My Relationship With Grief12 min read

When Masozera Africa approached me to share my story, I was happy and honored. I responded, “anything for sisterhood”. I am their biggest fan because an African Woman deserves a safe platform like this.

Allow me first introduce myself.

Telling you about who I am is very important because for many years decided to define who I am… so for me healing is first and foremost about taking control of how I choose to tell my story.

My name is Lydia Nimbeshaho; for those who knew me eight years ago, my first name was Appoline. Choosing to change my name is part of my healing journey; this is a story for another day. I am 34 years old, a mother to 3 amazing boys, Garry, Terry, and Zach. I am a survivor of the Rwandan 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, an educator, a mother, a speaker of hope, a mental health activist, a mentor, a storyteller, and the founder of Beyond The Veil Mission.

Fifteen years after the Genocide Against the Tutsi, I migrated to Canada to start a new life with my family. I obtained my B.A., with distinction in Sociology and Sexuality Studies from York University. I am in my final year pursuing a Master of Divinity-Clinical track at Tyndale University. I now tell my story to different communities as a mental health advocate and the impact of genocide on Survivors.

At the age of 6, I witnessed the murder of my parents in the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, and I was forced to grow up quickly to face many challenges that most of us only encounter late in adulthood. At 19 years old, I welcomed my first child and married a year later. Yet, the difficulties I met at a young age ignited my compassion to impact lives and affect positive change through education and the sharing of hope.

Now that you know a bit about me, seat with me as I open up about my relationship with grief… but if you are looking to find a healing end to this story, I am not promising you that. Grief taught me to choose restoration over healing because every time I thought that I was close to healing, grief was always present at the end of the road waiting for me.

What you are about to have is a conversation of hope, a woman on the restoration journey.

As I write this piece, I am experiencing a spectrum of emotions. Each word typed is escorted by a tear drop on my keyboard and the raw memories of loved ones lost.

It has been at least 15 months since death robbed me of a dear friend, but my story today, will focus on my dear sister Lucie Kampinka who was taken from me on 31st July 2018. It was a turning point in my life because for the first time I allowed myself to let go, to embrace instead grief instead of running away from it; I was surrounded by grief. My sister’s death helped me grieve my parents, who I lost when I was six.
Before her death, life had taken an unfortunate turn. In my early teen years, along with my siblings and cousins, no family members wanted to raise us anymore, so we were sent to raise ourselves. Luckily we had a house that our parents left. This is not the case for thousands of other survivors of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi.

None of us had a job, and having food on the table was a privilege; if all of us had to leave the house simultaneously, we would not be able to have enough, so taking turns was the deal. Most of our nights were about sitting down and hearing the stories of those who were able to remember how our lives looked like before the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, and the things we will do when we become successful.

As in many African families, when children lose their primary caregivers, the parenting role is automatically assigned to the oldest of the family. This is how my sister Lucie took that role for us; she did not choose that. As a young girl, she became a parent when she needed to be parented herself.

What was it like living with the thought that I might lose my sister Lucie anytime? The 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi destabilized and destroyed families and communities, including mine. We were left to grapple with pain, grief, and a childhood tainted by tragedy. We were left to face life on our own. The genocide tore my family apart, separating us from the only family we had left. We lived in orphanages and with various foster families.

For many years, my siblings and I were also scattered across communities and raised in different houses. We were forced to grow up quickly, and we had to overcome challenges that surpassed normative childhood experiences.

Since 1994, I had never gotten a chance to be in the same place with my five siblings. The first time, we were able to be reunited all of us in the same room; it was in 2018. It was on the day of my sister’s funeral.

All of us were seated in the same room for the first time, but none of us could not speak. For the first time, I remember my younger sister saying, it feels like this is our chance to bury our parents. When I was burring my sister, I felt like I was burring my parents too.

The journey to grieve all of them began that day. Like many Rwandan survivors, who never got a chance to bury their family members, we were not different. When Interahamwe murdered my parents, I was watching, but I do not remember how it felt like at that moment; my soul had left my body, and maybe God was protecting me. I can’t tell you why I am dissociated from those feelings, but I saw it all with my young siblings standing beside me.

My two older siblings ran to hide at our neighbors’ house when Interahamwe came to take our parents. I believe the God of our parents told them to hide because at that time they were killing the older children and the boys. It was on April 10th, 1994, and I witnessed everything.

I share the traumatic experience with many Genocide survivors, including my sister, Lucie Kampinka. She suffered for years from trauma, major depression, and alcohol addiction.

Unfortunately, she lost her life in 2018. I lived with fear daily, knowing that my sister might die due to her struggle with depression and the mental health trauma that she encountered before her passing. At some point, every phone call from Rwanda was very traumatic, and I was always afraid that one day I would receive a call that my sister had passed away.

No day went by that I did not get to pray for the healing of my sister with my boys. I used to tell her that she couldn’t die before she met my sons. She loved them so much.

Lucie was a lover.

