FORGIVEN

A story of one man and his wife and how they together found forgiveness for those who tore them from their home and family in the Rwandan Genocide of 1994.

Chapter 1

The storm clouds gather quickly in Rwanda, the winds and torrential rains arrive, wreak their devastation and leave.  What is left behind requires human endeavour to right.  We gather our skills, our will and focus on repairing the damage.

In the same way, the 1994 Genocide gathered quickly.  Within 15 minutes of the president’s plane being shot out of the skies in Kigali, road blocks had been set up around the country. Road blocks that favoured Hutus.  Roadblocks that saw Tutsis hacked to death by the weapon of choice, the utilitarian farming implement owned by almost every household in the land.  The Machete

These machetes, wielded by those who were seduced by the prospect of power, political and material gain, poured their devastation on Tutsi flesh and blood.  The flesh and blood of men, women, children, infants and babies.  No-one was to be saved from the murderous actions of those who served as political pawns in the game known as ethnic cleansing.

Three months after the first machetes claimed their victims, the genocide ended and Rwanda was changed forever.  One million Rwandan citizens cut down in what was to be known as civil war, a term which belies the dirt, the rage, the pain, and the carnage.

The carnage left behind by the genocide storm required human endeavour to resolve.

Eighteen years after the genocide I find myself in the far west of Rwanda in a small village where a gathering is taking place.  People are approaching from all directions, children, adults, and elderly people.  Dignitaries in fine clothing reflecting the importance of the occasion.  Local people in their Sunday best and children in their school clothes accessorised by traditional Rwandan bare feet.  

The mood is celebratory, a typical Rwandan welcome, singing and dancing.  The importance of the occasion is reflected in the people who are here, the head of the local police department, a senior military official, the leader of the local authority and the Bishop of Rwanda.

The sun is pouring its heat over us, a relentless heat which leads me towards shade and from this comfortable place I can see the glorious tree covered hills all around.  I see the large gathering on the flat ground which is surrounded on all sides by rolling hills where small groups of people sit together watching from their elevated position.  

The air is thick with the heat of the day and my senses are full of the heady scent of Africa.  The unmistakable beat of African music accompanied by traditional dancing, welcomes the crowd.  The singers’ voices send the welcome upwards, over and beyond the hills that surround us.  

As they dance, I watch.  Their posture is open, arms outstretched as their feet stamp down to the beat of the music.  The sunlight dances on the dust that is thrown up into the air and carried away.

I close my eyes for a moment and imagine the music travelling across countless hills and valleys.  Everyone will know what is happening here today.

This thought leads me to remember why I am here and I begin to turn my thoughts to how things must have been eighteen years earlier where a different kind of gathering took place.  Its purpose quite different, made up of local people who were seeking sanctuary as they had done before, in the local church, which sits nestled gently into the hillside with wide sweeping views of the valley.  A view which narrows on its descent to Lake Kivu.

I notice that the people here today reflect those who gathered all those years ago, babies, school children, teachers, parents, grand-parents, people in positions of authority and many more.   There was however, one key and devastating difference.  The people were separated by their ethnicity.  Tutsi people were invited to gather, encouraged to wait and told all will be well.  Hutu people watched and waited.

The Tutsi people who gathered, trusted.  They were told by their friends and neighbours, “Do not worry, the officials are coming and they will make everything clear, they will tell you what is happening and help you.  All will be clear, wait here and rest a while, it’s best to stay together.”

As I write this, I know that my life has been shaped by many things.  By the society I live in, my family life, the choices I have made, the opportunities that have come my way, the friends I have.  My decisions are influenced by what I believe and what is important to me.

My thoughts bring me back to the present day and I am acutely aware that the gathering that I now bear witness to is made up of people who had different roles to play in the genocide.  They had different choices, they made different decisions and they held different beliefs.

Most of this current day crowd is made up of perpetrators.  People who, all those years ago, made a decision, learned their new skills and quickly become efficient killers.  

Some of this crowd are people who chose to observe, to be bystanders and do nothing to give protection to the vulnerable.

Others did all they could to protect and to help.  Their beliefs leading them to risk their own lives to protect others.  

I sat spellbound as the events of the past 10 days raced through my mind.

We had arrived as a group of 7 in Kigali Airport, already having shared the experience of a night without sleep and a journey of 18 hours.

