Butare

On the way to Kibeho we stopped in Butare (boo-tar-ee). That’s where Immaculee and Richard went to the university. We were following the other vehicle and it pulled over at an intersection. We had been driving for a long time so I thought we were stopping to take a pee. Richard got out and walked down a little road. He stopped and looked back at Brandon and me. He motioned with his head for us to follow. (Here it is impolite to gesture “come here” with your finger.) It was dusty and littered. We followed, curious. We walked off the road and into a quiet wood. We walked on. Richard stopped and looked around. It was a beautiful spot. The sunlight filtered green light through large leaves over us. There was no wind. Richard paused. Brandon and I looked at each other. “This is where my brother was killed. Right here.” He pointed to the leafy forest floor. Silence. Then he told us that he was trying to get his little brother to Uganda or the DRC. They were on the road near here when they were captured. They were simply taken back into the woods with others and shot. He watched as his brother was killed. Richard was shot in the stomach, the forearm, his hand. He pulled up his shirt and showed us the scar. Brandon and I were silent as he told us what happened. After he was shot he put his bloody hand over his face and pretended to be dead. That is what saved him. When the killers left he crawled out of the woods to where he was discovered by someone he knew. He was taken to a hospital. He was nearly killed there as well. He came so close to dying. His parents and sisters were also killed. His parents were killed in a church where they had gone for protection. His brother was killed right in front of him. He barely escaped. I can hardly write it down. We stood there in the lovely clearing in the woods. Birds were singing. An old woman walked past with a bundle of wood on her head. She looked at us questioningly. What did she think? A Rasta with two white guys standing in the forest. Silently. Richard’s head was down; his heavily lidded eyes were closed. Then again, maybe she did know. It was the most profound moment of this journey for me so far. I love these people. I love this big sad man. There is no way to imagine the pain Rwanda has gone through.