for him to tell such a personal account because it haunts him daily. I could have listened to him forever, I couldn’t speak because I wanted to absorb every syllable he spoke. I felt so incredibly fortunate to have had the honor to listen to a survivor of such a horrific and wrongful tragedy. I hung on every word, it was the most intense recollection I’d heard. He was trusting us with his life story. How could he confide in us, strangers, wazungu he barely knew? I was blown away at his courage and strength. He said there was guilt, the Why me? Why was I the one to survive? Out of 10,000 people killed in that church, he was one of only seven to survive. Seven. The church was so large, and the roof was littered with bullet holes from the grenade explosions. They threw a grenade in to kill as many as possible at first, then came in with spears and pangas. The killings were brutal. He told us the killers came thrrough the front and broke into the smaller room first, where his brother was hiding. They cut off his brother’s head. As they did the same to the others in the first room, they threw the heads into the crowd and made the Tutsis play with them like footballs. They cut off arms and legs and threw them into the crowd as well. They took the pregnant women, laid them on the altar and cut their stomachs open. They killed the unborn babies and threw them into the center of the church. This boy was hiding behind a cement statue. He took the blood from others around him and covered his face in it, to make it look like he was already dead...at nine years old. He was hiding at the bottom of a slant in the church, and because of all the cut bodies, the blood was draining down onto him. It got into his ears, his mouth, and he couldn’t make a sound or move. He asked us to imagine the smells he endured lying still amidst the dead bodies for two full days. He knew he had to get out because the Hutus would soon come back sneezing powder. They’d throw the powder over the bodies to identify and kill those that were still alive. He finally escaped and hid for the next three months. He said the sounds never leave him.
They kept asking us if we had to go, if they were taking up too much of our time. It killed me to hear him say that...My time? Nothing could possibly be worth more of my time. The boys pled with us to take pictures, to go back and show everyone what we saw, to tell their story. They asked us to do it so that no one could pretend the genocide didn’t happen, so that it will never be forgotten. To keep the dead alive, respected, and remembered. So this is for you, my friends. This is your story.
It’s a beautiful city, Kigali; it’s a beautiful country, Rwanda. The hills are rolling, green and serene, and there is a peace and calm you wouldn’t expect when just a few years prior there was complete anarchy amidst genocide. This months marks the 15th year anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda, and I’m here. I can’t really believe it, to be honest. I watched Hotel Rwanda for the first time about one year ago, and I never would have guessed that I’d bring myself to sit at a table in the Milles Collines, or stand facing thousands of bones in two of the churches that housed some of the largest mass killings of the genocide.
It began with the German, but ultimately the Belgian colonization that divided them in the first place. There were two tribes, Hutu and Tutsi. In most instances, the Tutsis were classified as those having less than ten cows, and Hutus were those with more. It was that simple. And so it came to be that the Tutsis made up the minority, the lower class. The first attempt at genocide was in 1992, and unsuccessful. It was during that time that the Tutsis were compiling the RPF and gaining strength, but the Hutus were always a stronger power, thus civil war. Then one day, 6th April 1994, the President’s plane (he was a Hutu) was shot down (said to be by the RPF), and utter insanity ensued. The order was given to kill all Tutsis; to kill those married to a Tutsi, those with Tutsi children, and those Hutus who were sympathetic to the Tutsis. Friends killing friends, family killing family, it was kill or be killed. The order was given by the government. Government got the common people to commit this genocide for them. Government supplied the weaponry. It lasted for 100 days. Those who fled stayed in the swamps for months. Some died merely because of the living conditions throughout their time of refuge.
Ntarama and Nyamata are the locations of the two churches where thousands of people were trapped and killed by the masses. Merely being inside takes one’s breath away. I came face to face with all the clothing left behind by the dead, strewn on the rafters and hung on the walls. There were skulls of children, men, and women. The smallest skulls were the hardest to bear. There is an eerie, cold, secluded feeling to it...forgotten almost, yet frozen in time. I could close my eyes and see the chaos, the destruction, hear the screams, taste the fear. There were school books, shoes, and shards of metal once used to kill the victims. In the front right corner there were shelves of plates, cups, and bowls found among the kitchen remains. In the front left corner was a chest full of school books. Some were in tact; some were splattered with brownish-red and burnt in half. As one of the guides picked up a book and flipped through it, we came across a date that read December, 1993. This was the math book of a child in 7th grade, and it became all too real. In the back of the church, rows and rows of skulls and bones were lined up and stacked on shelves on top of one another. Some of the skulls were crushed, and you could tell the way in which they died. Some had names written on them, those that had been identified. One of the skulls had a sharp shard of metal cleanly pierced through it and into the eye. This brutality is sickening.
