Tim O'Keefe

2008-12-12T18:26:00.002-05:00

The Butterfly

2008-10-18T21:19:00.004-04:00

Yesterday an amazing thing happened in our classroom. First the back story... Several weeks ago we planted some fennel outside of our classroom knowing that it is the larval food of black swallowtail butterflies. One corner of our room has a wide floor-to-ceiling window facing a sunny hillside and a pretty little garden. We could see the fennel easily from our pillow-filled reading area in the bay window.

Sure enough, within a couple of weeks we spied some tiny larvae munching on the fennel. We watched them every day. They increased in size incredibly fast, shedding their skin regularly. They ate, and ate, and ate. We took seven of the caterpillars into the classroom and kept them on potted fennel plants in a large net enclosure. They ate and pooped and ate and pooped until the fennel plants were only nubs. We carefully lifted them off the old plants and placed them on new ones as they continued to mature. I unzipped the enclosure regularly to take photographs so we could record their amazing growth.

Our class is so into animals that every single day someone brings in a dead bug, a snail, a feather, a cocoon. Our class walks to the library every few weeks. It's about a ten minute walk from our campus. Walking there and back can be a bit of a challenge since everyone is on the lookout for animals. My friend Geri, who walked to the library with us last time made the understatement, "Wow, you guys are really interested in animals." This after kids brought up dead bugs, pointed out many spider egg sacs, a dead squirrel and other roadkill. "Yes, I guess we are a little obsessed," I answered.

So, the other afternoon we hear this shriek from the reading area. One little girl was backing away, eyes wide, pointing to the pillows. "What's that?!" she almost screamed.

"It's a chrysalis," said another. Indeed, a beautiful khaki and dark brown chrysalis was attached to a US shaped pillow with two silken threads. It was actually attached to the map of Canada. The Northwest Territories. We photographed it and it became a shrine-like fixture on the bookshelf.

On Tuesday morning, during our class meeting, a little boy said, "Hey! There's the butterfly!" Next to the pillow-map was a jet black, rumpled black swallowtail butterfly. There was a collective "Ahhhh," as all heads turned toward the sight. It was trembling and we could see its abdomen pumping slowly. Its body was covered with thick black hair and it was rolling its coiled proboscus (tongue) in and out. It was truly a beautiful sight.

I asked the little guy who first spotted it to pick it up gently so we could release it outside. He put his index finger up to it and the still wilted butterfly dutifully climbed on. I snapped several pictures for our web page. There's this one picture of the boy with the butterfly clinging upside down to his fingers. The look on his face shows this incredible mixture of joy and awe, of magic and excitement. It captured how we all felt.

It is one thing to talk about complete metamorphosis with my students. Even reading books with large colorful pictures and watching a butterfly emerging in fast motion on Youtube couldn't hold a candle to witnessing this miracle happen right in front of us in class. We ooohed and ahhhhed at the tiny larvae. When we first spotted them they were hard to see they were so small. They grew so quickly and we found their shriveled up shed skins behind them as they grew. When we brought them into the classroom we could smell the fennel as they gorged themselves. we chuckled at the size and amount of "poops". We watched the chrysalis thin almost to transparent and we were awed and inspired as the butterfly emerged as an adult.

It was one of those miraculous moments that makes this year different from every other of my 30 years as a teacher of little kids. And yet, it is an ordinary sort of miracle that happens every day, right? Part of the joy of teaching little ones is that the ordinary becomes extraordinary because you can see life partly through their eyes. I have witnessed this before, but seeing it with a group who have never seen it makes it new for me too.

What I'm Grateful For

2008-10-10T22:11:00.002-04:00

I woke up today at 5:00 and thought I'd keep a mental list of the greatest parts of my day. Now it's 10:15 on Friday night. I'm looking at the sleeping form of my wife on the couch. She fell asleep watching the news. As I end this day, I think of Heidi, the greatest blessing in my life. We met in a college class in the winter of 1976. I have been deeply in love with her ever since. I remember the very day I fell in love (I cannot speak for her). I remember it clearly.

Back to today's blessings...

*Waking up. At all. Just waking up.
*Waking up to the beautiful sleepy face of my wife, Heidi.
*It being Friday.

*Hawaiian coffee. Light roast, very strong.

*This new book I'm reading - Same Kind of Different As You.

*The warm sleepy goodbye hug and kiss from same Heidi.

*John Fogerty's new album on the way to work.

*NPR, perhaps the only "fair and balanced" news on the radio.

*This subtle, graceful, pale blue/gray sunrise. Overcast. Breezy. Early fall.

*Time alone in my classroom.

*The anticipation of a great Friday with my second graders.

*The sounds of children through my door. Hearing their excitement at being at school.

*The first hugs, fist bumps, high fives and handshakes of my earnest children as they come into the classroom at the very beginning of the day.

*Playing chess with a seven year old.

*Helping kids understand some challenging math.

*Talking about the news with little ones.

*Learning about animals, addition with regrouping and place value, sharing a favorite book with second graders (The Prince of the Pond by Donna Jo Napoli).

*Discussing writer's craft with young writers. Finding craft in their writing.

*Talking about the election with an earnest group of learners. Watching history unfold with young children.

*Lunch with my students. Making each other laugh. Sharing story.

*Recess on our dusty field.

*The tears of a little one who has fallen.

*Playing the best playground game ever.

*Laughing, running and sweating with my new group of best friends.

*Walking to the public library. Looking for animals all the way there.

*Helping children check out good books.

*Walking back to school. Looking for bugs the whole way. Finding lots. Gold.

*Singing songs with children.

*My fingers which, however feeble, allow me to play guitar.

*My voice which, however creaky, allows me to teach these young ones to sing.

*The sense to stop singing when they have learned the song.

*Listening to my best teacher friend, Tameka, read one of my favorite books (More Than *Anything Else) to my old class and my new class. 45 of the best people I have ever known in one room. Gold.

*The quiet school building after the kids and teachers have gone home.

*Driving home.

*Friday.

*Music.

*The moon, rising through the hazy early evening sky.

*The early fall colors just now being revealed. The anticipation of another beautiful fall.

*Pulling in to my neighborhood.

*That first evening kiss as I see Heidi.

*My dog's smile as she wags her entire body in greeting.

*Our Friday evening together.

*Sharing our respective days.

*Remembering our own children when they were small.

*Looking into the beautiful sleeping face of my true love as she snoozes on the couch.

*Knowing that tomorrow is Saturday.

*The anticipation of my sleepy boys waking up tomorrow (I'll probably be asleep before they get home).

*My home.

The thing is, this is just the tip of the iceberg. The tip of the tip. Even as I sat writing this,

I knew that in a single day I have so many blessings that I couldn't name them all. We all do. Make a list some day. It feels good.

Tina - A White Girl In Rwanda

2008-08-22T20:49:00.008-04:00

My friend and traveling companion, Tina Robinson, emailed me recently from Rwanda. She went back. Rwanda is like that. The magic of the place, the people, that smile, the kindness and hospitality and frankness make it irresistible. Like Tina, I know that I will return to Rwanda someday. Her trip this time went beyond where we went together last year. She went straight to the heart and soul. She went to witness and to participate in the reconciliation that makes Rwanda such a powerful example for the rest of the world. While other countries are still trying to exert influence through violence and intimidation, Rwanda serves as the beacon of human possibility that we so desperately need.

Hello everyone... Where do I begin?

Today we began by visiting the reconciliation village!!! When we arrived, the chairs were set up beneath a canopy and men and women with children gathered around. I wondered if the men were killers and the women victims. The men cradled babies in their arms and the women were shy. Occasionally one would smile and cover her mouth... Something I find many women do here. One by one, they stood up and told their stories. First, a very big strong looking man spoke. He began by giving his name and then sharing his testimony.

"This women I sit beside, I killed her mother and father... and this man over here... I killed six of his family members..."

He talked about why and how and ended by saying, "Now we all love each other and my children play with their children and we are trying to heal what has happened."

Then a woman... the woman who sat beside the man who killed her family gave her testimony.

I was in absolute amazement as to how and where these women and men got their strength. Twenty people all came together to share with us their stories. And how they are healing together... side by side... victims with killers!

Then we were off to the prison. I really had no idea what to expect... and tried not to think about it too much. I requested a month ago that I visit the prisons, not really knowing what I'd feel or even why I wanted to go. I just felt led... and this desire to see for myself... and so... today we arrived at the prison which was in the most beautiful place... hills and banana trees, a beautiful lake... and then the prison. I imagined seeing a few prisoners... and wondered what I'd feel when I saw them.

First, we went to the young offenders whose crimes were drugs and rape. Wow... they were just children! They were shy and many blushed. Pastor Deo them told them that I was there to speak to them. So, without warning I suddenly found myself talking to about 40 young boys. What I said I hardly remember but I will say that I somehow felt intense love for these teenagers... my heart was touched as they sung me a song and told me that they were blessed to have me there.

Then... the men. I did not expect this at all! We walked in and there were thousands of them - over 4,000. All killers... some in green were once high ranking government officials and had life sentences for their crimes. They made a passway for us. I walked without any fear with killers on either side of me until I came to the platform. And, once again I was asked to speak! How on earth did this happen? I can only say that somehow this is all part of God's plan for me. What it is I have no clue. But there I was, in the middle of Rwanda, in a prison with thousands of murderers... speaking to them without fear. I am still trying to make sense of what I was doing there.

Then the women. Yes, the women who killed in the genocide. We sat with them, cried with them... there were about 80 and about 20 babies and toddlers. They separate them from the mothers at three but they must be with the mothers to breast feed until they are three. They were the most malnourished babies and toddlers I had ever seen. Swollen bellies... just sickly looking and my heart broke for them. Again, I was asked to speak to the women. And I cried and they all cried. I bought their baskets and I have no idea what to do with them. Baskets made by hands that have murdered. Why did I even buy them? Am I crazy? Why this love and compassion in my heart? I am trying to make sense of all this. I am feeling God in my life like never before. I feel like I am living my life fully on purpose and I trust that everything is as it should be. I know I am being led and I know that I have work to do... my mind is too full though...

Okay, so now I must go. But let me just say that today was just huge in so many ways. I have new perspectives and I am braver than I was yesterday...

Sending love to you all,

xoxoxoxoxo

Tina

Tina has grown and changed for the better. It is so clear. Perspective. Bravery. Looking forward to a future bright with possibilities. God. That is Rwanda. That is how we all can be. I am so grateful to Tina for her message. Sometimes when I look back on my time in Rwanda, it seems like a dream. When I read over what I have written, it seems like someone else went there and wrote those words.

