If asked to imagine what the Genocide was like
I find myself lost
I find myself confused and heartbroken
I find myself confronted with the fact that it’s not my pain to grieve
They were murdered in the very churches in which they sought refuge
A God that is supposed to represent charity and goodness
But not mercy
As children’s blood seeps into the wall
As women brace themselves for an eighth man’s breath
They say that the Rwandans have forgiven
I can’t grasp what that must mean
Does it mean that they have forgotten?
Does it mean that they feel peace?
Does it mean that the killings aren’t constantly replayed in their heads?
Empathy has much to do with imagination1
Yet how can such atrocity be envisioned?
I have no children, I have no husband, I have no wife
But I see the colors of the past as I walk the streets
Silhouettes and soft glimpses of different reds
Today the haunting echo of these words hold different meaning
I have no children
I have no husband
I have no wife
How does a person move forward?
I’ve thought about the grave
Where a husband begged to let his wife rest
The singularity of its presence made the atrocity more acute
Looking at her name and picture
I couldn’t help but think of names of people unknown
How can it have been so recent
Fresh almost
Certainly in the minds of the victims
But also for the perpetrators
As together they sit and weave2
In and out
In and out
Are their breaths this shallow too?
Did they kill my family?
Weave in
Do they know I killed their family?
Weave out
Constantly choked by the past
They pass it to their babies, their teenagers
Slowly the fingers of fear creep toward their necks
Leaving a breathless legacy of things children should know nothing about
Can we really blame the Belgians?
They killed
They raped
They separated
But then the Hutus
They killed
They raped
They separated
Human beings limb by limb
Yet they are not the same
Years of hatred brewed and boiled
To create a stew of bloodshed and grief
The blame is not one that can be equally shared
It cannot be outlined in a detailed memo
It cannot be directly pointed to
Yet it’s ever present
Dusted on both parties as a coat of filth
Condemnation, not so simple to understand
But if they were cockroaches, they deserved to die
As a means of protection
Of evil excuse
A lie fed to the hungry mouths of those craving power
But if they were cockroaches, why am I writing this
My confusion, anger, sadness
— Once again, not mine to claim —
Poignant and undeniable
Yet lacking in foundation
For roaches don’t love
Not at all
Bugs don’t sacrifice
Not one bit
Animals don’t forgive
At least not in the same way
Being able to experience such loss and still choose to heal
That’s a feeling reserved
In all its atrocity, pain, and unimaginable suffering
Weave in
Weave out
Forming a basket of complex history and the hazy now
In the beautiful shape of humanity
Dr. Shannon Peterson, May 2022
Basket Weaving is a form of peace-building in the sense that it brings together (primarily) women of different backgrounds for social and creative interactions in order for them to heal from past traumas.