In My Home There Is No More Sorrow [antikvár]

In April, the light is beautiful in Rwanda—soft and warm upon the incredible new green that bursts from the fields and mountains, a living green that surrounds us as we near the end of the rainy season. The roads are filled with people walking. A very few ride bikes, and fewer still ride little motorcycles, but there are no cars other than our own. We have the road to ourselves, except for that endless stream of people coming and going on both sides, all of them carrying something—no work is ever wasted. Every word I spend here without getting to the bones feels like I am shirking or betraying the obligation of witness. And yet, seventeen years after the fact, the thousand hills are greener than ever. Still, if I do not begin with the bones—if they are not at least here on the first page—it feels wrong. I do not want this to be a travelogue, an irresponsible saunter through great beauty. Or rather, I do not want it to feel like any one of our other days, no matter where else we might be.