Tina made it real for me again. When I read her words I cried once again. For Rwanda and all that has happened there. For Immaculee and Richard and Gonza and Aimable and Souda and Bishop John and the Women's Guild and all of the wonderful people there. I cried for the pain and suffering they have endured. I also cried tears of joy for how they have come back and continue to push forward with brave hearts and faith in a God who loves us all.

God, please help us to learn from the tragedy and triumph of Rwanda. Help us to forgive those who have hurt us and to find peaceful solutions to our conflicts. Let us always be mindful of those who are less fortunate than us. Help us to live a life of service.

Questions

2008-07-13T12:37:00.014-04:00

I was inspired by my visit to Rwanda. Truly inspired. If I had gone there with a different group, or had different experiences it could have meant something else to me. Less. If I had not met some of the people I met along the way or traveled with different companions I would have simply been a tourist. As it was, I was blessed to connect with little Sophia at Sonrise School, the Mother Superior at Sisters of Mother Teresa’s, the man with no legs in Butare, the little Twa woman at Kibeho, Richard and the Bishop of Rwanda.

I have been asked since returning, “Where was God?” “If there was a God how could he have let this happen?” “How can you still believe in God?” My questions exactly. I have said that I am no authority on God. But I have read some remarkable things about Rwanda by people who are much more in touch with the answer to these questions than me. The book The Bishop of Rwanda by John Rucyahana helped me to understand in a way that nothing else has. Bishop John started Sonrise School and has done brilliant work toward reconciliation in Rwanda. I have to quote him at length in answering these tough but thoughtful questions…

Where was God when million innocent people were butchered? Where was God when priests and pastors helped massacre the people in their churches?

I’ll tell you where God was. He was alongside the victims lying on the cold stone floor of the cathedral. He was comforting a dying child. He was crying at the altar. But he was also saving lives. Many were saved by miracles. God does not flee when evil takes over a nation. He speaks to those who are still listening, He eases the pain of the suffering, and He saves those who can be saved… God has always used the broken, and he is using this broken nation to manifest his grace and power. He is taking the brokenness cause by evil and using it for a greater purpose – a great reconciliation in a nation that the world had not only given up on, but had given over to the devil, and its own evil… I know what it is to forgive through the tears. Like many people in Rwanda I have to forgive in order to live…

The pain of Rwanda is not just in the survival of brutal acts or in those who lost someone dear to them. It is in the killers as well… It does not matter that the government pushed them to do it. It does not matter that the devil reigned for a time in their hearts and minds. The guilt came and the pain stayed. That is why I have seen so many prisoners burst into tears after they have repented and been forgiven by the very people who suffered at their hands…

I have seen people forgive those who killed their loved ones. I’ve watched survivors and perpetrators cry together and hug each other through their tears. Something like that requires the presence of God. I could never go to a single prison to preach without the power of God. Without God I would hate such killers with all my heart. But with God I can truly say that I love them. (p. xv and xvi)

John’s family suffered terribly at the hands of the extremists, yet he forgives and he preaches forgiveness. He wants to show the world the power that comes through forgiveness. Where is God? He is with John Rucyahana.

If you have read much of this notebook/blog, you have read about Immaculee Ilibagiza. Her book, Left to Tell is one of the most important books I have ever read and has influenced my spiritual walk immensely. If you don’t know, Immaculee survived the genocide by hiding out in a tiny bathroom for 91 days with seven other women in hunger and silence. For all of this time Immaculee and her friends were waiting to die. They waited quietly as the killers searched for them just outside the bathroom door. Immaculee heard her name called out by the very men responsible for deaths of her beloved family members. She survived this horrific ordeal through prayer. She prayed her rosary and spoke to God in ways that I will probably never truly comprehend.

She and the others in the bathroom narrowly escaped death many times but she did escape. She did survive. Her parents, two of her brothers and all of the Tutsis in her village were brutally killed. Immaculee survived. She went to the prison where the killer of her mother and dear brother Damascene was held…

As burgomaster, Semana was a powerful politician in charge of arresting and detaining the killers who had terrorized our area. He’d interrogated hundreds of Interahamwe (extremist Hutu) and knew better than anyone which killers had murdered whom.

And he knew why I’d come to see him. “Do you want to meet the leader of the gang that killed your mother and Damascene?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”

I watched through Semana’s office window as he crossed a courtyard to the prison cell and then returned, shoving a disheveled, limping old man in front of him. I jumped up with a start as they approached, recognizing the man instantly. His name was Felicien, and he was a successful Hutu businessman whose children I’d played with in primary school. He’d been a tall, handsome man who always wore expensive suits and had impeccable manners. I shivered remembering that it had been his voice I’d head calling out my name when the killers searched for me at the pastor’s. Felicien had hunted me.

Semana pushed Felicien into the office, and he stumbled onto his knees. When he looked up from the floor and saw that I was the one waiting for him, the color drained from his face. He quickly shifted his gaze and stared at the floor.
“Stand up, killer!” Semana shouted. “Stand up and explain to this girl why you murdered her mother and butchered her brother. Get up I said! Get up and tell her!” Semana screamed even louder, but the battered man remained hunched and kneeling, too embarrassed to stand and face me.

His dirty clothing hung from his emaciated frame in tatters. His skin was sallow, bruised and broken; and his eyes were filmed and crusted. His once handsome face was hidden beneath a filthy, matted beard; and his bare feet were covered in open, running sores.

I wept at the sight of his suffering. Felicien had let the devil enter his heart and the evil had ruined his life like a cancer in his soul. He was now the victim of his victims, destined to live in torment and regret. I was overwhelmed with pity for the man.

“He looted your parents’ home and robbed your family’s plantation, Immacculee. We found your dad’s farm machinery at his house, didn’t we?” Semana yelled at Felicien. “After he killed Rose and Damascene, he kept looking for you… He wanted you dead so he could take over your property. Didn’t you, pig?” Semana shouted again.

I flinched letting out an involuntary gasp. Semana looked at me stunned by my reaction and confused by the tears streaming down my face. He grabbed Felicien by the shirt collar and hauled him to his feet. “What do you have to say to her? What do you have to say to Immaculee?”

Felicien was sobbing. I could feel his shame. He looked up at me for only a moment, but our eyes met. I reached out, touched his hands lightly, and quietly said what I’d come to say.

“I forgive you.”

When Semana had Felicien dragged back to his cell he was furious with Immaculee…

“What was that about, Immaculee? That was the man that murdered your family. I brought him to you to question… to spit on if you wanted to. But you forgave him! How could you do that? Why did you forgive him?”

I answered him with the truth: “Forgiveness is all I have to offer.” (p. 202- 203)

Now when I am asked, “Where was God?” “How can you believe in a God who would let this happen?” I think of Immaculee and Richard and Bishop John and of all of Rwanda who survived to forgive and to ask for forgiveness. God is in the message of forgiveness held closely by the leaders of this wonderful nation and in the hearts of those who are unknown to the world.
Where is God? God is in the heart and soul of Rwanda.

P.S.

2008-06-09T19:32:00.005-04:00

I don’t know if I’ll ever finish my post scripts. If you have read this far, and you started at the beginning, I am grateful. I hope that in some way it has served you, helped you to understand more about the world and Rwanda.

As a result of this blog I have been contacted by some remarkable people. Karen Froming at the Institute for Restorative Justice has shared some of her amazing work in Rwanda with me. Ned and Meg from West Virginia shared their quest for adopting a young child from The Sisters of Mother Teresa’s Orphanage. Many of the response were intensely personal; others were posted as comments on the blog. Thank you to everyone who read and responded and upon whom my words and experiences had some effect.

I hear from some of my travel companions sporadically. I read that Immaculee (with the wonderful aid of Tim Van Damm) is still doing her work spreading the word about forgiveness. She has another book coming out soon. Brandon completed his first year of law school and is off on another adventure to Ireland this summer. Portia has likely finished another successful year as a teacher in NYC and Midori as a masseuse in Orlando. Tina and her family had a child (!!!). Nancy has been instrumental in helping my new acquaintances Ned and Meg adopt a child from Africa. I still stay in close touch with Cindy, the organizer of our trip and the one to whom I owe the most gratitude for getting me to Rwanda. She has bravely stepped outside of her comfort zone as an occupational therapist to teach third grade kids in Sumter, SC. Those children will never be the same after this year with Cindy and our good friend Brent Petersen.
I still hear from Richard (an alias) from time to time. Our exchanges are usually brief. I think he knows how much our time together meant to me. I hope so. He was the bravest of us. He took us to places he knew we should see and experience if we were to have a real picture of Rwanda. He told us stories of his own pain and sorrow as well as stories of his family and acquaintances. He accompanied us from the mountains to the savannah, from Hotel Rwanda to the church at Ntarama where 5,000 of his people were killed. Much has changed in his life but I know that he, and all of Rwanda, has demons to deal with. On April 22 he emailed a few of his friends his memories of that time 14 years ago.

Tim and Brandon do you remember that forest in Butare where u guys visited very briefly to our way to Kibeho…. It was yesterday april 21th
Dear friends
If there were no memories I could forget this day, but the memories have become part of my life, and I can not live without them.
“April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain…”
It was on April 21, 1994, and the soldiers decided to kill us. It was 5:15 p.m. when the soldier marched my brother and I into the forest. Behind me my brother was pleading with the soldier when he was shot. At the same moment, I turned to see what was happening to my brother, and the same soldier shot me too with his kalichnikov. I fell down and lost consciousness because I was shot in the arm, the finger and in my side as I turned to see my brother. Later I woke up and called my brother, “Remy, Remy” but he didn’t reply because he was already dead. With difficulty I got up and went out of the forest because I wanted to be on the road where someone would find my dead body. The night had already fallen, so no one found me. Minute after minute I waited for my turn to die because I was losing a lot of blood. I couldn’t move any more and I spent all night in our blood near my brother’s dead body till I was able to move, and I walked out that forest just to be on the road so that I could be strewn away like all the others dead. I was afraid to be eaten by dogs like we saw them all along the road… Gosh I can’t write any more about it all I am asking is to help me ask for forgiveness to my brother since I abandoned him alone in that forest, as a big brother I should protect him, but I couldn’t even through I tried so hard.
Dear brother you know how much I love you and you know that I would protect you if I were able to do so. I have been visiting that location hoping that I would find you again but it has been in vain, I even took some of my friend to that location but we never find you. I only see the trees that are so tall than ever and I just smile thinking they are showing me that you’re in good hands wherever you are. Tell Dad and Mother that I wish they could see us together again, and I wish I could see y’all. Little brother I hope you forgave me, if not please allow my friends and myself to ask forgiveness. Love u.
In loving memory of my brother.

How could I not cry with my friend? How can we not cry for Rwanda?

