This is a letter to my mother, written after 27 years of separation. It is a story of loss, love, and resilience — of a child who grew up without his family but found strength, purpose, and identity through the kindness of others and the power of photography.

Good morning, or good afternoon — wherever you are.
My name is Jean Bizimana, and I am your son.

The last time we met was in 1994, during the Genocide against the Tutsi. I understand it may be hard to recognize me after all these years, but with this letter, I’m sending you a picture — hoping it might awaken a memory, a face from the past, a heartbeat you once knew. I wish I could also receive your photograph, and maybe those of our relatives, to fill the missing spaces in my story.

I write to you because nostalgia weighs on my heart, because questions still live in me, and because I want you to know who I have become since life separated us.

I was only a small child — perhaps two or three years old — when I lost you. Good people brought me to Madam Carr Orphanage, where I lived for eighteen years. The founder, Roz Carr, loved me deeply. She gave me what I needed and opened a door that changed my life forever: she introduced me to the organization Through the Eyes of Children (TTEC), where I learned photography from the age of eight. It became my voice, my compass, my way of surviving and telling stories.

Roz also found me a caretaker, Mukamurugo Immaculée, who became a second mother to me. She loved me as her own until her death in 2008. I still remember the mistakes I made as a teenager — how they hurt Roz — and I regret never having the chance to apologize before she passed in 2006. Her death left many of us adrift, uncertain of the future without her warmth. Those who replaced her did not love us as she did.

When the orphanage closed, I was among the last five children to leave. It was a painful time. I had no family waiting, no home to go to. But a family who had lived nearby — people I met while taking photos — opened their doors and hearts to me. The mother of that family convinced everyone, even her relatives and friends, that adopting me was the right thing to do. From them, I learned patience, forgiveness, respect, and love — lessons I had never known.

In 2013, I moved to Kigali for university. It was difficult at first; I struggled to find a place to stay. Some of my old friends from the orphanage refused to live with me. But my adoptive uncle welcomed me and helped me find work. I still speak often with my adoptive mother — she sends me food, kitchen utensils, and motherly advice. When I told her I had a girlfriend, she rejoiced and told me they were ready to meet her. Her love made me realize how deeply I missed yours.

Today, I am an independent photojournalist and photography instructor with Through the Eyes of Children, teaching orphans and children from foster homes around the world. Photography gave me purpose — it became my way to give back, to honor the kindness that shaped me. I also work as a freelance contributor for Reuters News Agency, documenting the lives and resilience of others.

Mother, I have carried your absence all my life. I am writing to tell you that every woman who cared for me — Roz, Immaculée, my adoptive mother — reminded me of you. Their tenderness, their courage, their strength — they became reflections of the love I never knew but always felt somewhere beyond reach.

And I have questions that only you can answer:

• When was I born? The orphanage recorded my birth year as 1992, but I want to know the truth.

• What is my real name? I named myself Jean Bizimana — Bizimana means “God knows my life.” Jean was chosen for me by classmates in sixth grade. But what name did you whisper when you first held me?

• Where are we from? I always say I’m from the orphanage’s village, because it’s all I’ve known. But my heart longs to know the soil where my story began.

• What are your names and my father’s? I tell people my father’s name is Gasi Jean Damascene, after my adoptive father, and my mother’s name is Mukashema Angélique. Yet I yearn to know yours — the names that should have anchored me.

Growing up without you, I often wondered what is lost when a child grows without a mother’s love. I learned that a mother’s presence is irreplaceable — no hand, no heart can ever fill that space.

Perhaps this letter will never reach you. But still, I needed to write it — to share my journey, to tell you that your son grew up, that he became a man who tells stories of others so that his own may find peace. Through these words, I hope to heal the silence between us and transform my longing into compassion for other children who, like me, grew up without the embrace of their parents.

Wherever you are, I send you peace — and to my father too.
May God keep you both in light and memory.

With love,
Your son,
Jean Bizimana