The Rwandan President has recently warned Kenya: “Do you see what happened here, you should learn from us, you are going along this same path with your political violence!”
It was the second church that was the hardest. It was called Nyamata. Both of the boys acting as guides, 21 and 24 years respectively, were in the church when the Hutu army came to attack. They sought refuge there because back in 1992, the church was a safe haven, and they thought it would again be a false alarm. This time they weren’t so lucky. The boys were 6 and 9 years old at the time, yet they are still so raw with their recollections. The genocide began on a Tuesday, and the killers came on the second day. 10,000 Tutsis were killed within those walls. The first boy saw his mother killed with a panga (sword) and her limbs cut from her body. He showed us the underground catacombs where coffins held 30 bodies each. The other shelves held thousands upon thousands of bones, stacks and stacks of the nameless. The only way a new body is identified is if the killer comes forward to admit to the family the precise location in which he killed their beloved. He must ask for forgiveness. Piles of clothes were scattered, practically covering the floor. At the front was the altar, the once beige-colored cloth draped over the top was now stained with dark brown dried blood. A few identity cards were lying on top. And in the back were hundreds of bags. Carrier bags, shopping bags, they were filled with newly uncovered bones, mostly unidentified.
The second boy held his story within the weight of his eyes, the thick glassy shield over his irises, too numb for memories. They were bloodshot red, and most of his story was translated, the little English he could speak. He said he cries a lot, it’s difficult for him. He said it’s hard to tell, you can look at a person who dresses nicely, who walks and talks like a regular person, but they are dead inside...He said it was hard for him to tell such a personal account because it haunts him daily. I could have listened to him forever, I couldn’t speak because I wanted to absorb every syllable he spoke. I felt so incredibly fortunate to have had the honor to listen to a survivor of such a horrific and wrongful tragedy. I hung on every word, it was the most intense recollection I’d heard. He was trusting us with his life story. How could he confide in us, strangers, wazungu he barely knew? I was blown away at his courage and strength. He said there was guilt, the Why me? Why was I the one to survive? Out of 10,000 people killed in that church, he was one of only seven to survive. Seven. The church was so large, and the roof was littered with bullet holes from the grenade explosions. They threw a grenade in to kill as many as possible at first, then came in with spears and pangas. The killings were brutal. He told us the killers came thrrough the front and broke into the smaller room first, where his brother was hiding. They cut off his brother’s head. As they did the same to the others in the first room, they threw the heads into the crowd and made the Tutsis play with them like footballs. They cut off arms and legs and threw them into the crowd as well. They took the pregnant women, laid them on the altar and cut their stomachs open. They killed the unborn babies and threw them into the center of the church. This boy was hiding behind a cement statue. He took the blood from others around him and covered his face in it, to make it look like he was already dead...at nine years old. He was hiding at the bottom of a slant in the church, and because of all the cut bodies, the blood was draining down onto him. It got into his ears, his mouth, and he couldn’t make a sound or move. He asked us to imagine the smells he endured lying still amidst the dead bodies for two full days. He knew he had to get out because the Hutus would soon come back sneezing powder. They’d throw the powder over the bodies to identify and kill those that were still alive. He finally escaped and hid for the next three months. He said the sounds never leave him.
They kept asking us if we had to go, if they were taking up too much of our time. It killed me to hear him say that...My time? Nothing could possibly be worth more of my time. The boys pled with us to take pictures, to go back and show everyone what we saw, to tell their story. They asked us to do it so that no one could pretend the genocide didn’t happen, so that it will never be forgotten. To keep the dead alive, respected, and remembered. So this is for you, my friends. This is your story.
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