Now

2008-06-09T16:53:00.029-04:00

June 2008

While I was in Rwanda (I Saw What I Saw - video by Sara Groves) I kept struggling with the question of “Why am I here?” Upon returning to the US and beginning this blog version of my notebook I continued to ask myself that question. After putting some installments out there I was contacted by my nephew (and good friend) Mike Cowles. He is a social activist in New Mexico. Really smart. Someone whose opinion I respect tremendously. He was complimentary but asked the question, “Now what?” Which I translated loosely into, “So what?” It has taken me several months to finish blogging the notebook (a direct consequence of not taking typing – keyboarding – in high school). Also, just a busy schedule, teaching little kids, being dadly, etc. But the question of “So what?” still lingers.

One result, I know, is a sense of spiritual growth. My time in Rwanda (video - Genocide in Rwanda) simply helped me to pray more clearly, more fiercely, more carefully, more joyously. I am not one to say that I know God’s plan. But, Rwanda has taught me to appreciate all of my life’s blessings, both great and small. Before Rwanda, I thought of my blessings simply as good fortune, as in, I sure am a lucky guy to have been born into a loving working class family where I wanted for nothing. How lucky I was to meet and fall in love with this beautiful woman, Heidi Mills, who has changed me and filled me and taught me so much. Before Rwanda I thought of falling into teaching little ones as fate. I thought of the adoption of our oldest son, Devin, when it seemed impossible for us to conceive, and the birth of our second son Colin (eighteen months later) as incredible good fortune. Now, when I close my eyes at night to pray, I thank God. While it’s personal, almost selfish, this view of God being responsible for what is good in my life is huge in answering the “So what?” question. My life isn’t a blind free-fall of good luck here and bad luck there. I live with more purpose. I am simply, more grateful.

Almost a year has passed since coming back from Rwanda. My memories are inevitably diminished. Caught up in the day to day demands of teaching, a busy family, etc. I go longer and longer stretches of time without thinking so much of Rwanda. Still… I think differently. Issues of social justice are so much more important to me. When I see a homeless person now I see a human being, not simply someone asking for a handout. When I hear candidates wax on in their bumper-sticker-elect-me-because-I’m-better speeches, I listen more carefully about what may slip out about caring for the poor, foreign policy with human rights as its cornerstone. I also listen for what is missing.

Because of my time in Rwanda, I read and listen to news differently. What stories are given the most ink and time? I carefully consider which stories are barely mentioned. I wonder about stories involving real human pain and suffering which are not mentioned at all. I read books and stories which make me think and don’t just entertain (Howard Zinn: You Can’t Be Neutral on a Moving Train, Tony Campolo: Red Letter Christians, Jimmy Carter: Our Endangered Values, Shane Claiborne: Irresistible Revolution).

Because of Rwanda I definitely teach differently. Not only have I shared my stories and photos of my trip with my third graders, our second graders and my faculty, but social justice has become a cornerstone of my curriculum. When my third graders talked earlier this year about the Europeans who “discovered” and “settled” America as is written in our history books and social studies curriculum, my kids asked the obvious questions, “How could they have discovered this land when there were already millions of people here?” and, “How could they think of invading America as settling it?” I would dare say that my students know more about Civil Rights than most adults in this country. Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King Jr. and Ruby Bridges are our heroes and role models. We are aware of the countless others who are still involved in the causes of civil rights in our country and aren’t anyone’s heroes because their names are not well known. My children know they can change the world. We held a fund raiser in which we sold CDs of original songs. In January we sent a check for $1000.00 to a truly worth cause in Mexico called Ninos Incapacitados. Because of Rwanda, all of my future students will know that they can make a positive difference in this world.

I write differently. I think I speak differently. I want others to know about Rwanda, about Africa, and to open their eyes to the wonder, grace, delights, suffering and hardships. I have spoken to many small and large groups about Rwanda. I think people are receptive to knowing about this. I find most are amazed to discover just how little they know about the world, Africa, Rwanda. Maybe it helps them to think of people outside our borders, to think of foreigners as people with similar feelings and desires. Maybe I have helped, in some small way, to put a face on people far away, to help a few people understand that Africa is not just a big backwards bunch of countries full of tribal war, AIDS, malaria and poverty.

I have come to see Rwanda as a wonderful, complex, joyful collection of people who are willing to reconcile after the unspeakable. Rwanda’s children are just like ours. They play, and laugh, and cry. They love and work and learn and pray. They toil endlessly and are grateful for what they have.

Immaculee and Richard and Gonza and the people of Rwanda are my heroes. We are a nation of great resources, great power and great wealth. Their resource is their indominatable spirit. Their power is their faith in God and a better future. Who is the more powerful? While Rwanda is a small nation in area it is huge in its heart and soul.

Whenever I think back about the great lessons in my life I will always remember the faces of the children in Ntarama when we emerged from the crypts where so many bodies still lie. Those smiling, laughing children were looking ahead, not behind at a past full of ignorance and hatred. I’ll think of the faces of the poor who blessed me for my small contributions to their lives. I’ll think of Sonrise School and of the brilliant minds of those children brought out of the depths of poverty to achieve their potential. When I think of hope and grace and love and forgiveness, I think of Rwanda.

I Forgive Because I Must

2008-01-17T18:33:00.002-05:00

We were quiet in the car on the way back. Brandon was sleeping. Richard had on a brave face. Contemplative. Shaggy head down. I wanted to talk a little, to debrief.

“So, what did you think?” Richard asked after a lengthy silence. I had waited for him to speak the first words. This must have been so hard for him.

“I still don’t understand,” I said. “All of those people. The Hutu extremists. They all made a choice. I’ve heard about how well organized it was, about how the French were behind it, about the propaganda. But every one of those killers made a choice that goes against who we are as human beings.” There was another long pause. “They chose to kill.”

Richard replied, “If you don’t forgive it’s gonna eat you up, man.”

“Do you for give, Richard?” I had wanted to ask him earlier, but I didn’t have the nerve. But after seeing all of that…

“Yeah, I forgive. I do. What other choice is there?” Another pause. He looked straight ahead. I was crying.

WHAT OTHER CHOICE IS THERE? HATE!!!

Here is a man who will never go to church again. “I have no use for the church,” he said the day we celebrated mass at Ganza’a church. It felt like a very long time ago, although it had only been two weeks. He is supposed to videotape a church wedding today and he shudders at the idea. Yet he espouses forgiveness. Much of his family was killed in a church where they went for refuge. His brother was killed in front of him. He was shot and left for dead. But he wants the Hutu and Tutsis to live together in peace. He is doing what Christ taught. Despite his lack of faith in organized religion, he acts more like a Christian than many Christians. He helps the poor. Reasonably. He does not judge. He walks the toughest parts of Kigali. Fearlessly. What else could possibly be done to him, right? He counsels. He is a good and kind man. He doesn’t forget… but he forgives. Again, there is God. Beyond religion. Beyond rules and procedures to get to Heaven. It is God.

Children of Ntarama

2008-01-17T17:42:00.001-05:00

Children from the school at Ntarama.

When we were leaving Richard was teaching Serafina some English phrases. He wrote it out for her phonetically in Kinyrwanda so she could pronounce it… “It’s-Nice-To-Meet-You!”

The children from the school were around the cars. They wanted to try out their English. “What is you name?” “Where you from?” “Its-Nice-To-Meet-You!” They wanted handshakes. One little girl stroked my arm. “My you are HAIR!”

The contrast of emotions was amazing. How could we help but smile? How could I not see the FACE OF GOD in these children? In these happy moments?

In The Church

2008-01-16T20:15:00.002-05:00

The woman who walked us through the church, Serafina, was calm but reserved. She was very beautiful. Elegant. Poised. She spoke quietly and reverently about what happened in this church. She did not tell us her story. No one asked. Richard translated for us. “In this closet people tried to hide. They locked themselves in but the door was shot to pieces. The door is still there… In this area they killed the little babies by hitting them against the wall… In this area behind the altar the blood stains are this deep…”

We walked into the basement of the church. It is a memorial. There were cases of bones and skulls. Rows and columns. Many skulls showed the cause of death. There was a wooden club, a metal arrowhead, a machete.

Upstairs on the altar was a glass container of rosary beads. One way they could identify those killed was by the rosaries found in their pockets. Many rosaries in a pile. The stained glass windows were broken but enough glass was left to be simple and beautiful. Simple, beautiful, fragile and colorful and broken – Just like the people of Rwanda. The white cloth was left on the altar. It was of course spattered, covered really, in blood. Behind the church were spaces where thousands of the dead have been interred. Simple wooden caskets.

In the underground area behind the church there were still many bodies. Just the way they were found. I didn’t go down there. Cindy and I stayed in the outside air and the sunshine. There were birds singing. The wonderful-rich-musical-innocent-sound of children playing in the schoolyard just on the other side of a concrete block wall. Children born after the genocide. Ants still crawled on the ground. Overhead paper wasps built their nests. Children called out joyfully only 10 meters away. Downstairs and in the church unspeakable reminders of the evil men can do. Over the wall uniformed children with shiny brown faces and brilliant smiles played schoolyard games. And the birds sang. Bullet marks, skulls in rows, rosaries, caskets, clothes, craters, blood stains. Music in children’s voices.

God please help me to use what I have learned and experienced here to lead a better life every single day. Every Single Day.

Cindy cried and gasped for air. It was almost too much to even imagine. As the people prayed their rosaries and begged God to save them… How does Rwanda remain so spiritual? How do they go on living with these memories? Many of the 5,000 would not have been killed if they hadn’t gone to the church for protection. And yet Calliste bows his head and folds his hands in unashamed prayer before he eats. I have eaten with him many times. He always prays before he eats. Quietly. Publicly. Calliste. He sat on one of the benches of the church crying. Quietly. Publicly.

Ntarama

2008-01-16T19:55:00.002-05:00

7:14 AM
Thoughts about Ntarama. God please help me to use what I have learned and experienced to be a better person and to lead a better life every single day. Every Single Day.

5,000 people came to this small church for refuge. They thought it would be safe here of all the places they knew. I can’t imagine 5,000 people in this small space. They must have huddled side by side for there to be so many in this small church. They locked every door that they could. There was a metal bar gate locked tight when the attackers came. The bars were simply shot out.

In Rwanda most structures have ventilation bricks laid right into the walls. There is always a place for fresh air to get in. These spaces in the concrete blocks were used to shoot through. There was no place to hide. 5,000 people standing side by side. Craters in the concrete where grenades exploded, bullet marks everywhere, bomb fragments blown through the ceiling like a clear starry night as the sun shone through – thousands of tiny holes in the corrugated metal roof. Constellations in a black, black sky. The room was bare but for a few artifacts and the uncomfortable wooden pews.

