Photo courtesy of Andrea Simonato
The Flash of Wings
I like to watch documentaries from the library, especially ones detailing government subversions, political machinations, and “what’s really going on” behind the scenes. I’m not sure why I feel this intense need to be informed, because often I end up feeling disenchanted, powerless, even bitter. Recently I watched a film called Ghosts of Rwanda, which details the horrors of the genocide of 1994.
I wasn’t aware of the crisis in Rwanda when it was happening. I was twenty-four years old, pregnant and unmarried. My boyfriend and I were living in San Francisco, one of the most expensive cities on earth, in an apartment we shared with two other people. I had barely graduated from college with a degree in English, which enabled me to land some jobs as a temp worker, but not much else. I was unprepared for the pregnancy, to say the least. For the vision of the future that he sold to me, I have to give my boyfriend (now my husband) credit. Not once did he falter in his belief that this child could be welcomed and loved by us, despite the instability of our financial situation.
He was right. My beautiful daughter, Sloane, has been the joy of my life since she was born. At the time of her birth, I was so caught up in my own concerns that I had no idea of the horrors that babies across the world were facing.
Now, more than a decade later, the myriad emotions evoked by watching Ghosts of Rwanda linger with me, days after viewing it. Despite the horrors shown in the film, surprisingly, the feeling I am most aware of is hope. In this situation, hope really is the thing with feathers; it flits and it flies on the periphery of destruction.
In Rwanda, several amazing people saw the bird of hope flitting about the devastation surrounding them, and it kept them dedicated to a losing battle.
The person from the film who most captured my imagination is Carl Wilkins, the American humanitarian aid worker who refused to evacuate as all the other Americans streamed out of the country. What must he have felt, holed up in his house? The finality of that realization that he was the only American left in the besieged country must have left him with a terrible hollowness.
But despite the hollowness, he stayed. How does one find that kind of courage? To live his convictions in such circumstances? I watched Wilkins speak of his experiences and searched his face for signs of greatness, some clue to lead me down the altruistic path he followed. These things are not visible, though . . . they flit and they fly just behind the eyes, out of reach.
At one point during the tragedy, Wilkins was in an orphanage of Tutsi children who were facing extermination. The building was surrounded by Hutu militants who had already killed thousands of Tutsis; it was a desperate situation. Wilkins drove through the dangerously occupied streets to appeal to Theoneste Bagosara, the Hutu leader considered the mastermind behind the genocide, on behalf of the children’s lives. Inexplicably, his request was granted, and the children were spared. The man directly responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent people ceased the madness for a brief moment because of the appeal from one lone American. Who can make sense of this event?
While orphaned children were being granted the precarious, precious right to continue breathing, a world away, my own child was emerging wet and wonderful into welcoming arms. I shudder to think how completely unaware I was of the gift I was being given.
With the people of Rwanda etched into my consciousness, those striking, grief-hollowed brown faces ever present in my mind, something strange happened.
A neighbor of mine knocked on the door. Lila has faced many hardships in her lifetime; both of her parents died before she reached adulthood, she was physically abused by her spouse, and her daughters are regularly in trouble with the school authorities and police. And yet, this woman has always struck me as kind, gentle, and resilient. She smiles a friendly hello, cares for the neighborhood children as if they were her own, and lends money to her daughters’ friends who beseech her. Lila proves my belief that the people who can least afford it are often the most generous.
Lila explained to me that there was a one-year-old baby whose mother no longer wanted her. The mother was a seventeen-year-old friend of her daughter’s, a drug user who could barely manage her own existence, and felt overwhelmed by the needs of her baby. I had seen this baby in my neighbor’s arms on many occasions. She is mixed race, with beautiful cinnamon skin and the biggest head of curly hair you’ll ever see. Lila explained that the mother wanted to “give the child away” for awhile until she could “get back on her feet,” and had asked for help.
Unfortunately, Lila’s husband was not sympathetic to the child’s situation, which left Lila with few options. She thought of me, knowing how much I love children and that I would appreciate the chance to help.
I immediately pictured myself cradling the baby in my arms, kissing her plump cheeks, tenderly braiding that magnificent hair, healing the wounds. My four-year-old son jumped up straightaway and went to his room, “to find some books she would like to read.”
Is it a coincidence that as I feel the despair of not being able to right the wrongs of the past, or even to stop the atrocities occurring today, a chance to do some good presents itself? This sort of synchronicity, this flapping of the wings of hope, has been there many times when I most needed it to be.
I told Lila we would be happy to extend our family circle to encompass this beautiful baby for as long as she needs us. With the faces of those abandoned and forsaken children of Rwanda in my mind, all I can do is hold this one close and do my best.
This is what Carl Wilkins did, I believe. Even as we look straight at the ugliness that sometimes surrounds us, on the periphery we catch the flash of silver wings glinting in the sun.
Copyright 2006 by Leslie Wolter
