Yesterday, at the Goma border crossing, a local Congolese official told our translator that she wanted to go through our luggage. We knew it was a shakedown, but wanted to avoid any trouble. Isaiah talked to her to try to smooth things over, so that she would let it go. And she told him, “Isaiah,…
I knew I shouldn’t have gone into the room about children long before I stepped inside. It’s the last room of the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center here in Rwanda, and it’s not like the kind young man that greeted us at reception didn’t give me fair warning that it was coming. I was already in…
By all accounts I shouldn’t be making this trip. My mother keeps tracking me down to tell me that she is “opposed” to it, my father sent me several emails reminding me that “Congo is not Cancun” (thanks for the reminder, Dad), and therefore, perhaps I should reconsider. But most importantly, most pressingly — perhaps…