Love

2008-01-16T19:37:00.002-05:00

Richard at The Serena during out last night together

Friday, July 17, 2007 12:35 AM
I am going to get to sleep in a few minutes. I will write about Ntarama tomorrow. I have notes in my little red notebook. We said farewell to Richard tonight. There was some live music at the restaurant of the hotel. A little combo that played songs in English, Kinyrwanda and French. Lots of Reggae. Our drivers will be here at 4:30 tomorrow and we’ll head out. I Think we’ll stay pretty close to the hotel today. As I turn in this last night in Rwanda I have such mixed emotions. I do want to come back again. I feel that I must, but I never want to be away from you for this long again. That may seem selfish but I have thought about Rwanda almost exclusively for months now. Reading and rereading Immaculee’s book, the Bishop’s book, Ishmael Beah’s A Long Way Gone (about Sierra Leone), reading stuff on the internet about the history of Rwanda, Youtube stuff on Rwanda. Through this time I have thought about poverty and death as well as grace and forgiveness. For months. I will never forget about Rwanda or this trip, these good people. But I have missed you too much. I am dependent, in some ways, on your consistent presence. Perhaps because I focused so much on human mortality It has made me realize that my days with you are finite. I love you, Heidi. I am certain now that one reason I came is to know just how much I love you. I know.

The Girl in the Road

2007-12-16T18:37:00.001-05:00

The roads were mostly good. The dust was low. The temperature was not too hot yet. We passed by many large farm cooperatives growing sugar cane The view in the distant valley was dotted with plumes of smoke. Burning off the cane.

While we were driving the traffic stopped suddenly. We thought there must have been a wreck. A few car lengths ahead of us a girl of about 13 or 14 lay in the road sprawled on the pavement. Her flip flops lay in the road next to her. A few people were standing around but it didn’t seem that anyone was doing anything to help her. We got out and approached. We heard “Mzunga” (sp?) among the people around us. It is not an altogether endearing term meaning loosely “crazy white people”. It was really scary. Strange. Surreal. The girl had foamy spit around her mouth and nose. The people in the nearby road crew kept on working. No one moved to touch her. Richard spoke to the people around her. Brandon and I kept back, near the car. When he came back he told us that she had had these spells before. It was a seizure. She was laying front down in the road, her face to the side. Richard explained that “these people” believed that a person with this sickness was contagious and that if you touched her while she was unconscious you would contract what she had (which I read as DEMONS).

As bizarre as it sounds he said to get in the car and drive on. What could we do? I felt totally helpless. I wasn’t in a position to act. Still, driving away, leaving her on the hot roadbed was numbing. I felt guilty. Richard said that she would be alright. The people said to Richard that this had happened to her a lot of times. We drove about a half mile and Richard talked to two police to let them know so that they could keep her safe. There was some relief in that. All of this happened before we got to Ntarama.

Going to Ntarama

2007-12-16T18:35:00.003-05:00

When we left this morning for the Ntarama Genocide Memorial we started out pretty light hearted. It was Richard, Shaboni (the driver), Brandon and me. We stopped at a traffic light behind a van with a huge GOD IS LOVE sign completely covering the back window. It wouldn’t be legal in the States. A smaller sign below had Richard's last name. He said that it is the name of a town in Rwanda. I don’t want to make more of this than it actually was but the juxtaposition of those words while we were on our way to a church where 5,000 people were killed. A church similar to where Richard’s own family was killed, where they had gone for refuge. GOD IS LOVE… RICHARD...NTARAMA.

Veranda Reflection

2007-12-16T18:29:00.001-05:00

Midori, Nancy, Portia, Brandon, Tina, Immaculee,
me, Cindy and Tim - All Inspi(red)

I’m sitting on the veranda where I have sat many times over the past two weeks. My American friends are all in their rooms. There are kids in the pool below. They are speaking Kinyrwanda but they are also speaking the lovely universal language of children. Laughing, chasing, screaming. Their happiness is so immediate. So complete. Reflecting on this day is hard. For one thing we will not all be together again. We have become a unit somehow. In so many ways we are all so very different, but have all come to love and respect each other despite our differences. After tomorrow we will never be together in the same room. Most of us will probably never see each other again. This bonding has been strange. Thrown together by chance, experiencing the reality and harshness and grace of this faraway place has brought us together in a way that nothing else ever could. Sitting here with a cold glass of water and the sounds of children and birds in this perfect temperature by myself surrounded by people speaking French, Swahili, Kinyrwanda and English. This is so unbelievable. So surreal. I could cry but I am not alone enough.

Saying No

2007-12-16T18:25:00.000-05:00

A couple of miscellaneous thoughts, events. When we were in the car yesterday, Brandon jokingly said, “No” to Cindy about something. It wasn’t a big deal but he refused to do something she had asked of him. Richard spoke, “In this country you don’t ever say no to your parents. Never. When you are asked to do something you do it without question. The only time you can say no is when you have a family of your own.”

Another little scene. One of our group of Americans gave money to a poor person. We were driving off and she thought it would be okay since we wouldn’t be mobbed by others. Richard cautioned that it may have done more harm than good. “If you gave that person 5,000 francs and the others have nothing and they are hungry… Think of what you have done to that one now.” It’s so complex. It is right to help people individually but Richard is right. You could actually put someone in danger. On the other hand when you donate to an organization there is waste. Greed. Resources may be used for useless, unrealistic projects. Salaries of workers, advertisements, phone banks. It’s hard to know the right thing to do.

Poverty

2007-12-16T18:20:00.000-05:00

Poverty in Rwanda seems different that the US. Poverty in America is something beyond lack of material possessions. There seems to be a feeling of hopelessness of oppression. Helplessness. I do not sense that in Rwanda. Mostly, even among the poorest, I see happiness. Not that people wouldn’t want electricity, or running water or a more comfortable place to live. I’m sure they do. But they seem grateful for what they do have. They work hard for everything – even their water – even the wood they use to boil their water and to cook. Here if you give the equivalent of a dollar to a poor woman she looks you in the eye and blesses you from her soul to yours. Of course there is evil here. But there is also hope, humility, gratitude, self-reliance that do not seem so present in the US. Hard work is expected here. People do not complain. Right now a man is washing the tiles on this veranda. They look like the tiles on our kitchen floor. He is washing this very large floor on his hands and knees. Soapy water from a bucket. A rag. He stands, works the kinks out of his back and then gets back to work. Every single tile washed by hand on his hands and knees.

Back From Akagera 2

2007-12-16T18:08:00.000-05:00

Here are some more of the sights and sounds from our trip to Akagera and back to Kigali. In many ways these long journies through the country have been as important as the destinations. Seeing the wild animals at Virunga and Akagera was fun but seeing thousands of people do what they do daily was essential to understanding this beautiful country.

A little one with a lacrosse club tee shirt down to his knees. Walking, walking, walking. Washing clothes in a bucket, washing children from a bucket. A mother goat tied dangerously close to the side of the road nursing its kid. A lovely young Rwandan mother, breast feeding her new baby, sitting in a tiny flower garden near her mud home. Carrying, carrying, carrying. Boys on bicycles coasting down steep hills, walking up.

Longing

2007-12-16T17:21:00.000-05:00

Friday, July 16, 2007 6:30 AM

It’s hard to believe that we have been apart for two weeks. That can’t happen ever again. My longing to be with you has come in waves. Now that I’ll only be Rwanda for another thirty-six hours it is rushing back over me. Knowing that I’ll be getting on a plane tomorrow night heading home to you brings such feelings of relief and joy. Loss too. I can’t explain it but being here with these people in this place… My eyes have been opened. I think – I hope that when I return home I’ll be different. Better. If you can ever manage to read this far I hope that you understand that I have changed. Grown. Not that I will have grown past you in any way. You have always been the kindest, most generous person I have ever known. My hope is that I will be more like you. My hope is that I will be more grateful every day for the many rich blessings in my life. That I will be worthy of the goodness – the God all around me. Most of all worthy of you.

People

2007-12-01T18:59:00.002-05:00

One of the best parts of this trip for me has been seeing how people in this very different part of the world live. On the paved road from Musanze to Akagera we traveled about 80 kilometers per hour. People walk constantly on both sides of the road REALLY close to traffic. Even toddlers are on the highway, little kids, all ages, all day. Walking, walking, walking. They are carrying stuff or going to get something to carry. There are school kids in uniforms, older people carrying bundles. You wouldn’t believe how much time and effort go into getting water. Women carrying big jugs of water in their heads, kids with water jugs strapped to their bikes, little ones struggling with water containers which seem almost as big as they are. Usually water is carried in large (about 5 gallon) yellow plastic jugs. Richard said that these may have come from refugee camps or are reused after buying large amounts of cooking oil. One way to make life a lot easier for a lot of people would be to help them to get access to clean water. When they get it to their homes they must boil it using wood scavenged or bought or bartered for. Water. Such a simple luxury for us and so desperately complex and challenging for Rwandans. Sometimes they pump water from a communal well. Sometimes villages have a communal spigot they share. There is a lot of cool social time around the wells.

As we were driving to Akagera Richard said during the genocide that this part of the country was under the protection of the RPF and so many people tried to get here. Refugees flooded this part of the country. It’s amazing how different this area of the country is from the volcanoes and gorillas to the north and east. There it was wet and tropical. As we drove over here it became much drier, far different from the tropical rain forest of the gorillas. From mountain gorillas to baboons, from air so damp that it made my shirt cling to my back to air so dry and dusty that it stung my throat and made my nose bleed.
There are many more cows in this area. Dangerous looking horns, much thinner than American cows. Still there are people working the land relentlessly with hoes. Tall banana trees everywhere. Little kids standing by the highway selling bags of limes, eggs, avocados. Lots of people carrying firewood in bundles on their heads, much of it tied with the stem of a fibrous plant. Wood for cooking maize, corn potatoes, African tea, coffee. Occasionally you see “a police” or somebody from the military wearing a beret and carrying an AK47 or a shotgun. After two weeks being here that still freaks me out a little. Not as much as it did when we first arrived. Bob Marley on the car stereo. Most people who have a music system still listen to tapes here. Richard loves reggae (“Don’t worry, every little thing is gonna be all right!”). He sings along loudly, off key, but with gusto.

Women strolling along carrying large colorful umbrellas in the bright sunshine. Boys riding or pushing bikes with huge sacks of produce (potatoes, beans, carrots) or large bundles of green bananas. Most people wear sandals or go bare footed. Two old men, white hair, one with a staff and a battered old fedora hat, both wearing tattered suits walking up the mountain holding hands. They are each other’s best friends. You can see that. Imagine all that they have been through together.

