We Can't Forget

My partner and I lived in Rwanda awhile back, and there is one story that sticks in my mind above all others. A friend I got to know in Rwanda worked with an organization called Hope for Life, which provides housing and rehabilitation to children and youth living on the streets of Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. She told me the story of a 10- or 11-year-old boy who came to their center one day seeking help. He eventually shared with the center staff that he had been living on the streets for awhile with his younger brother after their parents had died. He and his brother struggled to find food and often had to steal food to get by. But there was a period of time when even stealing food wasn’t working, and every night the boys went to bed hungry. The boy at the center described the heartbreaking moment when he held his younger brother in his arms as he died from starvation. Traumatized, grieving, and starving himself, the boy eventually stumbled across the center, where he was given a place to stay and food.

This image–of a boy holding his younger brother as the child died from starvation–will probably stick in my mind forever. To think that this was happening right in my neighborhood was heartbreaking. Dying from starvation was a reality so far from my own that it felt impossible that it was happening to this boy right in front of me, especially in such a modern, spotlessly clean city as Kigali. (If that image conflicts with your vision of an African city, you’re not alone–but do some research to learn about what African cities really look like today.)

I also will never forget the memory of taking our trash out at our apartment in Kigali. We lived in a relatively economically advantaged neighborhood, with our apartment building across the street from the large home of a former government official. Each week we would bag up our trash and plop it on the side of the street outside our gate. And each week, as soon as we emerged with trash bags in hand, a group of men and women wearing dirt-stained, tattered clothes would rush up and grab the bags. They were always so respectful of us, never snatching the bags directly from our hands but waiting until we set them down before jumping to be the first to grab the bags and take them away. We could then watch as they dragged the bags down the street, opened them up, and began sorting through what we had considered waste. They collected bottles, plastic containers, old clothes and shoes, even food scraps, sorting and organizing, seeing what they could use versus sell. 

This memory is also burned into my mind, along with the image of that boy holding his dying brother. Now back in the U.S., it’s so easy to feel detached from these realities. I live in a nice house with my partner, and we have plenty to eat. Our worries include how the stock market is doing, which brand of Tofu to buy, and how to find time to go to the doctor’s. Of course, I don’t want to minimize the very real challenges of folks living in the US: mental illness and suicide rates, rising inflation, this horrible housing market, shitty policies that impact people’s ability to get healthcare (like the recent anti-abortion and anti-trans laws), structural racism and other oppressions that impact life expectancy…. But dying of starvation and fighting over trash seem so impossible when juxtaposed with my life. 

I’m often reminded of that song in the opening credits of the TV show Weeds: “Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky.” Living a square life in little boxes made of ticky tacky is one of my biggest fears. I don’t want to be a typical housewife in a typical suburban house with a typical set of behaviors and attitudes. I don’t want to forget that poverty exists, that not everyone has the privileges that I do, that I should feel immensely grateful that all my basic needs are met.

Yet despite my fear of living this square life, I still fall into the trap of measuring my success against the stereotypical ladder of American (global?) success: go to college, get married, go to grad school, find a career, buy a house, and pop out some kids. I get so caught up in doing what society expects of me–and feeling shitty when my journey isn’t a simple, easy upward climb–and I forget that there are far greater problems in the world that should have my attention.

How do we not forget? How do we remember the injustices experienced by so many, both globally and right in our backyards, when we live in our isolated little boxes made of ticky tacky?

I believe that we have a choice to center these concerns–to find ways to remember. In fact, I think it’s our duty as privileged Americans who use up the largest percentages of the world’s resources to remember.

I’m definitely not perfect at remembering. But I try to think of that little boy and his brother when I’m eating my dinner. I try to not serve myself more food than I can eat, I try to finish everything on my plate, I try to use up everything in the fridge before it spoils. Whenever I throw something away, I think of those folks in Kigali and try to consider if I can reuse or recycle whatever it is I’m throwing away. We have to remember.

How do you remember?