Many Trees, Many Hearts

Butare, Rwanda (photo credit: FORA)

For the past three years I have read the commemorative poem at the Friends of Rwanda Annual Memorial event. The first time I wrote the poem (which took half a night), I entitled it "A Tree Grows in Rwanda",but I was aware that the title was not original, as there is a novel entitled A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which I had not read. I wanted to capture the image of a tree, which represented a message of hope and the regenerative power of life. Commemorating the loss of life, the poem was born as a celebration of new life, new possibilities.

Since its conception, the poem has undergone revision in preparation for each reading, and this year I deleted the last stanza, which conveyed the message that hope will die the day trees decide to stop growing. I thought this message had already become apparent in the previous stanzas. One reader, however, has requested that I put it back, which I am considering, but after thorough scrutiny of every word in the stanza.

The poem was recently featured in the Rwanda Sunday Times, which also reported on the Friends of Rwanda event where I read the latest version of the poem.

And here is the poem:

Many Trees, Many Hearts

By Emmanuel Sigauke

Even when hope was locked in slumber,
When no eyes could bear the sight of misery
When flames of conflict celebrated stolen victory
When no foot walked on the paths of memory,
When the brave hearts coasted to a halt,
A tree still grew, a tree grew in Kigali.

A tree in Butare, a tree scribbling stories
This tree, bending under the weight of memory,
Still grins when the sun rises, when it hears
Songs of happiness and voices that weave new dreams.
This tree grows, it grows in Butare.

A tree in Gitarama, sways in the wind,
Whistles to the dove who builds a nest
With a hundred twigs—here life buds,
Blooms and grows feathers of hope;
Once ready, the young doves
Will carry a million leaves above the mountains
And across the plains; a million little leaves,
The scrolls of a new day of unity and forgiveness.
A tree grows, a tree grows in Gitarama.

A tree in Kibuye, a tree with a hundred memories
A tree abundant with new fruits, ripening;
Fruits to feed more than a million mouths
Fruits to heal the wounds of history
Fruits to fill stomachs of anticipation,
Because history, once mystery, if now a fig tree.
A tree grows, a tree grows in Kibuye.

A tree grows in FORA—
You are its branches
Whose core of hope defies
Time’s hundred pneumatic drills.
A tree grows, a tree grows in FOR A
A tree whose leaves are the weight of memory.


The stanza that I removed from the poem is as follows:

Even hills in Rwanda know
That hope wilts
only when
trees stop to grow.