This is Rwanda

Driving away from Kigali on a flat cement road we pass cemeteries, one after the other. White crosses with crackling paint stick up from mounds of brown dirt. Beneath those mounds lies the past, present and future. The old woman siting next to me shows physical scars of a fight but her eyes show even more. Behind those eyes lie years and years of hatred, disgust, and unwantedness. Yet somehow through it all, life keeps on turning, the wheels keep on moving, and the days tick by. The children jump up and down on the side of the road wearing their blue and white school uniforms which are covered in holes and dirt. Calls from their houses force them to scramble inside to start daily chores. Their mothers live each and everyday knowing that just 18 years ago their precious boys and girls might have been killed just because of who they are. They would have been forced to flee, to run, to sprint, to somewhere safe and pray and pray and pray that they would make it another day. The fathers on the street carry hoes and rakes, just coming from their fields. They plant their seeds of life, and hope that one day flowers of love, acceptance, and happiness sprout through the crumbling dirt. Grandmothers and grandfathers walk along the road wearing brightly colored fabrics, reflecting on their long lives. They’ve seen it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly. They’ve seen the country thrive, then completely distroyed, then slowly build back up again. But no matter how many tall buildings and large schools are built by organizations who feel guilty about the past, woven inside the bricks and foundation are memories of segregation, separation and distrust. Brick by brick this country has been built back up again. People rise from the rubble. Stories of survival surface. And against all odds life continues to turn like a bicycle riding away from a storm.