Stars remind
me of so many things. They take me back
to my roof in India, the only place I could be alone. Looking up at a full sky
takes me to my family cottage, where I am known for sneaking out of the house
late at night, just to sit on the pier, staring up at the sky and the still
lake, disturbed only by the occasional jumping fish. It takes me to a night long ago, when as a
junior in high school, a close friend and I stood outside her home in the
country. We were silent, staring up at a
sky full of stars we rarely can see.
This was a heart friend, who knew my life more than any other. As we stood in amazement, we made a
pact. Every time we saw the stars, we
would remember that night—and the awe that came over us. ‘I will always stand in awe of you, God.’
Now, at
least 8 years later, I still remember that night. And every time I get outside for a starry
night, I remember what I promised: I will always stand in awe of you, God.
On Friday
night, I was on my way home from Kigali.
After many hours, more than it should have taken to get home, I managed
to get a window seat, just in time for the stars to come out. As we drove through mountainous, rural
Rwanda, out came these stars that I had missed so much.
That night,
I needed those stars. The day had been
filled with stories of brokenness and of healing, of genocide and of
restoration. It’s hard, after hearing
such pain, to let my heart instead feel the victory that these women have
experienced through community, through letting other people—and above all,
Christ—into the deepest places of their hearts.
They share healing, and I must leave choosing it as well.
But I cannot
move forward, joyful as before. I move
forward different, changed. We all
must. But joy is a choice, and it must be fought for.
The next day, I ventured to the
genocide memorial 2 km from my home, down a dirt road, next to the rural Pentecostal
church I stumbled upon on my first week here.
This is known as one of the most gruesome memorials, and it reminded me
of the concentration camps I visited in Germany. These identical buildings, all in rows, were
not meant for mass suffering, however.
They were all part of a technical school, where people sought refuge
during the genocide. French soldiers
were guarding the place, so it must be safe, they thought.
Then the
water was cut off. If anyone left for firewood or water, they were killed. The place was surrounded by Interhamwe, and a
few weeks in, when the refuge-seekers were so weak they could barely fight
back, they swooped in and massacred tens of thousands of people—reports vary
from 27,000 up to 60,000 killed in this one place. The French did nothing. 18,000 of those killed were exhumed from the
mass graves and given a dignified burial.
Almost a thousand more are preserved, and on display at the
memorial.
Skulls are
such a common, almost inanimate object in Western culture—they are in our biology
classrooms, our Halloween decorations, our clothing even. Walking into a room with museum cases filled
with skulls didn’t feel altogether haunting.
Until I saw
the stacks of bones on the other side of the room.
Until I
forced myself to realize that each skull was a person, a person who had been
murdered here for no other reason than their ethnic identity. A person who was
known, loved, unique, treasured by God.
Then I was
horrified.
We continued
on to another room…room after room full of skulls, and stacks of bones—femurs,
humerouses, ulnas, tibias. And then came
the most horrifying.
When you
walk into the first room full of preserved bodies, a smell hits you like a
brick wall. I couldn’t identify it at
first. Then I realized it was the smell
of death. Raised pallets fill these
rooms, which are smaller than your average American dorm room, which was where students
lived. These pallets used to have
mattresses on them, and there would have been only two or three of them. In each room sat at least 5 pallets, strewn
across them were bodies, instead of mattresses.
They have been preserved in gypsum, I hear, and so each looks
whitewashed—but you can see their ribs coming through, you can see them
contorted, like they are bracing for a blow from a machete or a club. Whitewashed, to make something so dirty a bit
cleaner.
I felt I
could almost hear screams, realizing that in this room, people were
killed. I turned around, fully expecting
to see blood on the wall. There was
none.
And then you
see the children there with them. One
was wearing a t-shirt, another, an old pair of underwear. Most just looked like a little child who hunched
over, probably in tears, terrified.
A
generation, lost.
I was in 4th
grade when the genocide happened. I
distinctly remember hearing in school about a plane being shot down, about a
president dying. I remember the news
footage, and not understanding its importance.
And then nothing. While Rwanda
lived through 100 days of violence and fear, I knew little of what was going
on. But as hundreds of thousands were
being killed, my generation was being wiped out. There are far fewer people my age in this
nation than there should be.
Today Rwanda
is moving forward, but not forgetting.
Healing and restoration are happening, though not for all. The women I spoke with on Friday shared how
they have been given new names by their community. No longer are they called a widow, a rape
survivor. They are called ‘Mama’ by a
friend, for their mothering spirit. They
are called ‘sister’ by others who have found in them family. ‘We are not named by who we were, but by who
we are now,’ she said.
As I sat on
the bus, stars standing still as we raced around corners and up and down hills,
I was in awe. These women’s hearts have
been healed. With all of the suffering
that has happened, even in my own backyard, I still know that God wants to heal
this nation. This nation will not
forget, but it cannot be named by who it was.
Who is it now? Different. Healing.
And so, as I
look up at this incredible creation that never changes, no matter where in the
world I live, I remember.
Even with
what has happened here,
I will always stand in awe of you, Lord.
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