Tiny little mud brick or just mud houses with dirt floors. Yet, often you see a colorful little flower garden. The poor may understand beauty even more than the rich. And there IS beauty here. An old woman, bent, leaning on her staff. A young man driving a motorcycle with an old man on the back (his father?) and a baby in his lap (his son?). Sunlight through banana leaves, dirty yellow water jugs, windowless huts, multi-colored scarves, sweat-stained shirts, people smiling – laughing – talking – teasing – primping – posing at the village pump. “Kirkwood High School Tennis Club” t-shirt on a radiant shining faced teenage girl. She’s riding on the back of a bike pedaled by a handsome boy of about the same age. They are laughing. White teeth. Joy. They aren’t wearing shoes but they are wearing happiness. Beautiful intricate braids, ebony skin.

A day of dust. Freshly made mud bricks drying in rows and columns in the hot afternoon sun. Clothes drying on bushes. A primary school girl wearing her sweater on her head, dancing and clapping to her own inner music. Makeshift wheelbarrows made from found wood and a tire and axle. Nothing is thrown away if it can be used again. A group of women threshing grain in the slow breeze with baskets, large and round-patterned. They have made these baskets themselves with grasses they have picked. They thresh the grain they have grown to feed their hungry families in homes they have made themselves from materials they have fashioned from the very earth around them. A man planing wooden planks by hand from a tree he has cut and sawed into boards.

It’s 12:15 and I can barely keep my eyes open. Before I sleep I will hold you in my heart. I hope I dream of you. I love you.

Writing to You

2007-12-01T18:25:00.001-05:00

Sunrise in Akagera

It’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever NOT read so much for two weeks. I did read the local paper a couple of times as well as the booklets from the Memorial, but nothing in a book. Instead, for these two weeks, writing has taken up that space for me. I couldn’t write much yesterday (except for the little red notebook) and I missed it. Mostly, because it is a way for me to communicate with you, Heidi. I don’t know if you’ll ever get this far in this little composition notebook, but if you do I want you to know that when I sit down to write this, it is as if I am speaking to you. All these late evenings and very early mornings while you were half a world away – warm in the comfort of our boys and our lovely spot on earth – I have been with you through this trip and this little notebook. If you get this far, know that I have been looking into your beautiful eyes in these pictures I have with me and I have never loved you harder, held you closer to my heart. It took a lot of trust and love for you to free up our resources. It’s been tough in a lot of ways but a learning and growing experience like no other. I am forever grateful. I can’t tell you how much I love you.

Akagera

2007-12-01T17:55:00.003-05:00

The trip to Akagera was great, although it had its ups and downs. After not sleeping for more than an hour last night, it was a little hard to take the jolting 4-5 hours in the car to the park. Then we had about a two and half hour trip back to the hotel. The animals, (video - Akagera, Rwanda) the countryside, the sites we passed along the way were all awesome. I don’t even know the names of all the different creatures we saw. There were many small insects (including some wicked biting flies which plagued us for a few hours of the drive). It was really hot and extremely dry. So there was red dust in the air constantly as we were following the other car and they kicked up clouds.

Here are a few highlights from the park. After driving for about twenty minutes inside the park we saw some impala, big deer with long sharp horns. They were the exact color of the brush so I did not really see them until we were pretty close. We saw some tiny gazelles called reedy bucks (sp?). The dust was not so bad while we were in the brush. It struck me how very different the eastern part of the country is from the area where we saw the gorillas in the west. Even though Rwanda is small, the geography is extremely different from one side to the other. From gorillas and cool rain forest to the hot savanna with giraffes and elephants and hippos.

We saw two different kinds of eagles. One was quite like our bald eagle except its breast and shoulders were white. There was another kind of eagle we saw sort of posing on a log, tearing into some small animal it had caught which our guide kept calling WRONG CRESTED EAGLE. After probably too much consideration (remember I really didn’t sleep last night) I figured it was a LONG CRESTED EAGLE. Both were large beautiful birds.

Then we saw a bunch of zebras. We spotted them from very far away at first. Like the gorillas in Virunga, I thought we would not be able to get near them. We edged closer and closer in the cars until we were within forty feet. There were eight of them. So beautiful against the tawny colored grasses behind. We took lots of pictures. Shabani and Callixte (the drivers) really enjoyed this as well. Neither they nor Richard had ever been to this part of the country before.

There were many termite mounds the color of red brick and just as hard. Some were low and wide like giant fire ant mounds, Some were over five feet tall and almost cylindrical with rounded tops. Some were shaped exactly like tall cones.

We had some VERY close encounters with baboons. These were a little spooky. They are fearless, agile and, we were told, incredibly strong for their size. They approached the car and came quite close when we had gotten out.

We were also able to get very close to a male giraffe. We kept a reasonable distance and it was very willing to let us hang out with it for a while. We saw different kinds of antelopes, egrets and other water birds I couldn’t identify. There were some round birds that looked like guinea hens and many hippos in the water where we stopped in our quest to find elephants.

While it was a great adventure, the dust and dry heat made it a little uncomfortable. Because we were in the trailing car, the dust coated us. It was too hot to keep the windows closed and when they were open, we were driving in a red cloud. We spent about three and a half hours driving out to see elephants and they had already gone off into the bush.

This was a once in a lifetime trip, so I’m glad we went, although if/when I return to Rwanda, I might pass on this. The lodge in Akagera was very nice. There was no hot water in the room. When I asked Richard if he had hot water in his apartment he just laughed. “No one in Rwanda has hot water. The vast majority must carry their water in jugs unless they live in Kigali.” Another lesson in how much I take for granted.

The Women's Guild

2007-12-01T14:52:00.000-05:00

As we were leaving the Women’s guild leaders this morning (Peace, Agness, Peggy, Blandine, Claudine) they were so very proud of their beadwork and seemed extremely appreciative of our help to get themstarted on what may become a profitable enterprise. This was all Nancy’s genius. They blessed us over and over. They insisted that we have a prayer circle before we left yesterday and they prayed for our safe passage, blessings for our families, for our future happiness, that we might return to Rwanda one day, etc. I did feel blessed – and I DO feel blessed.

I was waiting for Joy to stop by the guest house to sign the permission form (for me to use the children’s photographs from Sonrise). I told the women in the Guild that I had to hurry back to the guest house, that Joy said that she would be there in ten minutes. “You don’t understand Rwanda time yet do you?” asked on of the women (Blandine?).

“What do you mean?”

“If Joy said 10 minutes it will be 30 minutes… at least. If she said 30 minutes it will be at least an hour. That’s the way it is in Rwanda.”

Callixte

2007-12-01T14:28:00.002-05:00

Callixte in the Genocide Memorial in Kigali

Our driver, Callixte (cal eest) is a sweet, quiet man. He doesn’t speak English so communication is ultra simple and accompanied by simple, universal sign language. I think he would just as soon stay quiet and let us chatter on without trying to understand us. We bought him dinner and tipped him very well when he left us to go home today. Tall, dark skin, shaved head, long fingers, big smile. He brought no bags along on our trip to Musanze. Just the clothes he had on. This morning when I got up at the guest house his clothes were drying on the hood of the car. He must have washed them out in his room last night. He ate with us nearly every meal and we made sure that he had water and snacks on the road. He has never asked a thing of us. Not a bathroom break, not food, not water, nothing. He smiles and nods and never says a word. He spent three nights away from his home with us. Three nights away from his home and his babies. He’s been with us for three days and I don’t even know what his voice sounds like.

But when we sit down to eat, all of us chattering away like monkeys, he bows his head and folds his hands and prays inside his head. Unashamed and unselfconscious. For minutes at a time. Then he looks up as if coming out of a trance. And smiles! We can learn so much from Rwanda.

Extremes

2007-12-01T14:11:00.002-05:00

The view from the veranda at The Serena Hotel

So we come back to this four star hotel. Swimming pool, cable TV, WiFi, etc. And it seems wrong somehow. I’m looking into the hills at unbelievably poor, simple, poor homes from my air-conditioned room. In a little while I’ll eat the best food in the country. They will eat what they have grown or what they could buy with what little money they could make from a tiny shop or selling something in the street. This is a country of such paradoxes, such extreme opposites. The few rich. The many poor. But they all look out at the same beautiful sunset. They all enjoy this lovely breeze. There is such a peaceful feeling here. It’s difficult to imagine that just thirteen years ago this country was torn apart. Rwanda

Farewell to Sonrise

2007-11-28T19:41:00.002-05:00

Another full day so far. We got up and intended to leave around 11:00 for Kigali but ended up going back to Sonrise one last time. I bought a large skin drum for the church. The one they had was very worn out. The money I spent for the drum went to the Mother’s Guild. We stopped on the way and Cindy bought a pretty nice stereo for the school as well. Midori and Portia bought another drum so we took them up to the school. I was thinking we were just going to drop them off. Joy, the business manager, asked us to come in to the school to “receive thanks”. It was break time so the kids lined up and listened while the principal extolled our virtues. It was a little uncomfortable but we did have more informal time with the kids. That feels amazing. Everyone wants to make contact. Shaking hands, hugs, fists, high fives. We helped them set up the stereo in the dining hall and listened to “Love Can Build A Bridge”. It was nice to know that we left something that they will use and appreciate and enjoy. We also left them a bunch of money just for their general needs. Joy was warm and very appreciative and I’m sure she will see to it that the money is spent wisely and well.

I saw little Sophia again. We sort of sought each other out. She blessed me and wished me safe travels. She blessed you and our boys and said that she would pray for me “in Jesus’ name”. I have her name and student number and I would like to write to her when I get back. She introduced me to lots of her classmates and her best friend, Sonia. They were so sweet together. They held hands when we were chatting and their arms were around each other’s waists when they walked away. I shall always remember them just that way. Holding hands is a common and lovely sight here. Everyone holds hands (man-man, woman-woman, and especially children). Brandon got a picture of two soldiers walking down the street, large guns slung over their shoulders, holding hands.

Sophia/Hope

2007-11-28T18:48:00.001-05:00

I connected with some beautiful children at Sonrise. One little girl named Sophia touched me deeply. I’m not sure if she has a sponsor or not. She may have a group sponsorship. I think sponsoring one of these beautiful children would be an important part of our tithing. She sat near me in church on Sunday and came up to me yesterday and today and began a conversation. She didn’t ask me to sponsor her. I’m sure they are told not to ask, but there is a real sense of self-worth associated with personal sponsors. I asked Sophia to sign my little notebook so I could remember her name. She passed it around and many children signed. She asked before we left if she could have my pen (again, I’m sure they are told not to ask). I said “sure” and she slipped it out of sight in a second.

These children at Sonrise represent the hope of this country. Three languages by the time they leave, among the highest test scores in the country, computer knowledge, etc. When we were walking up to the chapel from the school there were about twenty workers making gravel from large rocks. With hammers. Their arms swung methodically and tiny chips flew from the big rocks. It was to create a gravel road bed. Making little rocks from big rocks. No glasses, gloves or masks. Just swinging a heavy sledge all day long. That is so Rwanda.

