The Story of Pellina and Malakia

I’ve realized there is no better way to convey the stories and lessons I’ve learned than to let them speak for themselves. The following blog post is a direct transcript of our interview that was recorded with permission to share. For the people who radically transform everything I thought I understood of forgiveness, reconciliation and love, I pray this honors them as they continue to teach the world through their words. 

Meet Pellina, a survivor who was orphaned during the genocide

“When the genocide took place, I was a Christian. And when the genocide took place, people were killed and I didn’t die—I was saved. So I said to myself, “What God has done for me, it’s so, so huge, its so big. I survived in the genocide.” I realized that those who have been killed in the genocide are the creation of God, and I am also the creation of God, and even those who have killed are the creation of God…I used to read the Bible and the Bible told me that God hates sin but He loves the sinners. I said, “Even though these people have done all these messes, God has always loved them.” So I said to myself that I am going to forgive them as a sign of thanking God that I survived. And it was very difficult for me to give them forgiveness because they were in prison. In my church, we had a program for the choir where we sang and visited prisoners. So I would go with the choir and meet the perpetrators, and always I would tell them I have forgiven them.

I started telling this story of forgiving perpetrators to my relatives, those who survived. My siblings were still young, one was 7 and another was 10. I told them, “Please come and forgive those men who killed our parents.” I told them, “Our parents, relatives and siblings have died. But these perpetrators are the ones we’re remaining with, so we must forgive them so we can remain together.”

I have forgiven Malakia to the point that every good act I do on the offender’s behalf so he can feel free to come here—I have tried my best so that he can feel free. When you forgive, everything is possible. Not only for Malakia,  but also [the other people who offended us] come to our home and we drink and eat without any fear. People in the community used to tell me, “[These men] will bewitch you, why do you visit those families?” And I told those people, “I have forgiven them, we have reconciled so they will not do any harm to me. If God protected me in the genocide, He will protect me now.”

We are not supposed to continue in sorrow and pain because of what happened in the genocide. There are people who don’t have parents for reasons other than the genocide. You can live without parents and siblings because we have God. That’s why we should not continue to live in sorrow—because there are still other orphans.”

Meet Malakia, one of her offenders

I offended Pellina during the genocide. I was the leader in this small neighborhood. At the time of the genocide, which was very terrible period, this woman was not yet married. Some of the young people in the group I was leading wanted to come here to kill this lady. And they asked me, “We can’t go anywhere without you.” So we came and Pellina was hiding here—in this house—and we came searching for her. Good enough, we didn’t find her. She was around here, but we couldn’t find her, so we went. But if we could have seen her, she was supposed to die.

After genocide, I realized she didn’t die and that she was still alive. When she saw me, she was very angry. Imagine seeing someone who was going to kill you! At that time I went to prison in May 1996. I spent 6 years there. The time I went in prison, she came to the prison where I was. She was a Christian at that time. She asked the leadership of the jail to release me. They called me and when I saw her, I was afraid. And I thought, “Why is she calling me? Maybe they are going to beat me!” But she said, “Please come!” I came very afraid.

When we approached each other, she immediately hugged me. And she told me, “I have called you just to greet you and to tell you that I have forgiven you. In the name of Jesus I forgive you.” And when I received that news, my body automatically changed. I felt electricity current go through my body and the burden was released. Then, they prayed for me…Now, we have a good relationship.  

Too much.

I’ve been loving a very small God. The love I thought I understood from God is not enough to make sense of the stories I heard this week. 

I’ve started the interview part of my research for CARSA where I have the unbelievable opportunity to talk with genocide survivors and their perpetrators (the men who killed the survivor's family, tried to kill them, or destroyed their property). In a word, it was just too much. 

(Warning, although I don't go into much detail, these stories might be disturbing)

I found myself being served tea by a genocide survivor in the house of the man that tried to kill her. During the genocide she was thrown in a pit with 300 dead bodies where she spent 3 days. Today, as she prepared African tea with the milk from the cow mooing 5 feet from the door, the perpetrator’s wife prepared the biggest platter of cassava and beans for my coworkers and I. We sang the only song I could start in Kinyarwanda, appropriately about God being there for the broken heart. Then we stood and held hands, praying as the most confusingly beautifully tragic group of people . I looked around at the collection of people and thought their stories, their reconciliation, their hospitality…this is too much.

