It Happened on the Way to War Read Online Free PDF Page B

wounded man. They used machetes and clubs spiked with nails. This was my first realization of humanity’s capacity for great evil, and I found it and my reaction to it as fascinating as it was repulsive. I wanted to battle the forces that created such horrific frenzy, and yet, at the same time, the darkness itself held some attractive power that I didn’t understand but could not deny.
    How and why genocide happened were the obvious questions, and they went unanswered. They were disturbing enough, though beyond them, a more personal question lingered. If I had been born in Rwanda and was confronted with the ultimatum of killing an innocent person or being killed, would I kill? While I wanted to say that I would resist, in truth I didn’t know, and that uncertainty made me all the more curious.
    Gourevitch’s book with its lucid meditations reawakened these thoughts and emotions. As enlightening as his writing was, so many elemental questions about good and evil remained. By the time I put down his book, I knew I wanted to go to Rwanda to understand for myself the elements of darkness that I could one day be called on to battle as a Marine.
    DURING OUR LAST night of vacation, I told Mom about Swahili class with Professor Mutima. We talked about anthropology and her former academic adviser at UNC, James Peacock, a beloved anthropologist with long, salt-and-pepper eyebrows and a kind, unassuming presence. I had reached out to Professor Peacock after growing bored with my first semester of freshman classes. He had invited me to his office in Alumni Hall, the building on campus where my parents met as graduate students in 1969. I was anxious about the meeting until I walked into his office and found him sitting cross-legged on top of his desk, shoes off, listening to Indonesian hip-hop. After our meeting, Professor Peacock had let me join his graduate-level anthropology seminar on globalization. The theory was over my head, but I had enjoyed the small group discussions. When I chose to write my term paper on the Masai in Kenya, Professor Peacock had introduced me to a graduate student named Jennifer Coffman. Jennifer focused her fieldwork in southern Kenya and generously helped me navigate my first major research paper.
    Mom listened eagerly as I told her about how Professor Peacock’s class and my conversations with Jennifer had opened my mind to anthropology and the power of ethnography.
    â€œI’m so glad to hear this,” Mom responded. I could tell that she was relieved that I had shaken my teenage apathy.
    â€œBut, Mom, there’s something else.” Unsure how she would respond, I had saved it for the end. I had enough to keep me busy with a demanding course load and ROTC commitments. Yet I felt that I needed to do more. I needed to go to Rwanda.
    â€œRwanda?” Her voice cracked.
    â€œYes, Mom, I want to go. I need to go.”
    â€œOh, my.” She paused. “Are you sure?”
    I had wanted to return to Africa, and Rwanda seemed to be the right fit. I explained to my mom that I could learn about ethnic conflict there, develop my Swahili, and make a real contribution with research. After an hour or so of discussion, my mom told me that she understood and would support me. Although I had anticipated her support, her words felt great to hear. Mom, too, was an explorer. As a young nurse she had lived alone for a year in a village in Peru. She knew about the drive to go to places where many others would not venture. It was part of my inheritance, as was my middle name—Mead—in honor of the legendary anthropologist Margaret Mead.
    Mom and I spent the rest of the night talking about Rwanda. She helped me think about how to get there safely and in a way that would not jeopardize the security of the local population. Weeks later, she sent me a handwritten note with one of her favorite Margaret Mead quotes: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens