I suppose that, as our one-year anniversary has passed, it is fitting that the honeymoon period is officially over.
Never before have I fought tears over the faith of parents who, in the face of the murder of their son, have painfully asked for the prayers for the perpetrators and their families.
Never before have prayed desperately for the faith of a mother who has lost her talented, driven daughter in the work of peacebuilding.
Never before have I laughed so hard in the face of a bizarre reality that death is so close, you can tie it to a smell, a taste, a single night.
---
“I never even met him. I mean, there was that one night you guys had dinner together a few months ago, but I was too tired or lazy. It was quiche, remember--”
“Yeah, well, you missed your chance!”
---
“How were they attacked? Weren't the appropriate authorities notified? I mean, they were in the UN!”
“They were supposed to be investigating mass graves – it wasn't exactly something you could advertise...”
“ 'Get the graves ready!' ”
---
After the murders of Michael J. Sharp (a previous MCC worker) and Zaida Catalan (both UN experts) were confirmed last week, Grandma and Grandpa organized a memorial service to tie together the different cultures, organizations, and survivors who would mourn their loss. Everything went well, aside from a translator who could have used a translator of his own and an official who called for vengeance, justice, and more pain in order to ease the pain - hair of the dog, you might say.
I sat, in a mushanana (traditional Burundian dress) rented by Cinderella - completing our row of MCC Seed women in purple and white cloth embossed with peacock feathers – and tried to feel anything. Nothing. Wait – there it was: nausea. I couldn't remember the first note of the hymn we were to sing.
Then a voice would break in the middle of a eulogy, I would feel the anguish of a parent, I would glance at the pictures of young people who would never age, and I would fight a cry that felt like it was being ripped from me.
Then I would ask my friends to take selfies.
This was the surrealism of that day: the culmination of the lives of two hardworking, talented people who believed so much in the good of the people and regions of the Congo that they lived, worked, and died there. Please do not mistake me – this was anything but a natural progression to a natural death. It was the murder of a man who wanted to start a family, who was convinced to take on a posting with the UN, but planned to go home soon. It was brutal violence against a female expert on gender-based issues who could have had a life in Swedish politics, but chose another battleground instead.
It was a reminder that life is here and now – nothing more is guaranteed. That there may be a choice between personal comfort and belief, but happiness doesn't work on a five-year plan. That our job is to serve others, not because they deserve it – they never will - but because we owe it. The memorial felt like a dream; the real discussion occurred at home between Butters, Timbit, and I after we arrived home. I confess I tried to draw out the time of normalcy, both so I could wear my princess-like outfit a little longer, and so I could remember well if another memorial came between me and people I didn't used to know.
---
“I can't believe this happened.”
“They say it was the rebels.”
“I heard it was them.”
“The worst part is not knowing.”
“I heard they decapitated her.”
"I heard this was supposed to be his last mission. His last field mission. Before he went home."
Don'tsayitdon'tsayit.
“The problem is that some people want justice for their souls, and others want peace.”
“And that's true for the whole country; some want elections and justice, while others would just rather have peace.”
“What's wrong with justice?”
“It means more death. Death that we probably wouldn't experience or lose family members to.”
“But then the peace isn't--”
“I know.”
“Remember how your five-year plan includes a wife and children?”
“Yeah.”
“Michael's probably did too.”
“You think I'm going to die? I'm not going to die.”
“Good. Or I'd be pissed.”
“Well, I guess I'd just have to live with that.”
I would like posterity to note that Butters was warned of death and causing distress by sheer stupidity. Let it also be known that he responded with an attempt at humour reminiscent of the Hindenburg.
It may not have been exactly these words that were said, but they were what was meant. Because that's the thing about memories – they're not about the right spaces between letters, but about the spaces that closed between lives.
Never before have I fought tears over the faith of parents who, in the face of the murder of their son, have painfully asked for the prayers for the perpetrators and their families.
Never before have prayed desperately for the faith of a mother who has lost her talented, driven daughter in the work of peacebuilding.
Never before have I laughed so hard in the face of a bizarre reality that death is so close, you can tie it to a smell, a taste, a single night.
---
“I never even met him. I mean, there was that one night you guys had dinner together a few months ago, but I was too tired or lazy. It was quiche, remember--”
“Yeah, well, you missed your chance!”
---
“How were they attacked? Weren't the appropriate authorities notified? I mean, they were in the UN!”
“They were supposed to be investigating mass graves – it wasn't exactly something you could advertise...”
“ 'Get the graves ready!' ”
---
After the murders of Michael J. Sharp (a previous MCC worker) and Zaida Catalan (both UN experts) were confirmed last week, Grandma and Grandpa organized a memorial service to tie together the different cultures, organizations, and survivors who would mourn their loss. Everything went well, aside from a translator who could have used a translator of his own and an official who called for vengeance, justice, and more pain in order to ease the pain - hair of the dog, you might say.
I sat, in a mushanana (traditional Burundian dress) rented by Cinderella - completing our row of MCC Seed women in purple and white cloth embossed with peacock feathers – and tried to feel anything. Nothing. Wait – there it was: nausea. I couldn't remember the first note of the hymn we were to sing.
Then a voice would break in the middle of a eulogy, I would feel the anguish of a parent, I would glance at the pictures of young people who would never age, and I would fight a cry that felt like it was being ripped from me.
Then I would ask my friends to take selfies.
This was the surrealism of that day: the culmination of the lives of two hardworking, talented people who believed so much in the good of the people and regions of the Congo that they lived, worked, and died there. Please do not mistake me – this was anything but a natural progression to a natural death. It was the murder of a man who wanted to start a family, who was convinced to take on a posting with the UN, but planned to go home soon. It was brutal violence against a female expert on gender-based issues who could have had a life in Swedish politics, but chose another battleground instead.
It was a reminder that life is here and now – nothing more is guaranteed. That there may be a choice between personal comfort and belief, but happiness doesn't work on a five-year plan. That our job is to serve others, not because they deserve it – they never will - but because we owe it. The memorial felt like a dream; the real discussion occurred at home between Butters, Timbit, and I after we arrived home. I confess I tried to draw out the time of normalcy, both so I could wear my princess-like outfit a little longer, and so I could remember well if another memorial came between me and people I didn't used to know.
---
“I can't believe this happened.”
“They say it was the rebels.”
“I heard it was them.”
“The worst part is not knowing.”
“I heard they decapitated her.”
"I heard this was supposed to be his last mission. His last field mission. Before he went home."
Don'tsayitdon'tsayit.
“The problem is that some people want justice for their souls, and others want peace.”
“And that's true for the whole country; some want elections and justice, while others would just rather have peace.”
“What's wrong with justice?”
“It means more death. Death that we probably wouldn't experience or lose family members to.”
“But then the peace isn't--”
“I know.”
“Remember how your five-year plan includes a wife and children?”
“Yeah.”
“Michael's probably did too.”
“You think I'm going to die? I'm not going to die.”
“Good. Or I'd be pissed.”
“Well, I guess I'd just have to live with that.”
I would like posterity to note that Butters was warned of death and causing distress by sheer stupidity. Let it also be known that he responded with an attempt at humour reminiscent of the Hindenburg.
It may not have been exactly these words that were said, but they were what was meant. Because that's the thing about memories – they're not about the right spaces between letters, but about the spaces that closed between lives.
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