My own life story
feels fragmented, like beads unstrung.
Each time I scoop up my memories, the assortment is slightly different.
Taking care of loved
ones in my world was not based on affection.
It was based on the fear of losing them.
That's life in a
refugee camp: You're not moving toward anything. You're just in a horrible groove. You learn
skills that you wish you did not know.
Rwandans take the
dream world seriously. When you wake up,
people ask, "What did you dream about last night?" It's like saying good morning.
I want to make
people understand that boxing ourselves into tiny cubbies based on class, race,
ethnicity, religion -- anything, really -- comes from a poverty of mind, a
poverty of imagination. The world is
dull and cruel when we isolate ourselves.
Survival, true survival of the body and soul, requires creativity,
freedom of thought, collaboration.