I found myself physically nauseous as a 21-year-old boy (same age as me) explained that during the genocide he was thrown against the wall and believed to have been dead, which is how he survived. The 16 members of his family that were killed are buried in a memorial 500 feet from his house now. The man who took part in the killings joyfully greeted us at the boy’s house where we met him working along side the boy in the field. In fact, when I first saw them together, I assumed the boy was the man’s son. Later out of hearing range from the man, the boy explained how difficult it is to see his perpetrator everyday since it resurfaces the boy's trauma. We gave the perpetrator and the boy’s mom a ride to the market. I sighed in relief when I didn’t have to sit next to the man who threw a 1 year old against the wall. That is until I realized the 1 year olds mother was the one sitting next to him. The boy’s trauma, the mother’s ability to forgive, the sickening images in my mind, this is all too much.

The memorial is pictured above and the roof to the left is the boy's house

I found myself taking a candid picture of a woman and a teenage girl with their arms around each other laughing. This wouldn’t be all that bizarre until you learn that the woman is the wife of the man that destroyed the girl's house and stole all their belongings during the genocide. To this day, the girl’s mom suffers sickness and injuries from the beating she suffered in the forest less than a mile from where we stood. During the genocide, the mom was still breast feeding her twins, only one of which survived. The picture shows the surviving twin and the perpetrator's wife at the man’s house, less than 500 feet from where the woman lived during the genocide. Before the genocide they were all close friends and neighbors; the survivor mom even considered him her son. After the genocide, the woman turned the man into prison. But his wife maintained a close friendship with the woman. Through the perpetrator’s wife, the families have stayed close friends and now the survivor says the man is earning her trust again as he faithfully prepares to care for the cow they will share. The close relationship, the slow progress in rebuilding trust, the hospitality of the perpetrator’s wife, the conflicting feels of hate and humility swirling inside me, it’s all too much.
*Correction from an earlier version which said the man raped the girl's mom. A correction was made that he did not rape her, he destroyed her house and all her belongings. 

The survivor's house is 500 feet to the left of this
well which is 300 feet to the left of the man's house

I found myself in tears as the wife of a perpetrator tells me about her dedication to right the wrongs of her husband. Her husband, who took part in killing the survivor’s dad, died in prison in 1997. When he died, his wife was left not only with the debt of his family but also with the debt of what he did in the genocide. She sold all her property to try to repay the damage to the survivors and dedicated her life to asking for their forgiveness. Now, she is best friends with the survivors. I can’t express how loving their families are. Her conviction, her self sacrifice, his forgiveness, its all too much.

To be honest, I don’t get it. Reconciliation was one thing when people could be neatly labeled as “survivor” or “perpetrator,” but my ability to understand anything died somewhere between telling the man who smashed a baby’s head on the wall “God bless you” and receiving the incredible hospitality in the house of a man who tried to kill his neighbor.

I find myself asking, so where is the injustice in these stories? Is it in the affects of the genocide that survivors are still suffering every day 20 years later? Or is it in the fact that the men who are directly responsible for their suffering have been forgiven and now are free to live in God’s love? Or is it in my own heart that can’t bare the thought of the perpetrator’s receiving the same amount of God’s grace and love that I do?

But these are questions that come from a person who only understands a small part of God's love. The love I saw working in these people's lives is radical. It's transformative for both the rape victim and the murderer.  It points to a bigger God than I thought possible. I believe God has blessed these people with a deeper understanding of a bigger love than I might ever realize. But I can testify to this, that love is worth chasing. I’m so thankful God loves me, but through these people’s lives I saw just how big that love really is. In fact, it's too much. 

After an interview we found the kids of the survivor's
family and of the perpetrator's  family playing cards
together. You couldn't tell which family they belonged to.

The wife of the survivor leads the wife of the perpetrator
to the perpetrator's home. 

Hand in hand, a survivor and his offender inspect the cow shed
that will house the cow they are excited to share

Lessons from an excellent teacher

I started this blog to ask myself what am I learning from the land of a thousand hills? So today, past the half waypoint, I answer.

1.     A person’s a person, no matter how [different]. My supervisor told me at the beginning of my internship to look for the things that connect us as humans, instead of focusing on the differences. I’ve learned this is a discipline, a way of living. It’s too easy to see the differences. In fact, I pretty much signed up for Anthro 101 to learn about differences. But I’m realizing beauty is shown best in the similarities. As an American it seems like an impossible question to consider what I have in common with genocide survivors and perpetrators. But meeting and hearing their stories, I realize they are people who have loved immensely, suffered horribly, and continue to hope unconditionally. Our connection is more a teacher-student relationship in the big lesson of self-sacrificing love.

2.     The best solutions come from crazy ideas and a lot of faith. When I tell people about CARSA’s Cow for Peace program, they always said “a ‘what’ for peace?” It would never occur to me that a cow would be the single defining thing that strengthens the process of reconciliation. But that’s because I’m not Rwandese (as wonderful as that would be), so I don’t understand the social implications of owning a cow or the incredibly extensive work that taking care of a cow is. Programs like this are why I’m learning from Rwandese leaders and visionaries, because their dreams are more beautiful than I could have dreamed up on my own.

