Today we saw some of life in the city of Kigali, Rwanda. We started off the day at an African church. Concrete floors, plastic chairs, moveable sound system - and, really, after what we’ve seen this past week, it felt very advanced! We each got our very own interpreter as we had been a bit lax and slept past the English service at 8:00. The African speaker for the day was a traveling pastor named Willy who loved to shout “Hallelujah!” and tell funny stories. Parts of which we understood. There was a little girl in a beautiful dress who before and after the service held my hand. She didn’t really say anything; she just walked up and picked me as the special white girl who got to hold her hand. The service ended after less than 2 ½ hours (which rather surprised me, as I’ve heard how long African church services can be), and we went to spend a short while being very touristy at a local craft market, then ate out at a delicious, though I think rather Western, restaurant.
And then came the hardest part of the trip thus far. This afternoon we visited the Rwandan Genocide Memorial.
Brief history lesson. In the mid-1990's, Rwanda endured 100 days of unspeakable terror as one tribal group ferociously attempted to annihilate the other one. Hutus vs. Tutsis - and the two groups had been so closely bonded previously that it was literally neighbor killing neighbor, father killing son, husband killing wife. I remember in the mountains at Gisenyi some of the kids - Peter included - saying that they had lost parents, siblings, or both in the genocide. At the time they were just a line of rather sad words - but not anymore. Now I’ve seen the pictures; I’ve read the stories; I’ve heard the voices of people who were actually there and somehow survived. The soldiers went from village to village, house to house . . . and if they found a Tutsi, they would beat, rape, mutilate, burn, and ultimately kill.
These are some of their stories . . . A boy was left, so badly beaten he was unable to walk, for two days in the bush - left to agonize, left alone - and then they came back and killed him. Another boy had to run for his life as his friend, whose legs had been disabled, was shot to death on the road behind him. A church was bulldozed, by order of the priest, with hundreds of refugees locked inside. Others were thrown, still alive, into mass graves - some 10 bodies deep - and covered with stones until their screams were silenced. Men known to have AIDS raped any Tutsi women they could find to infect them with the disease. People in neighboring Uganda saw dead bodies floating down the river. An orphanage here in Kigali hid 400 refugees in the rafters, under the beds, in toilets until the 100 days of terror were over. This is Gisimba, the place we get to go and work this coming week. When the soldiers came to the orphanage to separate the Hutus from the Tutsis, the children refused to split up. Their headmaster had told them they were all brothers and sisters, and they believed him. The streets - the very streets I have walked, the streets teeming with chatting people and rushing boda-bodas - they said these very streets 14 years ago were empty. Silent. Even the birds did not sing.
This was the Rwandan genocide. I met people - I spoke with people - I laughed and shared and played with people whose family members died this way. Dear God, how my heart bled for them! For Peter - for Paul - for the man with the unpronounceable name who played my guitar. I see the colorful streets of Kigali - I remember the captivating village nestled in the breathtaking mountains . . . and I cannot imagine them filled with blood. I cannot imagine the terror - the sorrow - the silence. How You must have wept over them. Dear God, how Your heart must have burst to welcome those suffering children into the peace of Your everlasting arms. The babies that were crammed into pots and beaten to death. Dear God, how did You stand it? Seeing each tear, understanding each terrified heartbeat, hearing each agonized cry? This is why Your Son died, yes? Because of the agony Jesus suffered, we never have to be in torment alone. They did not die alone . . . but it is hard to accept the way they died.
I do not know what Your purpose was in bringing me here, my Lord. But I ask You to show me - lead me to the place You have prepared that everything I have to give might be used - poured out - given up gladly. For the sake of the children and for the glory of Your name. Amen.