Sophia was walking by my side. She insisted on carrying my guitar. It was big for her. It banged heavily against her little legs. “That looks like really hard work,” I said as we walked from the school to the sanctuary where Cindy and I planned to do our singing and dancing with the kids.

“That is why I am going to school,” she said. “So I don’t have to do that kind of work.” The big rocks had been dumped by the entrance to the school. It was perhaps a kilometer away. Uphill. Women were carrying the big rocks on pads their heads up the hill to where the men were breaking them. Rwanda. The eyes of Sophia shined. She held her head up high as she lugged my guitar case. This little girl will make a difference in Rwanda. So will the others at Sonrise.

Downtown

2007-11-28T18:43:00.001-05:00

Brandon and I walked around in the downtown area of this little town. It was bustling. I took a bunch of pictures to remember the feeling. Lots of people are OK with you taking their picture. I always ask permission if it’s a portrait. School kids enjoy it if you show them what their image looks like in the camera viewer. This little town (near Sonrise and the Cathedral) seems pretty typical. Tiny shops. Busy people walking carrying stuff on their heads from boards for construction projects to reeds to water containers. Many people riding bikes. Some vehicles. The trucks and cars are mostly old but nothing is ever broken beyond repair here. We went to an open air market where they sold everything from vegetables and fruits to clothes and small appliances.

The Old Woman at Sonrise

2007-11-12T20:08:00.002-05:00

Getting together with the children at Sonrise.

At 4:00 we went back to Sonrise. As soon as we got there we divided up into groups again and began working and playing with the kids. Cindy and I worked/played with the same group of kids as yesterday. We did some of the same praise and worship songs and dances with great participation. You wouldn’t believe the harmonies and, again, how quickly they learned the songs. They sang “Love Can Build a Bridge” and did the sign language to the chorus flawlessly. They sang it while we were saying good bye about 45 minutes later. Cindy left them a CD of many of the songs we sang and danced to together. A few children came up and gushed about what great songs these are. “These are the best songs we ever knew in English,” one said to me. These seem like little seeds we left behind. It was hard to say good bye. We connected so easily. They seemed so happy that we came. Some of that music will live on here. It will probably grow and change over time like a humpback whale song. But I think it will live on. Whenever we sing any of these songs at church I will remember this time in Rwanda.

Her hug was beautiful, a reminder of why we had come to Rwanda.

As we were leaving the chapel a very old woman was sort of wandering around inside. She was talking to herself. I thought she was praying. One of the teachers told me (loud enough for the old woman to hear) that she was crazy and that sometimes she came in and wouldn’t leave the church. She came up to me after the children had gone back to their school and we were packing up. She spoke to me in Kinyrwanda. The adults from the school said that she doesn’t make any sense. The teachers seemed nervous, as if she might be offending me or putting me off. They wanted her out so they could lock up. I stuck out my hand for a handshake and she looked surprised. She hesitated but then she took my hand warmly. I gave the kind of handshake that signals respect. She immediately fell into an embrace with me. She was so incredibly thin, Heidi. She hadn’t bathed in a long time. She seemed so fragile, almost brittle. She hugged me fiercely. I asked the people from the school, who were clearly uncomfortable, if I could give her some money. They reluctantly said it would be all right. I gave her 5,000 francs (about $9.00). It felt like the best money I ever spent. I sort of put my arm around her waist and we walked out together. I was another of those special moments that I will always treasure. It was God.

Nancy's Jewelry

2007-11-10T15:37:00.001-05:00

Nancy Strachan and Cindy Charles with our

new friends in the

gazebo at the Bishop's house.

Nancy’s jewelry idea worked out wonderfully. She brought suitcases full of beads and jewelry making supplies with her. Today we met with six women to show them the craft and leave the beads with them. We all had a blast! Cindy videotaped all of the instructions for putting on the ends and fasteners, how to bend the wire, how to measure and cut, etc. and left the tape with them. These were women from the church including a woman named Beatrice (The Bishops secretary /assistant). The women sang songs and laughed and teased and were so gracious to us.

After a little while of getting comfortable with the materials, one of the women began to sing. Within seconds all were singing beautifully. It was a lovely feeling to be in the gazebo on this pretty day, making jewelry and knowing that this is a project that could spin out and help many people. It was an easy and friendly time. And the singing and fellowship made Rwanda feel more like visiting the home of close friends.

While I’m here my mind never strays too far from the genocide but during that time my thoughts of death were suspended. These women were happy and grateful and leaving these materials and information behind seems like the kind of idea that will make a difference.

We didn’t get the chance to go to the bush hospital as we had planned because of Immaculee’s schedule changes. But by chance we met this American Doctor who has devoted his life to the healthcare of Rwandans. He and his wife have four kids and run a very earthy and simple medical facility not far from here. It’s called Shyira Hospital. [Shyira is the town where one of the “practice genocides” occurred. This area of the country was one of the worst outside of the city (Kigali) for violence during the genocide.] We did end up donating a bunch of money and stuffed toys for children and clothes. It was a happy coincidence that we ran into the Doctor.

My Prayers

2007-11-10T14:55:00.003-05:00

Monday 7/9/07 7:00 AM

I woke up early. About 5:00. The birds here are really loud at this time. Mainly these huge white-breasted crows and plenty of roosters. The last two evenings Cindy and Brandon and I have hung out while the others went to bed pretty early. We debriefed about the day, the trip, the people we are traveling with. We talk music, politics, religion – all of the things you are not supposed to talk about with new friends.

I woke up this morning to my little morning prayers. When I have said, “Bless those less fortunate than us,” in the past it was sort of rote. Not that it wasn’t sincere, it was. But I didn’t really know what I was talking about. Now I see a little Rwandan girl wearing a tattered dress and nothing else, standing in the cold mud while her mother toils away hoeing a vast field with a baby on her back. When I, “Bless those who are victims of violence and oppression,” now I think of an old insane woman who stayed at Mother Teresa’s orphanage with only one arm, or a man at the market with machete scars across his head, or Richard’s parents and sisters who died in a church or his brother who was murdered in front of him and him feeling helpless to do anything. Before I prayed for pictures on TV or in the newspaper or stories like Immaculee’s or The Bishop’s. Now I pray for Rwanda.

My prayers of gratitude are also stronger – better informed. Now when I get in my car to drive to work or to the store I will think of those lucky people here who have bikes to carry their heavy crops and wares. And those who must walk great differences every day to carry enough water on their heads to wash and cook. When I go to the grocery store and spend hundreds of dollars on food I will think of those whose food comes from the earth they till and of the hours of hard physical labor it takes to get the potatoes and beans they eat every day and are so grateful for. When I wake up to you each morning and smell your hair and touch your skin I will think of those who lost everyone they loved and had the strength and will to survive, go on with life and, especially those who can forgive. When I pray I will ask that the world may be more like Rwanda.

It’s 1:30 in the morning where you are. I woke up two hours and twenty minutes ago. Again, I can see you and the boys in your beds dreaming peacefully with full bellies, comfortable and warm. I miss you more than I can put into words. My prayers of gratitude are for you.

Being White and Being Different

2007-11-10T14:33:00.001-05:00

Being here and being white makes me ultra aware of being different. We have pretty much stayed together wherever we have gone. Portia is an African American but she looks different especially with her dreads. Most of the expressions are curious. Some, as when we were in the city center in Kigali, are not kind. I understand. We are so privileged. Most here are so poor. We have taken many pictures. That also makes us stand out. I try to be as unobtrusive as possible when the signs tell me. We are a group of pinkies in a sea of black.

At sunrise and at church being so different doesn’t have a negative feel but when we are out the stares feel mixed. Some kind, some curious, some menacing. This has helped me to empathize with minorities in majority situations. I want to remember this feeling.

Touching

2007-11-07T20:51:00.002-05:00

These children (Sonrise High School music video)are so intelligent. We taught them the sign language for the chorus on “Love Can Build a Bridge” and they learned it in about 3 minutes. I’m not exaggerating. When I sang and taught them songs it seemed that they snatched the songs from my scrawny voice and gave them back ten times better, a hundred times better. Subtle harmonies, slightly changed melodies but, to me, even better than what I offered them. So many children shook my hand – which they do so often and sincerely here. They look right into your eyes. There is graciousness and sincerity and hope. It’s palpable.

The Children at Sonrise

2007-11-07T20:46:00.001-05:00

Cindy Charles teaching dance at Sonrise School.

At 4:00 we went back to Sonrise not really knowing what to expect. At first we sort of just hung around. I took some portraits of beautiful children. Then we split up into groups. Cindy and I were with the children who wanted to sing and dance. We went to the sanctuary where we attended church yesterday. We taught a pretty big group fo girls some praise songs. “Open the Eyes of My Heart”, “Awesome God” and a few more. They learned them so quickly and sang them back more beautifully than you could imagine. Breathtaking. I played some blues and changed the tempo. I asked them to clap and to move along with the beat. Cindy taught a couple of line dances. They took to these quickly and naturally since singing and movement are both a part of song to them. Then they sang some songs for us. Most were in English, it was clear that they chose these especially for us as the songs they sang in church yesterday were in French and Kinyrwanda.

I videotaped them singing “Step By Step” by Rich Mullins. Inspiring. I can’t wait for you to hear and see it on tape. We left feeing real joy. It wasn’t that we developed any deep relationships, but because there was real fun and fellowship. Here were some folks who seemed glad that we came. I think Cindy felt it too. Relief. Gratitude. At last there was a group who saw us as bringing something. And they were grateful enough to give back. And it was in the language of music.

Others in our group played soccer with the kids (futbol), told stories and did crafts with the children. We all had a good time, but I think Cindy and I really felt good about our connection today.

Worshipping with Bishop John

2007-11-06T20:51:00.002-05:00

With Bishop John at the guest house

6:15 Sunday

Back From Sonrise

After the first service we came back to the guest house to regroup and then walked to the Cathedral for Bishop John’s service. We waited in the back for a little while then we were escorted to the front row. This service was all in Kinyrwanda but translators sat with us so we could understand. They were marvelous. The bishop introduced us at the end of the service. It was also a very high energy service. The choir sand loudly and beautifully and for many of the songs people danced up and down the aisles and across the front of this lovely church. The congregation of this church dresses up (we were expected to wear nice clothes as well). The Cathedral has electricity and a sound system and the band played electric instruments so it was a very different experience from Sonrise. The singing was no less stirring.

