Intense Insight

One of the things I've appreciated so much about this trip is the opportunity to see different sides of Rwanda. We've travelled around its capital, Kigali, which is beautiful, clean, and very busily urban. Motorscooter taxis zoom everywhere, zipping in and out of lanes (traffic lanes here are more of a loose suggestion, evidently). People stand in front of stores, sidewalks are jammed with people walking everywhere, and the ubiquitous honking sounds remind me of any city in America. Everywhere, sidewalks and streetcorners and yards are beautifully and purposefully landscaped. A truly beautiful, urban, modern town. Yesterday morning (Sunday) we were able to go worship at St. Etienne's cathedral. What struck all of us was how familiar the worship was to what we were used to. We sang "Friend of God" and "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." The guest pastor was from Uganda, and we thoroughly enjoyed the service.

So confession time. I was sitting in the church service, looking around at the obviously wealthy Rwandan crowd, and I began thinking to myself, how could they sit there and be comfortable with all that wealth when there is such poverty like what we saw with the street children? And of course, it hit me right after that that this is the same situation in America. That I myself, though far from being wealthy by American standards, live in my material comforts and move in a very blessed path down life's road while all around me there is poverty. Just food for thought once I can wrap by head around all of this later.

Anyway, so we saw the urban, modern side of Rwanda. We've worked with Pastor Deo and seen the street children, so we've been exposed to the urban destitute side. Going to Ruli mountain and Mbilima village then showed us the, for lack of a better word, original Rwandans. We've seen their new gated communities, we've seen their mud brick houses on the side of the mountain. We've seen Rwandans in suits texting on Blackberries, and we've seen them walking barefoot down a mountain trail, babies on their backs, baskets balanced on their heads. So we've been grateful so much for the fact that we can now appreciate the diverse people groups that make up this country. If we had only gone to the mountain villagers, that would have been our only picture of Rwanda. Had we only stayed and worked in Kigali, that would have been our only window into the country. Understanding who they are helps us minister to them so much better, and I'm glad to know the different sides of the people. I'm grateful, too, that we are connected to a company/ministry, Land of a Thousand Hills, that understands the importance and effectiveness of exposing us to the many varied aspects of this country.

I almost don't even want to write about this next part, though. If by now you haven't researched at least a little bit about Rwandan's genocide and history, you need to shut off this page and go find out about it!!! That's the teacher in me talking, sorry :) We visited the Genocide Museum today. Outside are breathtaking gardens and fountains, all done symbolically to represent parts of the genocide. Inside was the museum, so tastefully balanced between showing just enough necessary graphic pictures and facts but not too much to just be dramatic. Videos of survivors played in some rooms. Two things got me: 1) The similarities in those of the video talking about the relationship they had with their parents or their children who they saw get murdered, and the own relationship I have with my family. One boy talked about how he waited every night until his dad got home to see him; another boy talked about how his mom met him every week at a corner store when she got her paycheck to buy him his favorite treat of milk and cake; a girl talked about her sisters being told by their neighbors they were going to meet their mom (already murdered but the didn't know it) as they led the girls out of the house to kill them, and the youngest sister had to be carried because she was still a toddler and couldn't walk yet, so one of the neighbors picked her up in his arms to carry her out to be killed. The three sisters were thrown alive down a septic tank to die. The older sister, the one in the video, was saved by another man intending to rape her, but she got away. 2) The second thing that got me was the children's wing of the museum. Huge pictures of children victims were illuminated, and each had a profile. An example was this one: Name- Michael Ibaganza. Age- 5. Favorite pastime- playing hide and seek with his dad. Best friend- his older brother. Favorite food- orange soda. Method of death- slashed across head with machete. Over and over and over. The heaviness of it was unlike anything I could describe. It was hard to breathe, and yet I somehow felt I owed it to them to read about each one. But it was necessary to experience it, I think, to humanize the tragedy in my mind. I needed to understand that these were not simpler people who maybe didn't love their children like me, that these moms loved their babies like I love mine. These husbands and fathers feared for their families like Kris would fight for and fear for ours. Never, never, never again will I see a tragedy or a destitute people and think "well, they must not hurt like we do, feel like we do, love like we do, or suffer like we would." They did. I got a glimpse of that today, and even though it will haunt me forever, I am profoundly grateful for the insight and for the way it has forever changed me.

(Kris at the Wall of Names...these are just the ones buried here that they've been able to identify. Murder victims of all ages, from birth to elderly, are buried here in 3 huge mass graves. The Wall of Names stretches on way past this picture...)