I find it hard to grasp the complexity of this place, its struggles, evils, triumphs and virtues. Where one appears the other quickly follows. Our Lady of Grace School is no exception. Though many of the students here work hard and respect their elders but just as many look to swindle and cheat whenever they can. What do you expect from students who have no money but still have to buy their own pens, pencils...ect. I asked a student how he got his pens if he had no money and his response was simple, "You swindle." These student’s situations in no way justify their actions but they do explain them to an extent. Some of the students speak of how the teachers and workers at the school beat them physically and mentally. I have to take what the students say with a grain of salt because some of them tend to exaggerate situations but all to often their tales prove true. A grade three student, about seven years old, pointed out his matron, the authority figure that stays in the dorm with the students, and in a very matter of fact way said, "That is our matron. She enjoys beating children." As of this week that matron no longer works at the school, thanks to those in the upper administration that truly care about the students here.
One young man, a refugee, I have grown to know very well told me that he keeps his personal story guarded because he knows, from experience, that people, even within the school, will use it against him. This disease especially plagues the few refugees at the school. Many people spend their whole lives in refugee camps, an odd limbo of freedom and confinement. Though you have escaped violence or persecution you still must fight to scrape along, unable to really leave because the government does not want to formally recognize you and become responsible for you. The young man I have befriended is a refugee from Rwanda. He keeps his incredible story under lock and key out of fear of persecution, "people will take it and use their words to hurt me. I just let the people think that I am from this area" I have only heard bits and pieces of his story but what he has told me astounds me.
I asked him how old he was when he left Rwanda. He looked up into the hazy morning sky and said he was probably around six years old. He has an uncanny memory and remembers almost all the details. But then again, how can someone, no matter how young, forget genocide. He remembers peoples heads impaled on posts lining the streets and people being dragged off to be shot. He turns, looks away and says, "I do not like talking about this sorry."
We usually get on the topic of how he came here by accident. I found out about his mothers in a conversation about funerals after hearing a Luo, the predominant tribe in the Kisumu area, hearts drive by with horns blaring. He squinted his eyes a bit, as if he was searching the dark halls of his memory and quietly and peacefully said, "I do not know where my mother is buried. She died somewhere in Rwanda but I do not know where her body is." I know many people lose their mothers at young ages but I cannot imagine, nor do I really want to, what it feels like to have no idea what happened to your mother, all you know is you will have to face the long road ahead of you without your mother.
I enjoy walking around bare foot. I avoid shoes and socks whenever possible and take some pride in the fact that my feet have grown pretty callus over the years. One day at dinner while I stood in line with him as he waited for food, he commented on my sandals. I told him that I enjoyed going barefoot and he said, “but it can be tough.” He shook his head and with a slight smile touched with a hint of sadness he continued, “I once saw this part of a mans foot fall off,” pointing to his heal, “he was screaming and crying. It was during our walk.” He continued to tell me that he and his family walked from Rwanda to Tanzania, and finally got transport once in Kenya to go the rest of the way. We have all faced long roads in our lives and had our fare share of long walks. At the end of the day our feet ache and our only comfort lies in the knowledge that we have a nice comfortable bed at home waiting for us. My friend spent his nights in the bush, open uninhabited land, afraid of being discovered by people or animals. I told him that what he did was incredible. He just smiled and said, “I was still young so my brother carried me most of the way.” Even though he was carried for most of the way, I still have great respect for him, his family and countless others who attempted the trek and the few that made it.
My friend is an orphan. I am not exactly sure who he has left. His mother died in Rwanda and his father died of complications from an injury sustained one the walk. I do not know what the injury was but to honest, it does not really matter. All that matters is that, at the age of six or seven, this boy was left an orphan in a foreign country.
He used to struggle with anger. He did not understand why his parents were killed. He has come to peace, as much as that is possible, with his reality but the pain still lingers. He focuses on school and strives to make a difference in the lives of those he comes in contact with. He still feels the sharp sting of painful memories when reminded of his exodus from Rwanda. I hear the pain in his voice and see the deep sadness in his eyes whenever something reminds him of Rwanda. The school showed a movie one cool African night, Hotel Rwanda and my friend simply could not watch, “I hated that movie, I hated it. I could not watch it. It was too hard.” His words were broken and mixed with confusion but I understood. The memories that the movie invoked were too vivid, too painful and all too really to a young man whose memory bares the scars of a long walk through a gauntlet of human evils.
Life is never simple. I know I will never completely understand the knotted lives of these children. I can only listen, tell his story and hope that these stories ignites the same love for these people that it has ignited in my heart.
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