Dispatches From the Front, the Rwandan War Comes to New Haven

Reading a Yale surgeon’s firsthand account of the war helped me understand the importance of promoting humanitarian efforts

Rwanda Sunrise, photo credit, Maxime Niyomwungeri

I looked up as John entered the shop, as he did most mornings on his way to the ER. A surgeon and clinical instructor at the Yale School of Medicine, he spent some quiet time sipping coffee and munching on an almond croissant.

John and I had been friends for a while, but our friendship deepened after a neighborhood party we attended. I’m guessing it might have had something to do with the Tequila Shot Game.

This morning, he looked pensive, and after a few sips of coffee, he proceeded to tell me about the decision he’d made to fly into Kigali, the capital of Rwanda — a country in a tribal war that had escalated into genocide.

He would perform surgeries at a Red Cross Field Hospital in a converted convent.

John said he felt he could give the Tutsis the help they needed. I thought it was madness.

“You’re going where?” My voice went up a few octaves.

I’ve signed up with “Doctors Without Borders,” he said. When he saw the look on my face, he added, “I know, my ex-girlfriend called them doctors without brains.”

“John, they’re slaughtering innocent Tutsis. It’s a bloodbath.” But he’d already decided.

“I will fly to Geneva, then Kigali,” he told me. “I’m leaving in a week.”

Kigali was a scary place when John arrived. The Red Cross Field Hospital was sitting on a hill overlooking the verdant hills of Rwanda. Before the war, Rwanda was the Switzerland of Africa. The comparison ended there.

Rwanda was torn apart by a brutal war between the government — Hutus, and the rebels — Tutsis. It was reported that 800,000 men, women, and children were killed within 100 days.

The Hutus didn’t fight with missiles, planes, or tanks. They fought with less sophisticated tools of war: mortars, spears, clubs, and machetes. They were less sophisticated but equally deadly.

John told me that he found a satellite fax and phone machine at the convent, so he began to send daily descriptions of the war. John was the only American in Rwanda because journalists and the media could not get in.

On his first day at the hospital, John told me there were 200 patients lying everywhere outside the clinic, with varying degrees of horrendous wounds. He was the only surgeon on their medical team, with only seven medical staff members and two operating rooms.

“At the end of the day, it was difficult to eat meat; thank God we found a wine cellar,” he quipped.

Rwanda, at Dusk. Photo Credit: Maxime Niyomwumgeri

Dispatches were piling up, so I created a binder simply titled “Rwanda.” I watched friends and customers read them, laughing one minute, with tears flowing the next. Many would poke their heads in as they walked by and asked, “How is Dr. John?”

Soon, news got out that a Yale Surgeon working at the epicenter of the war was faxing daily accounts to a tiny coffeehouse in New Haven. News agencies couldn’t or wouldn’t send in their journalists. That’s when news agencies descended upon Lulu’s.

One Saturday, during a busy morning rush, the phone rang. It was John. We talked for a few minutes, and the next thing I heard was a massive explosion. The phone connection died. With a line out the door, I turned, tears filling my eyes, and stared at the crowd. I couldn’t speak; I was in shock, trying to digest what had just occurred.

“Oh my god, Lulu, are you alright? What just happened?”

My throat was tight, tears flowing down my face, “It sounded as if a mortar just hit John’s hospital while we were talking. He might not have survived.”

“Oh no,” was the collective cry, “not Dr. John. Are you sure?”

I paced my apartment for an agonizing two days, then, on the third day, I picked up the phone to hear John say, “It was a mortar that hit the compound and knocked out the fax and phone, no injuries. Thankfully, the wine is safe.”

John’s faxes were so beautifully written that I approached Jack Hitt, a writer and customer. “Jack, you’ve got to read these.” He smiled and returned to his paper. A few days later, I said, “Jack, you need to look at these dispatches from John in Rwanda.”

He looked up and saw I was serious. He grabbed the folder. After taking a glance, he said, “Lu, these are amazing.” I rolled my eyes and said, “Yes, I know.”

He called his friend Paul Tough, an editor at Harper’s Magazine. The next edition of Harper’s carried John’s story, excerpts of the dispatches, and how it all began from a tiny coffeehouse in New Haven.

Flash: “A woman buried alive in a mass grave dug herself out after twelve hours. She’s pretty freaked out. I would be.”

1994, Field Hospital Kigali Photo Credit: Scott Peterson

Flash: “My replacement has arrived. I’ll be phasing out the next few days and leaving for Nairobi.”

“My dispatches end now- I have loved this satellite highway, and you have been most good to listen to my blah, blah, blah about the falling sky— Kigali.”

“Where the sky meets the earth, heaven meets hell, and you have met me — Love, John.

Lulu Photo, The shirt John wore while in Rwanda

When John arrived home, he stayed with me for a week for some much-needed R&R. He told me he was fine, but I knew he wasn’t. It’s impossible to erase those images of carnage. He couldn’t settle.

John and I were close friends. We spent a lot of time together enjoying each other’s company, but we always knew that entering a physical relationship would be a disaster.

Early in our friendship, we spent a whole day together. We stopped at a schoolyard on the way home, where he pushed me on a swing. We got ready to leave we hugged lovingly. He told me he loved being with me and wished he could be the kind of partner I deserved.

I told John, “You already are. I love you and our friendship just the way it is. We are loving friends; we have a perfect relationship.

Our friends wanted to see him, so we decided to host an event so they could view his photos. Some of the images were otherworldly beautiful, others unimaginably gruesome. He gave an excellent talk. Afterward, we ate some lovely food and drank wine. Being around friends and the event helped him heal. I still worry about him all these years later, but in worrying about John, I didn’t realize how much the stress of that time also took its toll on me.

As I was writing this story, my body began to shake. Traumas that aren’t dealt with pile up and stratify.

In writing this, I recalled the horrors of the dispatches I’d read and the images I’d seen. Back then, I didn’t have anywhere to put my heartache, and that pain has stayed with me until today.

Despite what we know about the atrocities in Rwanda in 1994, genocide continues in parts of the world today. We must elect leaders who prioritize genocide prevention as a moral, political, and economic imperative.

Though I did not have the direct experience of my friend John, reading his dispatches and fearing for his life provided me with a perspective I’ll never forget. Nobody should have to experience the terror of genocide.

I understand how important it is to promote a humanitarian ideology. Together, we must work for a world that displays the appropriate reverence for the value of human life.