Good morning… or perhaps good afternoon, Mama.

My name is Jean Bizimana, and I am your son.

I believe our last meeting was in 1994, during the terrible Genocide against the Tutsi. I understand it may be difficult for you to recognize me now, but I have enclosed my picture so you may remember me. I hope, if possible, that you can send me your pictures and perhaps pictures of my relatives. I am writing because my heart longs for you, because I have questions that only you can answer, and because I want to tell you who I have become, after we were separated.

I was only two or three years old when I lost you. Some kind souls brought me to Madam Roz Carr’s orphanage, where I lived for eighteen years. Roz loved us all fiercely, giving me whatever I needed, and introducing me to Through the Eyes of Children (T.T.E.C.), where I discovered photography from the age of eight or nine until I was nineteen. Photography has shaped my life; it gave me purpose, direction, and hope.

At the orphanage, I was cared for by Mukamurugo Immaculée, who loved me as I loved her. Her children were my friends, and her care became a second family to me. She passed away in 2008, and I remember feeling that immense sorrow that only the loss of a mother can bring. I also regret that I never apologized to Roz directly for my teenage mistakes before her passing in 2006. Her death left us all uncertain, as the new leaders of the orphanage did not show the same love and understanding she had given.

When the orphanage closed, I had no family to return to. There was no neighbor, no relative to guide me. At twenty years old, it is not easy for anyone to take in a young man. But a kind family, whom I had known for eight years, opened their hearts to me. We first met when I was taking pictures outside the orphanage and was punished for leaving without permission. Over time, I visited them every Saturday, learning to know them, and their children came to visit me at the orphanage. I was one of the first five children to enter the orphanage and one of the last five to leave.

Living with that family was not easy at first, but the mother, who had known me since 2005, persuaded her children, her husband, relatives, and friends to welcome me as her own. Living with them taught me patience, tolerance, forgiveness, respect, and love. These lessons reminded me of all the things I missed by not growing up with my family.

In 2013, I moved to Kigali to continue my university studies. Finding a place to live was difficult. The students I had grown up with at the orphanage were unwilling to live with me, so I stayed with my adoptive uncle, who also helped me find work. Even now, I still speak regularly with my adoptive mother. She sends me food, kitchen supplies, and once asked if I had a girlfriend, promising that they would help me. When I told them I did, everyone rejoiced, and my sisters asked to meet her so that they could be friends and support me.

Today, I am an independent photojournalist and photography instructor at T.T.E.C., teaching orphans and children from foster homes across Rwanda and beyond. I also freelance for Reuters News Agency. Photography is not only my profession—it is my way of giving back, of honoring those who nurtured me when I was young.

Mother, I have lived many years without you, and yet I carry your presence in my heart. I have questions I hope you can answer:

When was I born? I was told I was born in 1992 at the orphanage.

What are my given names? Currently, I go by Jean Bizimana. “Bizimana” means “God knows my life.” “Jean” was chosen by my classmates in the sixth grade from a list of Christian names I provided.

Where are we from? I tell people I am from the orphanage because that is where I grew up, but I long to know my true birthplace.

What were our names? I currently say my father’s name is Gasi Jean Damascene, after my adoptive father, and my adoptive mother’s name is Mukashema Angelique. Not knowing my biological parents’ names made it difficult when the International Committee of the Red Cross tried to find my family.

Mother, living without you has taught me the irreplaceable value of a mother’s love. No one can ever take your place. Writing this letter after twenty-seven years of separation is both my longing and my hope—to share my life with you, to express my feelings, and to seek peace in my heart. I also hope that my story can help other children who, like me, were separated from their parents, showing them that life can still hold love, hope, and purpose.

Thank you, Mother. Please greet those around you for me. I pray that God grants you and Father peace.

Your son,
Jean Bizimana

"To learn more about this project, please visit: https://www.magnumfoundation.org/a-letter-to-my-parents-jean-bizimana"