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Journey through Genocide: Stories of Survivors and the Dead
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About Journey Through Genocide: Stories Of Survivors And
Product Description Powerful accounts by genocide survivors, a journalist seeking to bear witness to their pain. Darfuri refugee camps in Chad, Kigali in Rwanda, and the ruins of ancient villages in Turkey ― all visited by genocide, all still reeling in its wake. In Journey through Genocide, Raffy Boudjikanian travels to communities that have survived genocide to understand the legacy of this most terrible of crimes against humanity. In this era of ethnic and religious wars, mass displacements, and forced migrations, Boudjikanian looks back at three humanitarian crises. In Chad, meet families displaced by massacres in the Darfur region of neighbouring Sudan, their ordeal still raw. In Rwanda, meet a people struggling with justice and reconciliation. And in Turkey, explore what it means to still be afraid a century after the author’s own ancestors were caught in the Armenian Genocide of 1915. Clear-eyed and compassionate, Boudjikanian breathes life into horrors that too often seem remote. Review This personal exploration of genocide asks important questions. ― Publishers Weekly Thought-provoking and candid, Journey through Genocide is a dark yet necessary contribution to public and college library World History and Holocaust Studies collections. ― Midwest Book Review As pleasurable a read as a book on stories of genocide could be... his tone is a measured one, a road that brings you to what he saw, but doesn't lavish on the gory details. ― The Eastern Door About the Author Raffy Boudjikanian is a national reporter with CBC Edmonton. He has worked as a journalist in a number of places around the world, from Nicaragua to France and Montreal. He lives in Edmonton. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. “In my language, your name means future,” I tell Abaka, my cab driver, staring at the dusty streets of N’Djamena through the cracks spread like a spider’s web across his four-door’s windshield. He nods and curves his lips up weakly underneath his black, pencil-thin moustache. Dressed in flowing robes, like several of his fellow taxi drivers waiting for travellers in need of a lift, Abaka picked me up from the airport upon my landing, and brought me to a hotel he recommended, which I suspect netted him a commission. Alone in standing above five storeys at the end of its dirt-road neighbourhood, the Chinese establishment Bei Fang looks over a relatively quiet block. Road traffic is scarce by day. By night, huddled masses of homeless gather around smaller buildings across the street. The hotel boasts a courteous staff, but places me in a third-floor room with a frequently malfunctioning AC unit, and charges like a veritable Best Western or Marriott for levels of service comparable to a bad youth hostel. The Wi-Fi has no reach beyond the main floor, though there’s some comfort there as I can freely lounge around a large conference room that is clearly meant for some sort of business-class clientele but remains mostly vacant throughout my stay; the TV displays a handful of channels in Arabic only, a language I do not speak or understand; and the proximity of the toilet bowl to the unenclosed shower in my cramped bathroom means I have to remember to move the toilet paper out of the water’s range before deciding to freshen up. It is better than the alternative: an online reservation I’d made at a hotel, which to this day I’m not sure exists, as calling it to confirm anything never yielded any results. I admit, though, that relying on a random stranger to safely bring me to a place to spend the night in the middle of a country where I did not know anyone was not the finest of contingency plans. In fact, during that original talk with Abaka, I fleetingly recall imagining that getting into the car of a stranger here was a fine way for a Westerner to get kidnapped. But the pickup area in front of the airport felt like an unlikely place to pull off such a stunt. Either that, or fatigue won out over pa