We were all a little exhausted from not sleeping last night. I could barely keep my eyes open. It was humbling to be introduced to the congregation. Nancy gave a beautiful and articulate response for us all. John is an eloquent speaker. Worshipping in Rwanda is so energizing, so exhausting and emotional. It takes hold of you

John came back to the guest house and had lunch with us. He was very gracious and shared the considerable progress that has been made in Rwanda and how far they have to go. He was funny and endearing and really proud of the school. Visiting the school and worshipping with the children as well as the adults at the Cathedral brought home to me how very far Rwanda has come in thirteen years. Just thirteen years ago this area of the country was in complete turmoil. Richard told us that this was one of the most violent areas. Now people worship God together so completely. It’s amazing

Worship

2007-11-06T20:11:00.002-05:00

With some of my new friends at Sonrise.

Sunday 12:50 PM
We just got back from a very long Sunday of church. First we went to Sonrise for the service conducted mostly by the students. There was almost an hour of the loudest and most spirited music I have ever been in the middle of. It ROCKED! It rattled my bones. There was a lot of dancing and swaying and stepping in place. The children sang from the depths of their souls. I mean it. I’ve never heard anything like it. Our church at its most prayerful and engaged was never anywhere even close to this. Someone would begin a song and in a few bars everyone in the place was singing in full voice. When the song ended, someone else would begin another. It was practically seamless.

The only song in English was “If You’re Happy and You Know It”. A translator came and sat down next to us and told us these phrases to translate some of the songs for us:
*When Jesus is in your heart all is well
*We will all be happy when Jesus returns
*We are thankful that the Lord is our savior
*All the good people in the world will be with him in Heaven

So much was lost in the translation! The walls of this place were shaking with the spirit of these children.

The sanctuary was very simple (as almost all things are, simple but elegant). The crosses on the wall were aluminum foil and construction paper. There were strings across us over our heads with dried flowers. The benches were simple wooden boards with legs. The only instruments were big skin drums. Animal fur still clung to the rims (goat?). The only fancy decoration was a glass cross on the table that served as an altar.
My most powerful memory was the joy and power that went into their worship (video Worship Service in Rwanda). Can you imagine singing and dancing absolutely full blast for an hour before any words were even spoken at the service?

The service itself was in Kinyrwanda and English. I am not sure if it was because we were there or if they do that so that everyone can hear both languages together to reinforce their language skills. Once again I am left with this really uplifting feeling that the stuff in a place of worship really means nothing. The comfortable benches, nice lighting, stained glass windows and all of the finery means nothing without the spirit of God. It was in this place with these wonderful children. God was within these plane brick walls, in the the sound of these worshipful voices and in the hearts of these children. Again, we have so much to learn from Rwanda.

Sonrise

2007-11-03T15:36:00.001-04:00

These are some of the beautiful children at Sonrise School.

Sunday 7/8/07

We are now at Sonrise School in Musanze. Conditions are pretty rough here compared to American schools. The people are very nice and extremely welcoming. We toured Sonrise yesterday. Compared to US living standards the conditions for children seem bleak. Twelve kids to a room. Every child is allowed a small plastic bin (maybe 1.5 cubic feet) for personal belongings as well as a small carry on size suitcase which is kept at the foot of their beds. No pillows. We toured the entire school from the kitchen to the dorms. Three fourths of these kids are the poorest of the poor, in a poor country. Most are from orphanages. Many of the younger ones were street kids, many of their parents died of AIDS.

When we got there it was Saturday evening. The sun had already begun to set (6:15 – 6:30). The kids were playing and socializing in their play area which is simply a large clay courtyard. It was very slanted and filled with ruts. Many were playing soccer (futbol) with a homemade ball. It was made of old plastic bags tied and twisted together. All of the children have extremely short hair so it is difficult to tell the young boys from the girls unless they are wearing dresses. They go to school six days a week. The upper school kids study until nearly bedtime (lights out). Forty kids to a class. Two classes per grade level. Subjects are taught in English but the kids also learn French and already speak Kinyrwanda.

Joy, the woman who toured us, is very direct. Things are simple. Kids wash themselves outside (probably just the little ones). They wash their own clothes, make their own beds. I think they get a lot of visitors but there was a mixed reaction to our presence. We are allowed to take pictures but it feels like it might be a little annoying to the adults so I don’t know if I’ll take many here. There was also a mixed reaction to our doing projects with the children. Certainly, we won’t do anything to disrupt their school day, so anything like games, dance, songs and stories will have to be after that. I don’t get the sense that Joy (the business manager) is all that happy that we are here. She sort of tolerates our presence.
What they have done with what they have is nothing short of amazing. Their test scores have been among the top in the nation since they have been in existence – which is only a few years. It is VERY strict! As we were touring we passed by a room in the girl’s dorm with the lights out. Joy switched on the light and found a couple of girls lying down. She fussed at them, “Are you Sick?” If you are then go get assistance. If not then get out of here.”

I have mixed feelings. They are truly saving these children and helping them to be the best and the brightest in the country. I am mostly impressed. But it is strict and somewhat harsh compared to anything I have seen in the US. It is a different way of thinking about education.

You at Home

2007-10-02T19:55:00.000-04:00

It’s almost 8 AM now. 2:00 in the morning for you. You are asleep, tucked into your big pillow. The waning last quarter moon is up there. You are warm in our soft bed. I long to hold you when you are sleep, to feel your soft breathing and the beat of your heart. My heart beats for you. When I close my eyes I am almost there with you. I pray that your dreams are sweet.

The Woman at Kibeho

2007-09-26T18:30:00.002-04:00

The shy woman at Kibeho

I left that sacred space with an intense feeling of love and God in my chest. As I walked down the narrow hall I saw a woman. She was ironing the old fashioned way, alternating two irons heating over coals. She was ironing priest’s clothes – the kinds of things they wear in church. When she looked up at me she smiled a shy smile. There was another one of those moments of contact I’ve had here that sort of thrill me – warm me – reach the deepest place in me. She reached out her hand in the kind of traditional handshake. It is a show of respect. She held out her right hand and clasped her right forearm with her left hand. We held hands longer than people usually do, maybe thirty seconds. When we let go our hands slid apart slowly, our fingertips lingering. It’s hard to describe what happened. When I read over what I have written it seems feeble. We sort of thanked each other in our own languages and I slipped outside. I wanted to get her picture but I was too shy to ask her. As I went outside and spoke with the others, I saw her peeking around the corner. We were all holding cameras. I think she wanted me to take her photograph. I walked over to her and motioned the question. She stood erect, smoothed out her blouse and ran her fingers back through her shining black hair. She smiled faintly. I don’t remember ever looking into the eyes of a more beautiful woman. There was a connection there I will never be able to explain. We did not understand each other’s spoken language at all. But there was something deeper.

Maybe it is because it is such a spiritual place or because of Immaculee and her spirit. The air was holy. The rocks on the ground, the black and white birds and the simple building. The sounds of school kids and the cawing of crows and the hoeing of the fields nearby with the constant chunk, chunk, chunk of steel in earth. It was all holy and somehow filled with God’s presence.

Praying

2007-09-25T19:44:00.001-04:00

The shrine at Kibeho

As I knelt there thinking of what in my life I really wish for I couldn’t think of anything for myself. Nothing. Here in Rwanda I have seen poverty that is almost unimaginable in the US. I have heard stories and seen evidence of the genocide – madness beyond comprehension. What do I wish for in my life? What could I possibly be lacking?

So… My prayers became those of gratitude. I thought of Devin and Colin and our wonderful home in the woods, Sasha, our school, friends and family, our church, which now means so much to us. I thought of you, Heidi. You. More than anything or anyone the biggest blessing in my life has always been you. Your light in my life is God. So I prayed with every fiber of myself to be thankful for you and for all the many rich blessings in our lives. My prayers of petition were for Rwanda. Rwanda has been through so much. I prayed that the peace and comfort that I have experienced could become part of these wonderful people’s lives. I prayed that Americans and privileged people all over could see the strength and power that comes through forgiveness. I prayed that the privileged few who have so much could share and learn from these beautiful people, this wonderful country.

We left that holy place and I remembered that I had left my sunglasses inside. I went back to that room by myself and looked at the inexpensive plastic floor covering, the peeling plastic forming the cross on the windows, the spider webs in the screens and the paint peeling from the walls and I understood that the decorations didn’t mean a thing. It’s all about the presence of God. In that most humble place there was God. I’m not saying that I know all about God. But in that room, it didn’t matter what I was wearing, how my hair was cut, if my jeans had a hole in them. It doesn’t matter if my church has a stain in the carpet, or if there are fresh flowers up front every week. It doesn’t matter if we have expensive monitors showing the words to every song or a sound system that is extraordinary. It doesn’t matter if a child cries during the service or the pastor wears a suit and tie. And if I sing off key, don’t get a chance to shower before church, it doesn’t matter. If I understand anything about God’s message it is that we can be the people we want to be. We can be people who make a positive difference on this planet. We are here to be protectors and stewards and builders. We are here to learn and to teach about what is possible. We are here to help others in all the ways we can.

Kibeho

2007-09-25T19:42:00.003-04:00

Immaculee with the statue of the

Blessed Virgin Mary

at Kibeho

It took about four hours to get there and, as I said, the passengers in our car were pretty cranky and a little sacrilegious. It was hard to have a good attitude about it because we were uncomfortable the whole way. But when we finally got there, I could definitely feel the power of God in that place. Immaculee fell to her knees to pray and she cried hard. She told us about the visitations and what an important place this is to Rwanda and to the Catholic Church. There are only a few places on Earth where there have been confirmed sightings of Mary. Because Immaculee was so into it, the power was magnified. We went inside to a little cement block room where Mary first appeared to a humble worker at this school. There were small statues and pictures and plastic film applied to the windows to form a cross. A little candle. Very modest. I knelt to pray along with the others and began with the Hail Mary I had recited countless times as a kid.

Hail Mary,
Full of Grace,
The Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Jesus.
Holy Mary,
Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now,
and at the hour of death.
Amen.

It was powerful. Immaculee has been saying over and over that if you say the Rosary a certain number of days with reverence in your heart that your desires will be fulfilled. I can’t say I believed this entirely. I do believe in the power of prayer. I know that when you focus on something with all of your energy it is much more likely to happen. In the back of my mind I had doubts. Not that I doubt the power of God. Maybe I doubt the power of humans to know what is best.

Kibeho to Kigali

2007-09-12T20:26:00.002-04:00

The trip to Kibeho (the shrine to Mary) was a wonderful taste of the countryside. Most of the houses are made of materials from the land. Most are very simply made. The frames of the houses are slender trees or bamboo with the branches knocked off. Woven across are branches and covering all of that is mud. I think it hardens in the sun. There were a few thatched roofs and many made from corrugated metal or earthen tiles. Many window spaces with no glass. Lots of doorways have no doors. The houses in the country are very tiny, smaller than our living room. No electricity. When we were riding back it was close to dark when we left Kibeho. We drove at least two hours in total darkness. Not a single light from a house. I didn’t even see candlelight, although it may have been there. No streetlights.

