On a very hot, dusty afternoon, I accompanied a client from Indiana University to one of the villages of an organization known as Prison Fellowship Rwanda. PFR began with one pastor who would visit the prisons of Rwanda to preach the gospel to inmates, many of whom had been involved in the genocide of 1994. These inmates went from being initially suspicious of the pastor, thinking he was a spy, to being cautiously optimistic to openly seeking spiritual guidance and friendship from him, over the first few years. Out of this was born PFR, an organization that takes ex-convicts and reintegrates them back into the community when they are released. In the context of Rwanda, this often means reintegrating these people back into villages where they might be living next door to a family directly affected by the violence this individual personally inflicted during the genocide. But PFR doesn't just dump ex-convicts back into random communities - rather, they provide housing and create these communities from different groups of displaced people - in this case, there were Rwandan refugees that had returned from Tanzania, there were Tutsi genocide survivors, and there were Hutu genocide perpetrators - all living together in one village. What is so fascinating about this model is that the process of reintegration is an active one - these different groups of people work together on businesses, in cooperatives, they attend church together, they develop their communities and they share their lives and homes and children with one another. Reconciliation takes a long time, but these communities are dedicated to living together again, and they emphasized to us that their capacity for forgiveness and compassion (after such a violent tragedy as the genocide) is founded in the teachings of Jesus Christ.
The village we visited that day is in Kayonza, about two hours outside of Kigali on the paved roads, and then another grueling 45 minute drive down one of the worst dirt roads I had ever been on in my entire life. The heat was blistering, but we had to leave the windows rolled up to keep from choking on the dry air thick with dust that was billowing in through the windows as we rumbled along. Finally, we arrived at the PFR village, probably the most remote rural area I have yet been to in this country. Flat, dry dirt roads and little mud huts scattered about, but in a very orderly fashion, with small gardens and tidy fences delineating people's property. There were what seemed like a bazillion children of all ages, shy but quick to smile at us and fascinated by our presence there. The people in this community were amazing - warm and welcoming, and so grateful that we had made the long, hot journey to visit them. They asked us to sit, and welcomed us with traditional Rwandan song and dance. I was overwhelmed with admiration and gratitude.
After the music and dancing came to an end, a handful of individuals came forward to tell us about their past, and how they came to live in the PFR village in Kayonza. We heard from genocide survivors and genocide perpetrators, as well as refugees that had returned home to Rwanda after long and painful absences. Both women and men came forward, and it was a moment of truly visceral reality for me. In Rwanda, it is not socially (or politically) acceptable to talk about the different ethnic groups, and this was the first time I had heard Rwandan citizens openly call themselves Hutu or Tutsi; it was even more surprising to hear from one of the community leaders who openly admitted to being a Hutu directly involved in the genocide. To read about the horrors of the genocide is one thing... to visit the memorials is another... but to be face to face with people who lived through it and were actually willing to tell the story to us, complete strangers, this made it so real for me that I had to take a moment to process what was happening. They spoke of how hard of a struggle it was to forgive those who had hurt them, betrayed them or harmed their families, and how they had to work at it every day to move forward and forgive. Make no mistake, this was no utopia, but these people were determined to overcome the past, and the process seemed to be working. Little by little, reconciliation was taking root.
When the discussions wore down, the community asked us to stay for another series of songs and some dancing, as a way of saying goodbye to us. The drumming began, and the whole community was singing along, men, women and children, and it was some of the most beautiful, heartfelt song I had ever heard, even though they sang in Kinyarwanda and I had no idea what they were saying. It moved me immensely. The positive energy of the song and dance seemed to rise and swell around us, and the air crackled with the emotional electricity of the moment. The dancing became more enthusiastic, more vigorous, the crowd grew louder and louder, and people began to clap and shout. An older woman approached me and pulled me up from my seat, inviting me to dance. I waded into the crowd of dancers, smiling from ear to ear. The woman grinned at me and danced along with me, happy that I hadn't politely refused to join her. We whirled around and around as the music intensified, the drumming grew louder and more insistent, and everyone seemed to be laughing and shouting along with the song. The sun beat down on us, baking the dry earth under our feet, but no one seemed to notice or care. I gave up thinking about anything other than the pure, uninhibited joy and freedom of that moment, and in the words of my favourite poet, Pablo Neruda, I felt as though my heart broke loose on the wind.
