I'm on the plane now, heading back from Boston to St. Louis, still trying to really digest and absorb the experiences of this weekend with the Banyamulenge in New Hampshire. In a way, it feels like the weekend was too short. In another, it feels as though the connection I feel with the people and the emotions I have upon having to leave them could only have formed through weeks and weeks of shared experiences and intimacy.
Although I have been thinking about writing this entry for a while now (and hoping my fellow memorial attendees are doing the same about their own memories - hint, hint guys (; ), I'm still not sure what I want to share. Should I talk about all the wonderful people I got to meet, like Faraja, the beautiful singer who gave me so many warm hugs, or Rose Mapendo, who named her children after the prison guards who threatened to kill them? Should I share how wonderful it felt to be received as an equal within a group so intensely bonded together through life events, culture, and shared experiences even though I did not understand half of what was being said the entire weekend? Or how good it was to be greeted warmly by a woman who used to attend my church before relocating to another state, even though back in her St. Louis days we maybe exchanged two awkward, un-understood words to each other?
Instead, I think I will reluctantly tell the story of what I felt was the worst moment of the trip for many of us, because it is probably something that will stick with me the rest of my life.
Reflections on the Gatumba Memorial (imuhira.com)
Chatboard (0)