3.      Life carries on in the best and worst ways. Sometimes it feels like when I came to Rwanda the world decided to blow up.  I never realized how distant the news felt until I saw how people live it every day. The same thing goes for anything I’ve learned about poverty and reconciliation. It’s one thing in a textbook and another when it’s your friend. My place in the world feels a little less isolated in comfort now that there are faces of friends who have lived the headlines, instead of read them.

4.     Family is a beautiful thing. The word is applied much more broadly but with much more weight here. In America, my family is my parents and my sisters. It is also my extended family of wonderful aunts and uncles and cousins. But here, my family is the people who love me because I am a human being, a foreigner who needs to be taken in under their compassionate wing.

 

Family, in all its definitions

I’ve learned so much more, both the big and the small. Like, don’t attempt to say good afternoon to a nice old woman you meet on the street cause you might accidentally tell her she’s a beautiful man instead. But this is a little thing. 

In all these things, I see beauty. I see it in my lowest moments when I'm trying not to show the house help how much I miss home, but they see my tears and force feed me sugar cane to make me feel better.  I see it in the moments of pure joy as I’m driving through landscapes I’ve only seen in National Geographic. Mostly I see it in the beauty of people who love in the purest reflection of God’s grace. Rwanda, you make an excellent teacher. 

RAINBOW.

A Different Kind of Reconciliation

I wake up to my 2 and 4 year old siblings screaming and wailing, probably demanding more honey on their bread or a different colored shirt to wear. I look at my clock: 6:30am. That means my body has finally overcome the roosters crowing that began at 4:30 but that my host parents have been up since 5:00 when my siblings impatiently entered their room, demanding to hear how the night was.

I go to the bathroom to wash my face. No water. No problem, it makes little difference to me. The only difference is that my bucket shower will be lukewarm today instead of ice cold, so I’m actually relieved. Still I know Valence, the security boy who has been up all night patrolling the compound, has been carrying buckets of water up the giant hill so that my face can be washed. I’ve him sleep at most a few hours during the day, working tirelessly the other 20 hours for his 1$ a day salary.

On my way to work, I walk down the hill to the valley where some men wash cars at the start of the day. Sure enough, a large group of people is gathered around the water pipe flowing into the stream to fill their yellow buckets of water for a days worth of washing clothes and cooking. I pass through. The old men greet me in French, the young greet me in English, and the ones who’ve seen me enough to know I prefer Kinyarwanda will greet me with “muraho” or “mwaramutse.”

A group of children in matching blue uniforms and blue crocks pass me. Their parents were able to afford school fees this year, I think. They usher a polite “Good morning.” Later this evening at 6:00pm they’ll use the same greeting, thinking it is irrelevant to time. On my way up the massive wall of a hill I pass by a different group of children in old, brown, torn clothes carrying up buckets of water that I shamefully realize are 4 times the weight of my backpack. No money for school fees. I think about how their day will be full of manual labor as they help their family, while mine will be sitting at a desk while another boy who couldn’t afford school fees makes my lunch for me.

I pass through the last part of the “neighborhood” area. Houses surrounded by high walls and metal gates indicate the typical middle class home in Kigali, just like mine on the other side of the hill. In between are shacks of houses with narrow passageways glued together from last night’s rain. Women sew outside their in-home shops while chickens and roosters take the term “free-range” to a whole new level (to this day I have no clue how these chickens are fed or how they know to stay in one place, but they apparently have a complex system of claiming their territory in Kigali).

I cross the street that suddenly becomes paved and enter NGO Row (my term), the perfectly kept mile-long stretch that is home to every NGO on earth: World Vision, Care International, Partners in Health and more. This road runs parallel to the slightly busier Embassy Row. These two streets are the reason this hill has fewer blackouts and less days without water. This is where the money is.

Someone once referred to Kigali as the “Disney Land of Africa.” Walk down NGO row and it is. Spend thousands on a gorilla safari and it really is. Find all the ex-pats at the local coffee shop and you can be convinced it is. Still, poverty coexists with wealth, and need is apparent among luxury. In fact, for most middle-income houses with house help, poverty lives among the wealthy. 

I was explaining the concept of house girls to my parents in America and how they all come from poor families in the village. My dad asked, “What’s their way out?” I thought about it. I thought about Josephine, our house girl in charge of cooking and cleaning and my best friend here (I’ve learned friendship does not require a shared language). She is an orphan from the genocide and possibly AIDS as well, and has never gone to school in her life, although she is the brightest person I’ve ever met. In the villages, there’s been a shift where the girl’s family has to pay the boy’s family her dowry, instead of the traditional method of the boy paying her family. So for Josephine, I wonder how she’ll ever save enough money to pay for her dowry on her 1$ a day salary and no parents to help pay.