When the moment finally ended and we were on our way back to Kigali, I reflected quietly on that day. It seemed like a dream, a strange environment so alien to me, far, far away from everything, surrounded by people who did not speak the same language, and yet we shared a moment of authentic joy together and recognized that moment on each other's faces, without the need for words. I thought about those three big ideas, faith, hope and love, and realized I had witnessed them in full force that afternoon. Faith had brought these communities together, and hope kept them hanging on when they wanted to give up, to give in to the anger and pain and resentment that they battled every day when confronted by their own trauma and their old enemies. And because they did not give up, love had begun to grow between them, and within them, love for themselves and for each other. And perhaps when all three come together, and blend in just such a way, joy bursts forth, wholehearted and unashamed, in spontaneous moments of song and dance with total strangers, who for a moment seem just like they could be your own family.
The village we visited that day is in Kayonza, about two hours outside of Kigali on the paved roads, and then another grueling 45 minute drive down one of the worst dirt roads I had ever been on in my entire life. The heat was blistering, but we had to leave the windows rolled up to keep from choking on the dry air thick with dust that was billowing in through the windows as we rumbled along. Finally, we arrived at the PFR village, probably the most remote rural area I have yet been to in this country. Flat, dry dirt roads and little mud huts scattered about, but in a very orderly fashion, with small gardens and tidy fences delineating people's property. There were what seemed like a bazillion children of all ages, shy but quick to smile at us and fascinated by our presence there. The people in this community were amazing - warm and welcoming, and so grateful that we had made the long, hot journey to visit them. They asked us to sit, and welcomed us with traditional Rwandan song and dance. I was overwhelmed with admiration and gratitude.
After the music and dancing came to an end, a handful of individuals came forward to tell us about their past, and how they came to live in the PFR village in Kayonza. We heard from genocide survivors and genocide perpetrators, as well as refugees that had returned home to Rwanda after long and painful absences. Both women and men came forward, and it was a moment of truly visceral reality for me. In Rwanda, it is not socially (or politically) acceptable to talk about the different ethnic groups, and this was the first time I had heard Rwandan citizens openly call themselves Hutu or Tutsi; it was even more surprising to hear from one of the community leaders who openly admitted to being a Hutu directly involved in the genocide. To read about the horrors of the genocide is one thing... to visit the memorials is another... but to be face to face with people who lived through it and were actually willing to tell the story to us, complete strangers, this made it so real for me that I had to take a moment to process what was happening. They spoke of how hard of a struggle it was to forgive those who had hurt them, betrayed them or harmed their families, and how they had to work at it every day to move forward and forgive. Make no mistake, this was no utopia, but these people were determined to overcome the past, and the process seemed to be working. Little by little, reconciliation was taking root.
When the discussions wore down, the community asked us to stay for another series of songs and some dancing, as a way of saying goodbye to us. The drumming began, and the whole community was singing along, men, women and children, and it was some of the most beautiful, heartfelt song I had ever heard, even though they sang in Kinyarwanda and I had no idea what they were saying. It moved me immensely. The positive energy of the song and dance seemed to rise and swell around us, and the air crackled with the emotional electricity of the moment. The dancing became more enthusiastic, more vigorous, the crowd grew louder and louder, and people began to clap and shout. An older woman approached me and pulled me up from my seat, inviting me to dance. I waded into the crowd of dancers, smiling from ear to ear. The woman grinned at me and danced along with me, happy that I hadn't politely refused to join her. We whirled around and around as the music intensified, the drumming grew louder and more insistent, and everyone seemed to be laughing and shouting along with the song. The sun beat down on us, baking the dry earth under our feet, but no one seemed to notice or care. I gave up thinking about anything other than the pure, uninhibited joy and freedom of that moment, and in the words of my favourite poet, Pablo Neruda, I felt as though my heart broke loose on the wind.
When the moment finally ended and we were on our way back to Kigali, I reflected quietly on that day. It seemed like a dream, a strange environment so alien to me, far, far away from everything, surrounded by people who did not speak the same language, and yet we shared a moment of authentic joy together and recognized that moment on each other's faces, without the need for words. I thought about those three big ideas, faith, hope and love, and realized I had witnessed them in full force that afternoon. Faith had brought these communities together, and hope kept them hanging on when they wanted to give up, to give in to the anger and pain and resentment that they battled every day when confronted by their own trauma and their old enemies. And because they did not give up, love had begun to grow between them, and within them, love for themselves and for each other. And perhaps when all three come together, and blend in just such a way, joy bursts forth, wholehearted and unashamed, in spontaneous moments of song and dance with total strangers, who for a moment seem just like they could be your own family.
