The New York Times
MONDAY, JULY 18, 1994

I glanced at this mornings' paper
And I saw the children lying there
Thrown together in pile
as if waiting for the garbage man.
The picture black & white
Shades of grey professing death
How appropriate this lack of color
How graphic and how actual
...the darkness of it all.
My heart aches
and there is salt in my eyes
I try to push it away
but instead I read...
Refugees from Rwanda
trampled to death in Goma.
So far away-this land at war
yet hitting so very close to home.
They are unknown to me, these children
Who may have never swung a bat
or braided the hairs of dolls
Their only desire - to eat and sleep
The writer introduces me
Telling me names and ages
But no hands are shaken
And no smiles exchanged
The man I meet is holding up a sign
His son, he fears, will never be found
Any hope within is written by hand
The sign reads "His name is Gasore, He is 8 years old."
The salt is in the liquid now
And together they fall
mixed in burning harmony
I read on...
I imagine the panic of 10 year old Zuba
Searching in vain for her parents
Seeing only through her tears
Then taking the hand of a stranger
On a volcanic rock sits Sephine
Nursing her 6 week old son
His name claiming whatever faith remains...
For she calls him Niyonsenga -
which means, "to God I pray"
And she does pray
While searching for her husband
And her 3 year old girl
...And I pray for them all.
To Gasore, Zuba, Sephine
the fathers and mothers
the sisters and brothers
the strangers lending a hand...
There's hope in the name of a child
May he live to tell of his struggle
...his survial

Another tear drop falls
..."Niyonsenga".