Loss is something universal. It is one of the things that unites us, makes us more human or sometimes less and reminds us that, in the face of the world, we are sometimes powerless. We have all lost someone dear, a valuable object, a love, a home, and so on. That said, every loss is experienced and processed differently. The way we grieve the loss of a loved one is not the same as how we mourn a lost pet, a first love, or a childhood home. But that does not make these losses any less real. During such times, the people around us become a crucial factor, they listen, comfort, support, wipe away our tears, and remind us that tomorrow will be a better day.
My relationship with loss is a subject I find very difficult to talk about. It is deeply personal and so painful that writing about it has taken an immense toll on me, costing me sleepless nights. To approach this topic, I had to reopen doors I had hoped to keep closed forever.
I am speaking about loss because, exactly 27 years ago, the month of April became the month when we lost everything. I lost my grandparents, my uncles and aunts, my cousins, my school friends, and I also lost the love of my life, the person dearest to me. I lost my mother.
My mother was an extraordinary woman. She was gentle, very calm, and incredibly strong. She raised three children on her own. When I was born, she had just lost my father, and I think I must have felt that loss because my attachment to her was so intense that I needed her attention 24/7. My bond with her was unbreakable. She was my everything. I slept in her bed, I went to work with her (except when I misbehaved, and she refused to take me). Strangely, the way I sought her attention was by crying, I don’t know why, and I only cried for her. I would even ask if I could cry, and she would say, “Go ahead, cry, my child,” and I would cry in her arms, and my world would be perfect again. When she went to work without me, my life would come to a halt, I would sit in a corner, waiting for her return, silent. And when she finally came back, I could be her mischievous little girl again. Whenever we walked guests to the door, she carried me on her back. I loved resting my ear against her, hearing her voice through her body. Sometimes, it would lull me to sleep.
And then, that day in April 1994, maybe it was the 10th, the 18th, or the 22nd? I don’t know. The Interahamwe came to my grandmother’s house, where we were staying. It wasn’t their first time coming, but this time, they forced us into a small room, my mother, my older sister, my two uncles, my cousin, our housemaid, and me. They left us there and disappeared into the house. After a while, we heard glass breaking in the living room. They were smashing everything in the cabinets. That’s when my mother asked us to pray, just as we did every night before bed. We had our own little rosaries, and she led us in prayer, bead by bead.
They returned and found us praying. They said they had searched thoroughly and found the binoculars we used to spy on them, that we were working with the Inkotanyi and had to die. They shot everyone, one by one. The first gunshot made my ears ring. My cousin, my sister, and I fell onto the bed where we had been sitting. For a brief moment, I thought that dying wasn’t so painful after all, I felt no pain, just muffled hearing. I was relieved that death didn’t hurt.
Then I felt our housemaid kicking my leg. She was convulsing, struggling to breathe. That’s when I realized I might not be dead. The Interahamwe left, saying we wouldn’t survive much longer on our own.
There she was, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, was it hers? My uncle’s? Someone else’s? I wasn’t sure. All I could see was my mother’s injured leg, and in my childish mind, I thought she was pretending, to fool the killers into thinking she was dead.
A man who worked for my mother came and took us out of there. As we passed through the living room, it was full of people looting the house. He took us to our next hiding place. I was hopeful that when this was all over, we would laugh about it, and I would tell her how I had understood her plan right away and had even kept her secret.
It has been two months, or maybe more, since I last saw my mother. We are in a church with a lot of other children we don’t know. There are almost no parents, only this white man with long hair, whom people call Jesus. No one talks about their parents, but I still have hope. At least I am with my sister and my cousin, but we don’t talk about it either. Maybe we don’t understand? Or maybe there’s just nothing to say? After all, what could children between five and nine years old even say about it? The only thing my sister has taught me is that when we hear gunfire, we must cover our ears tightly, so they won’t get blocked again.
When the massacres finally end, they bring us out of hiding. Everyone is reuniting, at least, those who are left. And there aren’t many. My uncles and aunts aren’t there. My mother isn’t there. No one talks about her. No one asks where she is. Since no one mentions her, I won’t either. It will be a nice surprise for everyone.
Life resumes, back to work, back to school, but we have to watch where we step because landmines are everywhere. Months go by, and I start doubting my mother’s triumphant return. Maybe she really is dead? But who dies from a bullet wound to the leg? Slowly, I come to accept that I may never see her again. The tears will only fall onto my pillow. And in my mind, I grieve her, since, after all, no one else speaks of her, as if she never existed.
She will remain in my mind, and I will visit her there when life becomes difficult, when I feel alone, unloved. The little girl I was starts building survival mechanisms, one after another. She no longer fears solitude, she finds comfort in it. She learns to compartmentalize her pain, to lock it away deep inside and throw away the key. She teaches herself that anything that hurts should no longer matter, that expecting nothing from people will prevent her from depending on them. And that she should always wear a smile, be cheerful. The plan worked. I’ve lived in my little bubble of denial for so long that I’m not sure if I can step out of it and live differently.
Since then, my relationship with loss has been complicated because the only way I know how to handle it is through silence, by ignoring the existence of pain or simply feeling powerless when someone else loses a loved one. Sometimes, I feel terrible when a friend tells me they’ve lost a mother or father, and my first thought is, How did she still have parents? Or I tell myself, At least she had time to know them. Other times, I wish I could take their pain for myself, because I know I can bear it in silence, so that everyone else can be happy again. And sometimes, my own pain feels insignificant, unworthy of being shared, because, after all, others have been through worse.
They say God never allows us to go through a trial without also giving us the strength to overcome it.
I write these words in honor of my mother, who still lives in my heart. Her kindness and gentleness inspire me to be a better person every day. I also honor all my brothers and sisters who have suffered and continue to suffer the consequences of loss and unhealed trauma, those who have become parents and strive not to pass their trauma onto their children, the younger ones who cannot express the distress that eats away at them, and the parents who survived but did not know how to help us through those times because they, too, were suffering, often in silence.
I dare to believe that it is never too late to heal. I am certain that thousands will see themselves in this story because I do not believe I am an exception.
I hope this reading gives you strength to begin your own healing process, to open up conversations with those around you, with us here in the comments, or through private messages. You can also share your own experiences with loss on my blog and the techniques you’ve found to cope over the years. We will read your testimonies, advice, and reflections with kindness.
Fille d’Epiphaniya
My Epiphany 
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