ISAAC IS 11 YEARS OLD

Today I went to church alone as Sue is recovering from a foot injury. I went to the store afterward and was returning to the apartment with a load of goodies on my back when I heard a friendly voice by my left elbow say in perfect English, "Where are you from?" I looked down and saw one of those classic children. Beautiful brown eyes. Open Smile. Matching me stride for stride even though about a foot and a half shorter. His name is Isaac, he is 11 years old; my name is Douglas and I am very old.

We struck up a conversation and I asked him where he was from. A small town just this side of Congo, where the gorillas live. Had I seen the gorillas? Yes, we both had. What is he doing by himself in Kigali? Walking. Is he in school? No, never. How did he learn such good English? Speaking to tourists. He can speak Spanish also. He can read and write very little and cannot do math, since he has never been in school. How did he come to walk with me through Kigali? Well, the flood gates opened. His father was killed in a genocide; his mother died shortly afterward. He has been raised by his auntie who beats him and refuses to use his father's money to send him to school. Most recently she called a driver to take him to Kigali. He did so and dumped him out, beating him to get him to leave the vehicle. On his back he carried a pack with all his earthly possessions: a stocking cap, two bibles, and some other unidentified written material, all of which had belonged to his mom.

Well, what does one do with that? I took him to the apartment, fed him some lunch, and called a friend who came over and interviewed him. I was told that the story had meaning. There have been outbreaks of genocide along the border when bad guys come from the Congo across the border, inflict injuries and death and then leave back into the jungle. We must take him to the police to report the crime involving his auntie. Off we went.

The scene changes to a series of mud brick buildings inhabited by uniformed police who take the story from the child time after time. He didn't miss a beat. Never saw a tear or a look of fear. Just trust and openness. When last I saw him he was in an officer's office along with two prisoners who possessed the worse case of body odor I have witnessed since the base camp at Kilimanjaro. Still not a falter. We wished each other God's blessing and I left. How brave can a child be? He is headed to his hometown to confront and prosecute his auntie.

I reflected on my blog this morning how overloaded this entire country must be when it comes to these orphaned children. Can you imagine what we would do if ten percent of our population was homeless, orphaned and under age? I guess it isn't a bit surprising if they engage in a fair amount of denial when it comes to this subject.


dlm