“There’s one thing I’ve noticed throughout this life: one acquires a holistic approach to different situations because one situation is similar to another. Human beings seem to cope with the emotions that the amygdala conveys and create habits, thus personalities. But those are just my views.”
Janet, a Research Scientist at a regional organization, expressed these thoughts in one of her interviews on YouTube about human consciousness. Intrigued by her perspective, I sent her a letter requesting some of her time to enlighten me further on the topic. To my surprise, she responded positively within five days.
We agreed to meet at St. Paul’s Chapel Garden in Kigali—a green, serene place perfect for heartfelt conversations.
Janet arrived in a casual gray dress and a black scarf around her neck. She spotted me waving and approached with a smile, hugging me tenderly like a mother embraces her daughter. Holding my hand, we walked down to the garden and chose a spot under a large, old tree where the crepuscular rays shone through. She had brought a picnic blanket, snacks, fruits, water, and an umbrella. We began with a prayer.
Before diving into the topic, I asked her to share her journey toward becoming an anthropologist.
“Perhaps words could express what lies beneath all the muted voices, deep down in my soul,” she said with a smile, ready to share something profound.
I had a terrible dream about war when I was young. Now I realize it was driven by the strained relationships in our community in the Kageyo Sector. Over time, people got used to the hatred, injustice, ethnic mistrust, and killings.
Experiencing such events at a young age makes you think it’s normal because you have no other life to compare it to. It destroys you completely, and you learn to live in pieces. The truth is not spoken, justice is not served, emotions are not expressed, and pain is not released. Only fear is felt and cultivated. You can’t distinguish happiness from survival.
In a family of ten children, being one of the three who accessed education—especially as the only girl—was considered a luxury. Yes, poverty played a role, but political instability fueled by ethnic mistrust was the main issue. Petty things like the height, nose shape, and forehead shouldn’t matter in a society.
“The new generation cannot understand how hard we fought for our basic rights,” she emphasized, gesturing passionately.
“When something is available, accessible, and acceptable to you, you enjoy it, right?” Janet asked, looking into my eyes. “But it’s natural not to cherish it because it’s rightfully yours; you don’t need to fight for it.”
My eyes widened as I listened, unable to find words to respond.
“We couldn’t set long-term goals because we didn’t know if we’d still be alive. My dream was to grow up, graduate high school, become a teacher, and perhaps build a family. Teaching was one of the few careers we could aspire to.” Janet proceeded
All these dreams were quite impressive until something superlative shuttled, not only taken but abruptly and brutally whisked away, and the soul was wrecked. The only thing the dawn reminds me of now is the coldness and the inability to relive the best moments of my past. I realize what we called cut and dry days now have turned into the most extraordinary, because they live forever in my heart.
I got married on November 25, 1991, and had my first child, Emily, exactly nine months later. She was a joyful girl, like holding the magical heavens in my arms.
Two years later, the mass slaughter began. People were killing their neighbors, relatives, classmates, and acquaintances. It seemed like the entire world had split.
On a cold Thursday in April, fog was falling so heavily we could barely see. The sound of gunfire and screams made it feel like an apocalypse. The world shrank around us. Those were the toughest days of my life. I cannot erase them from my mind.
Several times, I didn’t want to run or save my life. I felt so desperate and defeated. I just wanted to get my child baptized so that the Lord would welcome us into His dwelling. However, my husband insisted we hide with a friend, unaware that the friend was number one on the list to be killed.
When you’re told you don’t belong, it’s easy to be taken by death quickly.
No one expected the worst nightmare to last longer than a day or two. At a certain point, no one dreamed of light, peace, or life. The soul was taken before the body.
We seemed dead inside. Everyone looked hopeless; women whimpering from rape and babies crying out of hunger. With each death, a part of me died too. I started losing patience.
There’s always a gaping hole of emptiness in your everyday life. During the day, you can cover it up with work, but at night, it returns. You live in two worlds: one foot in the present and the other in the past.
If love were enough, I would have kept them alive. But I don’t write people’s life journeys. Trying to understand God’s way is condescending. Despite my attempts, I failed to comprehend His ways.