We were processed through passport control, our ethnicity checked along with our reasons for our visit.  An extended period of confusion in which a suitcase has not arrived was followed with promises to the anxious to share soap, toiletries and clothes.  We moved on and into the welcoming smiles of a large party of people whose names were to be rapidly remembered.

Sleep deprived we did our best to get familiar with Rwandan hugs and handshakes.  A Rwandan hug is a polite half hug.  My western senses recognised a hug and went in for the full deal only to be stopped midway by a sort of arm’s length ‘I would hug you but….’ Experience.  So many things to learn.  I hoped I hadn’t offended anyone or miscommunicated my intentions.

Regardless of any cultural faux pa’s the smiles were constant and consistent.

We were shown out to waiting transport where the heat and smell of the African evening was ready to envelope us.

Bags and cases stored behind seats, in boots and on knees and we were ready for Kigali.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the streets, the people, buildings, businesses, infra-structure.  I wasn’t expecting this at all.  My previous experience of Africa involved dirt roads and makeshift homes.  Kigali was not like that!!

We arrived and were shown to our rooms and quickly ushered to the dining hall where a meal had been prepared for us.

A meal of beans, Irish potatoes and rice.  I ate eagerly and wondered what an average Rwandan family would eat tonight.  Was this typical?

So many questions filled my mind as we journeyed throughout Rwanda visiting new places where people welcomed us openly.  

Schools where hundreds of children sang our welcome. Schools where eighteen years earlier people had been massacred.

Projects where orphans forced into poverty and prostitution were learning new skills.

Museums and memorials where the stories of the genocide were told in such vivid detail that it became impossible to sleep.

By the time we attended the cow ceremony we had been in Rwanda for 10 days and were due to leave shortly.

I realised now that it was no random act that Bishop Samuel kept ‘popping’ up in different parts of Rwanda meeting and greeting our group, chatting to locals, staying for a few moments and disappearing.  

I had realised that this was a hard-working man who travelled his country, staying connected with people.  This was a man who would play with the children, who would rush over and greet someone he had not seen in a while.  A man who would walk with us a while and talk with us a while before leaving to attend some official meeting. Someone who would play with the children, eagerly kicking a football.  A man comfortable in the presence of everyone, officials and non-officials alike, elderly and young.  A man who is the Bishop of Rwanda.

All of this began to make sense to me now as the ceremony unfolded.  The man who went alongside us now had a different role to play today.  This was his message.  A symbolic ceremony which recognised clearly the heroism of those who protected people through the genocide.  It was an opportunity to send a message to his people.  We recognise and reward those who have the courage to stand against what is wrong.  We see their courage, their strength and we thank them.

Before the highly prized cows were officially handed over to the protectors, we heard testimonies.  The first testimony we hear was from a survivor.  Her name is Janette and she is a woman of great presence.  I kind, gentle presence.  Quietly spoken.  A woman whose eyes tell the story that words cannot express.

Janette told her story of survival.  Everything was quiet as she spoke.  Her personal account of what happened is both shocking and inspiring.  I feel that the greatest honour I can bestow on Suzanne is to leave Bishop Samuel to tell you her story.  I will say that as she spoke, there was not a sound from anyone in this group or the surrounding hills.  All present were listening intently.

A man I had not yet met gave his testimony next, his name is John.  I had been amazed by the strength and courage of the survivors and the protectors I had met in previous days.  Hearing their personal accounts of what took place and how they had made their escape was inspirational and heart-warming.  I settled in to listen to another story of survival.   

What happened next was in that moment truly shocking.   I could feel a movement run through the audience.  The energy shifted.  It was as though each person had sat upright yet I saw no-one move.  I noticed a quickening of breath in the person sat to my right and I was aware of people glancing at us, we incomers, we visitors.  

I sifted this information and quickly realised that this was no survivor, this was a perpetrator, this was a murderer, this was a killer.   This was a man who killed men, women and children.   What was happening?  I looked to Bishop Samuel to gauge his response.  I saw that he was listening intently.  I was confused, is this a mistake?  Should this man be speaking?  Why are we hearing this?  So many questions and my barometer was Bishop Samuel.  I looked to him to understand.  

I knew that at this moment of confusion I needed to look for understanding.  It was at that moment that I realised I needed to know much more.  

The story that follows is a story of a man with a passion for his country and his people.  A man doing what he can to tell the world what happened here, so that it can’t happen again.