Prevention

April 9th 1994. Loud, thunderous yells boom through the clay walls. In fear I run to the corner of the room half a meter away from the nearest window. My mother’s scream fills the house, high and shrill, “No! No! Please! No!” I move towards the window and peek over my shoulder towards the muddy roads covered in potholes and see my mother’s body being dragged over the ground by men, one of them I recognize to be my neighbour. Her screams stop and I shut my eyes. My arm is jerked and my father picks me up. Behind me the smell of petrol lurks and then flames. We run and don’t stop. *** February 16th 1997 “Akin, hand out a pencil to each of your classmates”, my teacher had ordered. With my chest pounding I took in a deep breath and stood up hesitantly, walking over the dirt floor towards an old and rusty cabinet filled with stationary and equipment the other boys and girls and myself had never used before. It was our first day of school, most of us were 8 years old. “Hurry up Akin!” the teacher repeated impatiently. Instructions, orders, demands. Later that day I hid, sobbing softly behind a half-destroyed wall in my small, disintegrating house. My father found me, “Akin come out of there,” he yelled. I was taken back by his tone so I turned my head away from his loud voice and buried my face deeper into my folded arms. His expression I guessed softened and he finally knelt down beside me and placed his dry, worn hands on my knees. After a moment of hesitation, he gently lifts his left hand and rests it on my shoulder but I moved, allowing his hands to fall away. “Akin son, why did you run away school'” He seemed eager for an answer, but he didn’t receive one. We sat across from each other, just him and I but I don’t face him. I was scared. I wish I hadn’t been like that as I knew it hurt him. No father would want to have his only son never talk to him or even yet, look at him and not think he was safe and secure. “Akin, my son, forgive me, please talk to me.” I could tell he was upset; his lips parted just the slightest and turned down at the edges and the creases between his brown relaxed after a period of hard concentration and persistence. A rippled line of water rose from beneath his eyelid and blanketed his eye, but it only went that far. Ever since the war, I had this phobia: a fear of people, mostly adults, especially those who gave orders. I was born during a time of rising conflict. The killings however, and the violent attacks had begun and continued to get worse when I turned 4, in 1994. It’s known as the Rwandan Genocide. After growing up during this time, moving from place to place, going into hiding, avoiding being killed and watching horrific massacres unfolding before you, it’s hard for anyone to just get over it and move on. The events I had witnessed unfold over those 100 days never left my mind; they had become an imprinted memory and they continued to replay in my mind, preventing me from trusting adults and getting along with kids my age. *** April 7th 1997 9:30am I sat at the back of the room as the teacher went through the days of week with the class. I hadn’t been at school for the whole week, but I doubt anyone had noticed. I focused all my attention at what was beyond the shattered window. A flock of birds flew around in circles, all in unison. What would it be like to fly' To have that freedom, with no care or fear' I asked myself over and over again. The world was yours to roam. My teacher interrupted my daydreaming, “Akin there is someone here to see you”. A tall woman walked in. She immediately reminded me of… “Akin, this is Miss Josephine. She would like to talk to you for a few minutes”. Without hesitating, I walked out with Miss Josephine. She had soft motherly features, a soft smile, and eyes that didn’t look straight through you. She was in fact, I realized, the first adult I had looked in the face in a very long time. She introduced herself once again and told me she works for a local group called the ARPT, The Rwandan Association for Trauma and invited me to join her and seven other children my age who were in the same situation as me. I had never heard of this group before and surprisingly enough, I had accepted to go. *** April 9th 1997 4:00pm It wasn’t a large room, but it was big enough to hold the 8 of us, not including Miss Josephine and two other older women. I sat with my back against the cement wall, facing Miss J. who just finished introducing me to the rest of the group. A boy named Malik walked over and sat beside me. He had a wide smile and a sparkle in his eye. I nervously smiled back. Over the next hour, I heard stories of the other boys and girls, but Malik’s story, I knew, would always stay with me… “Five men carrying machetes, two tires and a bottle of petrol came and knocked my father to the ground and kicked him in the side of the head. They placed the tires over his body and poured the petrol all around him. I thought he was dead. I pushed my fingers into my ears as hard as I could and shut my eyes. My mother ran out from where we were hiding and raised her hands screaming for them stop. One of the men holding a machete raised his arm and ran towards her…” Malik stopped abruptly and began to cry. He turned his head away and leaned against my shoulder. My chest felt so heavy, as though bricks were pulling it down. I felt my head go hot. I knew what it felt like to lose a mother, it was painful and I never cease to miss her, but to lose both your parents was unimaginable. I thought. I wasn’t the only one who had faced such a horrible experience. At the end of the session, we all held hands and I remember feeling happy. A sense of hope washed over me as I glanced around at each of the boys and girls. I was apart of something that was important to me and would help me to gradually heal the wounds from my past. I wasn’t alone any longer.