I am told no one can protect me if I ask too many questions.
I scribble liberation versus occupation? in the margins of my notebook.
My translator bribes the Memory-Keeper with a Primus and my smile.
The lone Kibeho survivor carries the key to the gated-dead in her
pocket. Feigns ignorance when pressed. I reprimand the church walls
for abandoning its parishioners. The pilgrims prostrate at the feet
of their Mother. I forget how to pray. The nun assures me:
you would have never passed this way if you didn’t
have faith. The god of the living cannot fathom his own
creation until he is nailed to the cross himself.