When she passed away, I remember praying for her as usual because it was in my prayer routine. When I was at work, I opened our family chat group, and the message was there. “Lucie is gone.” I remember saying “God, you cannot do that to me; we promised that at least she would get to see my kids”. I was done at that moment.

The big question, what was it like grieving my sister?

You might think that it was easy since I had lived with the thought for many years and that I would face this moment. No, I was never prepared. I was new in the city where I live today, and I had no close support.

I started by saying that having the time to grieve is a privilege. I traveled to Rwanda to bury my sister. I arrived around 2 am with my brother Bakunzi, and the funeral day was the same day we arrived. You might ask why did we rushed the event. Understand that my younger siblings were the ones organizing the funeral along with their few friends. We all got a few days off from work that our lives depend on. For people like us, we do not have the privilege to take as much time as we need to heal.

Also, we raised ourselves, so we do not have the privilege to count on family members. My big brother and I live in Canada, all the preparations were done by our younger siblings and our friends. Thinking about it broke me into pieces. They were the ones supporting her through the pain she endured for many years while battling the mental illness. My baby siblings witnessed so much.

Grieving my sister was the most challenging moment I experienced.

It was the first grief that I was able to feel every moment. It came with many invitations. I got to grieve my parents, the abuse I experienced at a young age, and it was very lonely. I cried none stop every day for eight months.

When I flew back to Canada, I was so afraid. In 2 days, I went back to work, and in one week, I started my Masters’s program. I would cry myself to sleep every night, because day time I did not want my kids to see me in pain when they were around me. I was new in the city we currently live in, and I had no close support. I needed at least someone to pull me and hold my chest tight for those eight months because I was completely broken inside.

Luckily, I was able to access free therapy sessions from my school, and for about almost two years, I attended therapy to walk me through so many grieves that my sister helped me to open. I now understand why now many people are afraid to go to therapy. It does not mess you up. It is like opening an old wound; for this time, you cannot escape the healing process, you are about to feel it, and day by day, but it does get better.

In my mental health advocacy, I argue that mental health services are a privilege because the cost is high, and resources are not accessible as they should be. Mental health services are a basic need like water, shelter, and food.

I am very fortunate to have received this support from my school. This is why I do mental health advocacy through Beyond The Veil in Canada and Rwanda. I know that people who share the same path as me need more than just a few sessions of therapy.

People who have experienced childhood trauma or who are neglected do not need to be rushed during psychotherapy. I wish my sister had the same opportunity as I did, my siblings, my fellow survivors, violence and war survivors.

My space of grieving was in my car. My distance to work and school was about over an hour. I would start the car and break into tears every day. Somedays, when my emotions were too much to handle, I would park my car on the side-road and hug myself tight because I was afraid that I could break.

This is what grieving was like to me. This particular song walked me through my grieving, Ocean by Hillsong. An unknown author said, “you can delay the grief, but you cannot deny it.”

Somedays, I used to ask God why He made that journey so lonely. Even though many people are surrounding you, I heard that grieving always feels like a lonely journey because the relationship with a loved one is unique even though we are all related.

Losing my sister woke up the loss of my parents that I did not know I carried. It does not matter how many years have passed since you lost a loved one; if you did not grieve them properly, it will catch up with you along the way.

I realized that being alone through my sister’s grieving helped me process her loss and gave me a purpose.

You cannot heal a wound without touching it.

From what I have witnessed in my community, people are always available to support us when we lose someone, but after the funeral is when individuals who are grieving need help the most. If you are familiar with the Kubler-Ross Model-Five Stages of Grieving, you understand why the depression stage is where people need the support the most, although all stages are essential.

Many wounds we carry are as a result of not being able to grieve our loved ones properly. I guess this leads me to answer the question about what is my relationship with grief?

Grief is part of my life because I live with its impact every day. You have heard the brain keeps the score. I understood that the mixed memories of my loved one would remain with me forever, and avoiding them would not help in the healing process.

Grieving is also unique, and so is healing. We do not grieve at the same pace, and we do not heal at the same speed. Our brain is wired differently in the ways we cope with stress, and this is how you can not compare the outcome of trauma to survivors.

Grieving is part of my life because my loved ones left with a piece of me, and I kept a part of them in me.

Grief and Trauma helped me to recognize and walk in my purpose. I use my painful past to inspire hope. My story is one that demonstrates the power of resilience and perseverance like the caterpillar’s transition — boldly defying all odds to become a butterfly, soaring and living a life of purpose and beauty despite the pain.

I leave you with this message; to all my sisters and friends of Masozera Africa, survivors of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi.

Birth and death are always around us. No prayer can stop death if it is meant to happen. Knowing/accessing resources that can help us go through loss and grieving is what matters the most. Hold on to your faith, God’s grace truly sustained and led me to the right resources.

If you have some emotions that you struggle with and have experienced loss in your life, and you have a chance to receive counseling, please take advantage of it even if you feel like you can handle your daily activities. But on the other hand, if you do not have support, many online resources can help you educate yourself on how un-grieved losses impact our lives.

Sister, remember to rest and breath.