The other night I hung out with a young African student. His English wasn't the best, but we communicated just fine. For a second I forgot who I was speaking with and asked him what his parents did. My German friend who was there quickly reminded me that you don't ask what the parents do here. Many kids don't have any.

The mayor had his driver pick me up first thing yesterday morning. On my way to see him, we took a detour to see a small church. Now a memorial for those massacred there, nearly 5,000, most of whom were women and children, who sought protection when they had nowhere to run.

Today when you visit the church, you will find the remains of hundreds of bones stacked on shelves. The clothes they were wearing all hung along the side wall. A trunk of their possessions, including homework and identity cards showing they were Tutsi. Fragment holes in the roof from grenades. Blood stains on the wall. In the corner, machetes and blunt weapons used to finish off those who survived the explosions. Out back in the churches storage unit, burn marks, where a man was bound inside a mattress and set on fire. An empty Sunday school room. Again, more blood stains on the wall.

They took me to the mayor. He set me up with an English speaking director, and they showed me many things throughout the day. That afternoon I visited the Rafiki foundation where they are in the process of building a Children's Village which, when finished, will house 240 children and twice a year provide medical treatment to the community.

I asked the mayor if it would be a problem to fill this many houses with orphans. He chuckled. "This isn't the problem. The problem is picking out which ones get to move in." In the Bugasara district alone, there are at least 1,500 orphans caused by the genocide. All of them need help.