In America, our hope for the poor to have a better life is in the idea of opportunity. So what about Josephine? Her life will continue to be paid for through hard labor. On the other hand, my host parents were refugees 20 years ago and hopeless after the genocide, but now have a house, 2 kids and decent jobs. It seems the American Dream has found a way to reside in Rwanda next to poor, just as it does in America.  

Technically, I’m supposed to be “giving up” my white, wealthy, American privilege, but instead it just follows me wherever I go. This privilege is the shadow that accompanies the blessing of a good education and supportive parents. I don't have to take care of babies at 5am, I don't have to haul my own water from the valley stream, and I don't have to leave my family's home to work 24/7 in another family's home without a day off.

I will always desire more comfort. I still find myself dreaming of when I’ll come back to America. But I will never be satisfied unless I start making some serious mental changes, and even then I need God's grace for the strength to do so. So I choose to accept the life God has given me now. I choose thankfulness in the small things and praise for the big things. I choose to make efforts to reach beyond the comforts of Kigali and befriend the unexpected, knowing Jesus left his sweet home in heaven to befriend beggars and prostitutes.

Physically, I don't live in poverty in Rwanda. But everyday I realize that while it is incredible to witness reconciliation post-genocide here in Rwanda, God’s transformation in my life begins with reconciling my own poverty of spirit.

The walk home from the office

Lessons from Kenya

I’ve learned that in an African accent, “Kayla” sounds a lot like “killer.” Try it: “kayla…kehlah….ki-lah.” When I introduce myself, it's not uncommon for the other person's eyes to get really big as they take a step back, clarifying the pronunciation. Kenyans especially have a really difficult time with my name, often saying, “eh, your name is very hard on my lips” as soon as they hear it.

~~~~~~~

This past week I was invited to attend a forum in Nairobi, Kenya for leaders who are using the “Healing Wounds of Ethnic Conflict” workshop to promote reconciliation throughout Kenya. This is the same workshop that my organization in Rwanda uses. There were 35 men and women from all over Kenya who have been working extremely hard to bring peace and healing in their communities where ethnic conflict is the root of many tensions and violent clashes (most notably the post-election violence in 2007).

Kenya has 42 different tribes, each with its own language. I started thinking about the richness of all these languages and cultures. One lunch conversation in particular demonstrated the joy of celebrating our identities as a Kelenjin man joked that his Luo friend was Obama’s cousin (Luos are the tribe Obama’s family apparently comes from), while he got teased back for having “gold metals” as feet due to his tribes fame in the Olympics for winning running events.

Unfortunately, life isn’t always like this in Kenya where cultural differences bring people together. Many Kenyans described to me the incredible tensions felt among people, especially with troubles with political leaders using their own agendas to gain power. For Kenyans, elections don’t mean democracy; they mean violence.

But I see Kenya as very, very blessed.

I think back to America and its origins. America wasn’t always “muzungu land” (only white people). And in fact it still isn’t, but that’s a different conversation for another time. My Kenyan friend told me America is known here as the land of opportunities. But I asked myself, who actually gets to benefit from these opportunities?

Before the Europeans came, America was like Kenya. There were different tribes, different languages, and many different cultures. But when the Europeans came (missionaries, trappers, explorers, etc), Native Americans were killed in many different ways and forced on small plots of land designated theirs. And many of those languages were lost.

Switch back to Kenya. The British came and colonized and from what I understand, did a lot of harm to Kenyans who are still suffering today. But Kenyans retained their languages and their cultures and their identities. Unfortunately, due to corruption, jealousy, pride, and various other characteristics of humans, these differences have brought violence to Kenya where God intended peace.

All my Kenyan mammas

But still I see Kenya as blessed. I see strong people who love their country. I see young leaders using their interests and talents to bring healing where there has been destruction and hope when people feel unable. I see glimpses of heaven where every tribe and tongue will praise God united through His creation of diversity.

America is blessed in many ways as well. I cannot deny my American-ness because it has been a part of shaping me into who I am today. But I mourn for the cultures and languages lost today that were sacrificed so that one day, we would be known as “the land of opportunity.”

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The same Kalenge friend told me that if you switch the “y” and “l” in my name, it becomes Kalya, which means “peace” in Kalenge, the mother tongue of his tribe.  How ironic that in an American accent, I am killer. But in the richness of the many languages in Kenya, I am peace. Let us never forget the beauty of entering in another language than our own.

I took this at the animal orphanage
we visited to understand reconciliation with
creation (most of the participants had never been able to
see the animals that tourists come to Kenya to experience).
I'm only adding it because I thought
the monkey was hilarious