As she shared, I wondered: How was this God-fearing woman enduring hell on earth? Why wasn’t God answering His people’s prayers?
Unfathomable tumultuous 100 days. The thoughts about the length, meaning, and effects of this period come to sway.
The following year, we prepared for our second child, Boris. A light in the darkness, indescribable joy of my life, a portrait of his father.
Throughout the pregnancy, I faced traumas and despair. I hallucinated about my lost family, especially my mother, whose body was never found. I desperately needed her strength.
Every survivor had to live, work, and hope for a normal life left in pieces. I remember being angry at two friends who died later. Why did they make us feel together only to leave us? We had no space for more grief; it should have happened all at once.
Janet’s words revealed her anger, frustration, and agony, and I understood her.
The void was big and loud. My husband dedicated himself to work, spending months abroad. Solitude grew, and I too had to work because everything we built was shattered. I joined prayer groups and started a Bachelor’s in Psychology to understand human behavior and what led to the Holocaust.
You know the mind is complex. We often know little about our own minds and even less about others. Such knowledge is beyond human intelligence.
I became an Office Secretary to my husband’s friend, working 50 hours a week for $45 a month while being verbally abused. However, within two years, I moved to a bigger organization and started traveling, speaking at regional meetings. I found balance and control in life. As Victor Hugo said, “They’re not where they used to be, but they’re everywhere I am.” I felt their energy beside me.
My kids grew fast, attending primary school. Whenever I could, I helped them with their homework, the only time we’d interact.
My youngest needed my full attention, but I couldn’t manage work, classes, prayers, and social life without being absent. This destroyed our relationship. He felt I chose everything else over him, but that’s not true. I see myself in him, better than I’ve ever been.
As the afternoon progressed, Janet offered me snacks. “I know you’re hungry and probably bored by my stories, aren’t you?” she asked.
“No, not at all. I’m blown away by your story,” I affirmed.
One day, I took my kids to my mother’s house, which no longer stood because houses were demolished.
“Mummy, you used to live here?” Emily inquired.
“Yes, with my family, my mother, and siblings.”
“Oh! You too have a mom? We’ve never seen her.”
“She is in heaven now. We can’t see her for now, but someday we will.”
“Then why did you bring us here if we can’t see her?” that’s a complex question I wasn’t ready for. Should I say that somehow I connect with them through the environment? Cause I can still smell their scents, hear their laughter, and see their faces right where we used to be. But instead I smiled, realizing it made sense, and I never brought them there again.
Recently, I needed therapy. My aunt is a therapist, but I couldn’t confide in her due to our dual relationship, so I saw Dr. Julie. She made me feel at home.
“Tell me what brings you here today,” she asked.
I told her about my insomnia and lack of appetite, but also my emotional disconnect with my husband and poor communication with my children.
An hour later, I saw young psychiatric inpatients playing volleyball. I watched them for like two minutes before one noticed me and waved. It was hard to see because I was sobbing.
There are things science doesn’t explain, especially in family matters. It’s logical why doctors don’t treat relatives; emotions don’t mix with science. I wanted to regain all the time I didn’t spend with my kids and give them the affection they needed.
“How do I let my kids know I love them madly? How do I explain that my distance was about survival? My wish for them is a happy, fulfilling life. They were my strength to escape death. Everything I do, I do for them. But expressing this is hard for every parent,” Janet said, blowing her nose.
“Does it make sense to you?” she asked.
“Yes, it does,” I replied.
Time doesn’t heal. I work hard in memory of those I lost and fight to stay positive. It’s the only way.
In this course of life, I’ve realized there will always be something to chase. We’ll never have everything figured out, so I don’t let my past hold me back. I grow around the grief, reconstruct my faith, love, and aspiration.
My curiosity about humanity and social development didn’t go away. I pursued a Master’s in Anthropology. Besides I’m of the view that learning never exhausts the mind, but ignorance can rot the human race. We need collective understanding and conviction for a better society.
People keep developing new strategies for various reasons. I chose to discover people’s cultures to understand their beliefs and practices, to find meaningful connections that nurture our beings.
We conversed and enjoyed snacks until 6 p.m. We walked to the gate, but before parting, she hugged me tightly and we captured a memorable moment.
