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.

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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

Witnessing Miracles

I’ve never been in the same room as a murder before.

Two nights ago I had a nightmare that the genocide was happening again here and I had to hide my host siblings under the bed, holding my breath as me and my sister watched the footsteps of killers search for us.

I woke up and for a second felt the relief begin to rush in as it usually does when you realize your nightmare isn’t real. But then the relief stopped and my heart felt panic again because I realize that not only did this nightmare actually happen, but it happened for 100 long, horrifying days…to people I know and love.

That morning I went to my first reconciliation and trauma-healing workshop in the village. The workshop is for both perpetrators and survivors of the genocide. I didn’t see perpetrator and survivor as such, I saw the effects of the genocide; a machete scar on a man’s forehead, down cast eyes, over labored bodies from living in poverty. 

The next day, my coworker explained to the participants how in order to stop the cycle of bitterness and hate; we can do good things for others (basically overcome evil with love). A very old woman sitting next to my coworker began to speak.

She addressed the man sitting across from her, identifying him as the man who killed her father in the genocide (and we think maybe her husband as well). She told him, “You have never, ever asked me for forgiveness. But now, I want to declare you are forgiven as a gift to you. Yesterday, I was uncomfortable seeing you were here with me. But then I noticed in your face that you were starting to change. And this morning we talked about how our first identity is in God, not in ethnicity. So I give you forgiveness.”

It was amazing. I actually had no idea what was going on at the time, but I knew something big was happening. My coworker translated for me later. The man, her offender, is planning to bring her a gardening hoe tomorrow as a surprise gift and all the participants are eager to see her reaction.

I looked at this man knowing what he did 20 years ago. I see the other men and only imagine what they did as well. But I can’t see them as murders, because they aren’t anymore. That’s how amazing reconciliation is. It declares murders are no longer criminals anymore; they are human beings.

I’ve never been in a room of murders before. Jesus died on the cross for all sin and all pain without his offenders ever asking forgiveness. This woman understood that, and experiencing God’s reconciliation for herself, she overcame evil with good.  Thanks to this woman, I don’t ever have to say I shook the hand of a murder. I shook the hand of a friend.

A Light to the Nations

I’ve been really hesitant in writing about the genocide. Mostly because the genocide has so many facets to it, and I fear that I will only paint one side of the story. Even more, I don’t want to confirm the idea that Rwanda is only defined by the genocide. But the reality is that you can’t understand and fully appreciate the miraculous work of reconciliation in Rwanda without understanding the horror of the genocide.

There’s a lot of history involved with understanding the genocide. A LOT. There’s political aspects, social aspects, spiritual aspects…a lot. I’ve researched the history leading up to the genocide for hours and hours back in the States, and here I’ve probably spent even more time in discussion with people who lived through its history. And yet I’m still learning something new in every conversation.

It’s impossible to capture all of it in a blog post, mostly because I can’t even begin to understand it. So I’ll give you the highlights of what I’ve learned; what has been the most shocking and the most surprising.

1). The genocide did not spontaneously appear. Ethnic tensions are not apart of Rwanda’s history before colonialism. Belgian missionaries came to preach the gospel; unfortunately they were affected by their own perceptions of ethnic stereotypes from their own context and applied this in their teachings. They began to favor Tutsis over Hutus, claiming one group was inherently more intelligent and capable of ruling than the other. Rwandans began to internalize these beliefs of ethnicity assigning superiority or inferiority. When the Revolution of 1959 took over power from the Belgians, Hutus ruled from a sense of revenge and anger after being oppressed. This caused massive groups of Tutsis to flee to neighboring countries and began tensions and false prejudices of each group. This was just the start to the long history leading to the genocide.

2). The genocide in Rwanda is truly like none other. There’s a saying here that genocides in other countries are country against country, individual against individual. But in Rwanda, it was brother against brother. People tell stories of fathers who killed their children because the mother was a Tutsi, or the Hutu mother’s family killing her children and Tutsi husband.

3). The genocide was horrific. People didn’t just kill to kill, but killed with torture in the most unimaginable ways. Everyday tools became weapons, most notably the machete and club, to inflict slow, pain, humiliating deaths. HIV positive men intentionally raped women so that they would die in years to come.

4). Women and children were the targets. There was no mercy. Women and children represented future generations of Tutsis, and so they were the targets of mass killings. The Gisozi Genocide Memorial has a section dedicated to the children of the genocide, and by far it was the most difficult exhibit for me to experience. There were pictures of the children who were killed (donated by their surviving parents) and underneath would read something like this:

Name: Joseph

Age: 3 years old

Favorite candy: Chocolate

Best friend: Mommy

Last words: “Gousanga” (pray)

Cause of death: Smashed against a wall

5). “The church failed.” These words rang throughout my body when I first heard them in a conversation with a Rwandese man. The church failed. Many Christian leaders often took an active role in perpetrating the genocide. The biggest Catholic Church in Kigali was the refuge for 20,000 people during the genocide. But the leader of the church worked with the militia to turn in Tutsis to be killed. People consider this church lucky because not everyone died. I pass by it all the time, and never knew what happened in it 20 years ago.

But for all these lists of tragedies from the genocide, Rwanda is just as much a country of hope. It is rebuilt by its people, for its people. There is a sense of strength, a sense of “Rwandan” that overrides any ethnic identity. For born again Christians, there is a commitment to forgiveness and tireless efforts to bring others healing from their trauma and suffering. There is a resolve to never let the genocide happen again, and people backing this with action to bring reconciliation to their people. There is a remembrance dedicated to the victims, and a resolve to move towards a better future in their honor. Most especially, there is thankfulness for what God has done to make Rwanda, which 20 years ago was a place robbed of hope, a light to the nations.

When many people hear “Rwanda,” they think “genocide.” I hope one day we will instead think “reconciliation.”  

A village from the Southern district remembers their family
who died in the genocide