The highway (video - Country of thousand and one hills!) had two lanes and people walked up and down the sides all day long. So many people carry bundles balanced on their heads. Firewood, building materials, straw, reeds, baskets, bags of produce (some of these were HUGE), large bunches of bananas, jugs of water, etc. I have never seen one fall.

The driving here is intense. There is constant passing on blind curves, tailgating, driving on the wrong side of the road. Honking, flashing of lights, swerving, perpetual near collisions. In the city the driving is brutal. People drive so close, even at high speeds, and cars often nudge each other as they push into traffic.

So tired now. I’ve been waking up around 5:30 or 6:00 every day and having a hard time staying up past midnight or so. Sleep is restless. I can’t really explain what I am feeling over the phone and when I read this over is seems scattered and self-serving. I hope in some real way you know how much I love and miss you. I’ve memorized every smile line and freckle on your face from the pictures I brought. When I am alone I fall into those pictures. I can almost feel you – almost taste you. Sometimes when I look into your eyes I am breathing air you have breathed.

The Man With No Legs

2007-09-12T20:14:00.003-04:00

We stopped in a restaurant in Butare to go to the bathroom. A little man was crawling toward our car. He had no legs. I could not tell how old he was. His hair was half gray. His black eyes were silvered around the edges with cataracts. He wore a suit jacket. Our eyes locked. I took out a five thousand franc note and folded it into a tiny ball. From the shadows of the restaurant I gave him the quiet sign (a finger to my lips). I had been cautioned about giving money this way. I walked to him and bent over and clasped his hand. I left him the tiny ball of money. He looked into me, Heidi. I know you understand what I mean. He looked into me. He mouthed the words God Bless You. Barely a whisper. I felt blessed.

Butare

2007-09-12T20:04:00.001-04:00

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.

The Way to Kibeho

2007-09-12T20:03:00.001-04:00

Saturday 7/6/07

I am sorry that I haven’t been able to call yet today. I hope that you aren’t worried. We left the hotel at 8:30 AM (2:30 AM your timer). Cindy had the phone in the other car. Now we are sitting in traffic about three hours from Kigali. We are coming back from Kibeho where we visited a shrine to the Virgin Mary. She appeared here several occasions beginning in November of 1981. The first visitation was to a worker at a tiny school on a mountain. It’s a long story and I can’t tell it very well but Mary appeared and sent comfort to the people and her message was unconditional love. I need to look up more about it but being here with Immaculee was a moving experience.

The trip was long and cramped. It took about four hours. It wasn’t my choice to do this today. The driving in Rwanda is pretty scary. I was in the car with folks who really don’t buy into Catholicism. Most of the jokes were pretty sacrilegious. Much of the road was bumpy and these trucks have tight shocks that made the secondary roads difficult.

A Tutsi Woman

2007-09-09T17:15:00.006-04:00

During the genocide a Tutsi woman was tortured and raped multiple times by Hutu extremists. Her family was tortured and killed an the river near her home. She was left for dead. But she lived. She became pregnant and kept the baby (I don’t think abortion is a real option here). She had no other family left alive. Her only surviving child was fathered by one of her tormentors. How can you get your head around something like this? She kept her baby and she loves it despite how it came to be. She loves this baby. That is God.

Choose Your Way to Die

2007-09-09T17:15:00.004-04:00

There’s this little story/lesson/parable Richard told us. It’s simple. It goes something like this. A man is walking along in the forest and he turns around to find that he is being chased by a lion. He barely makes it to a tree where he escapes by climbing to the top. In the tops of the trees a giant deadly snake comes after him. He climbs so high to avoid the snake that the tree bends towards the river. In the river he spots an enormous crocodile. The crocodile spots him. Richard asked, “What do you do? What happens?” Brandon and I just sat there waiting for the answer. “You choose your way to die,” was his response. He went on.

In the genocide (Video - A Love Letter to My Country, Hear Her Cry) you would probably either die by being shot or being chopped by a machete. It does not cost money to kill someone with a machete but bullets cost something. Some people chose to die by a bullet so they paid their captors for the bullets to kill their families and themselves. They chose their way to die.

Away from this madness walked some survivors. Immaculee and Richard and others. Even those who don’t bear physical scars lost people they loved and carry memories that will forever haunt them.

The Belgian Barracks

2007-09-09T17:14:00.007-04:00

The Memorial for the Belgian soldiers

The Belgian Barracks

On our way back to the hotel we saw a small building riddled with bullets and fragment marks. It turned out to be the scene of the Belgian soldier’s deaths at the start of the genocide. A woman named Marie Josee took us around to the different rooms and told us in Kinyrwandan (translated for us by Richard) the story of the brave Belgian peacekeepers who tried to protect the prime minister after the president was killed at the start of the genocide. The prime minister was murdered along with her husband. The soldiers were taken to their barracks where they were tortured and killed. Now the barracks (video - This is where the Belgian para's got killed in 1994!) are kept nearly as they were after the soldiers were killed. Bullet holes, grenade fragment marks, grenade craters in the floor, blood stains on the concrete. Marie Josee was wonderful. She was pretty collected throughout the telling. She had never met Richard and they talked a lot. Just the two of them.

Before we left she told us her story. Confusion about her father, whether he was Hutu or Tutsi, thinking she knew who her father was then sort of being betrayed by her mother. Her Hutu husband leaving her with two small children because her father may have been Tutsi. She tried to put on a brave face but she was terribly sad. She burst out crying. All of us got emotional.

When we sat on the wall outside waiting for the others who were comforting Marie Josee, Richard sat with Brandon and me. Again, very emotional. It’s why he has to eventually leave Rwanda. Too many stories with tragedy leading to more tragedy. He told us a few stories

Beggars

2007-09-09T17:13:00.001-04:00

Many times during our walk around Kigali we were approached by people asking for money. We had been pretty sternly counseled not to give to them. Many of the women asking for help had small babies. My heart was torn. The first time I slipped a 5,000 franc note from my pocket (about $9.00 American) and gave it to a beautiful young woman with a baby. No one noticed. The next time I tried to do the same thing (another woman with a very young baby) some others must have seen because they followed us and would not leave. “Please, my baby is sick! My baby is sick!” Again, my heart was broken. Richard was angry. He must have picked up on what I had done. The women were relentless. Finally he said we could give them 100 francs – but not me. Someone else had to do it.

When we debriefed later he said that he knew “that one” (the girl who would not leave me alone) and that she sniffed glue and that the money would go right to her drug habit. The baby, he said, wasn’t hers.

Immaculee told us at another time that Richard gave a lot of his money to the poor. When he does give money he takes people out and buys them food. He eats with them. He always talks to them, although he just told us to say NO! (oya sp?) He says things like, “Why aren’t you in school?” “Go help your mother at her shop.” “You gotta get work – do you want to keep asking for money?”

Walking Kigali

2007-09-09T17:12:00.001-04:00

The busy streets of Kigali

11:15 PM

I loved hearing your voice and that everything is well and normal. It’s not that I take you or the boys for granted. But being away for this long makes me crave you. While this is a really valuable experience, I do feel like I’m missing out on some important Kick-back time because this is anything but relaxing. I told you on the phone a little about today’s adventure. Tim and Immaculee spent all day working on making contacts and schmoozing with Paul Kigame, the president. (It is interesting to be in a place where the leader is adored by almost everybody.)

Richard came early. He spent the entire day with us. First we walked through downtown Kigali. I took pictures but there’s no way they can do it justice. Extremely busy. People everywhere. You can buy almost anything from vendors or from the tiny shops crammed together. It’s very poor. Dozens of people came up to us selling everything from fruit to sunglasses, pants to belts, phone cards, fabrics, t-shirts, etc. Laughing, jeering, Kinyrwanda, French, snatches of English. Smells of delicious cooking food, tobacco, body odor, diesel exhaust, perfume. One scene that stays in my mind is about a dozen guys pushing a broken down bus up the street.

Today we were just scouting, looking around. When we come back (after going to Sonrise School) we may go to shop a little more. We took lots of pictures but that sort of drew people’s attention and we already had enough of that. Richard is the only man with dreadlocks I have seen here. (“Hey, Rasta!”) Plus he is very well known as he grew up not far from here. Our group was the only white people around all day so we were closely studied the whole time we were about.

Richard

2007-09-09T17:11:00.001-04:00

Richard is a friend of Immaculee’s. They go way back to school days. He is a big heavy lidded man. Dreadlocks. Control. Brilliant mind. Barely making ends meet. Wants to make a documentary about Rwanda and the genocide but seems to be hung up. His story is every bit as compelling as Immaculee’s. He doesn’t like to be in the spotlight. He has a poet friend who has published some of his letters/poetry which sort of account on a surface level his experiences and tragedy and loss. I saw a little of this on the internet the other day. He was wounded, left for dead, watched as his brother was killed (others too I think). He chooses to stay here at least for a while. He understands the needs here and, in his way, is helping his country to come back from despair. I have the same kind of respect for him that I do for Immaculee. Not because of the terrible things that have happened to him but because he has come out on the other side whole.

9:30 AM

As I was writing Richard came up. He thought we were going to Kibeho (ki bay ho) this morning and he was going to film. Plans changed so we had breakfast together. I know more of his story now. He has worked for organizations which helped commute death row inmates’ sentences to life in prison. He was an investigator who looked into the young lives of prisoners for reasons why they might have “gone bad” as he put it. He doesn't know if he can stay. Too hard. Too many sad memories and too much guilt.
He spoke about the best ways to help Rwanda. He isn’t for aid per se but rather helping people to stand up on their own. He’s OK with us being here. If nothing else, we can share our experiences with others. He would like for people to come to Rwanda. For the world to see this place differently. It looks like he’ll be with us as we go to visit the Sonrise School as an interpreter. I think it is also a way to give him some business. Immaculee sort of booked his time for these two weeks. It will be good to have him there with us. I see him more as a teacher than an interpreter. We shall see.

The Veranda

2007-09-09T17:10:00.001-04:00

Friday 7/5/07 7:30 AM

It is a weird feeling sitting on the veranda by myself in the morning as I have done most days so far. This is a nice hotel. Very nice. The nicest in Kigali I am told. The nicest in Rwanda. Presidents stay here. So here I am on a “mission”, staying in the nicest place in the country. I realize that just by staying here I am “helping” Rwanda. Many people are employed in this hotel. A man washes the tiles on this big veranda almost every day. The rooms are immaculate. The food is excellent. The waiters and waitresses all make a wonderful living because of this hotel. Many people are benefiting from our visit so far from the doormen to the drivers but I still have that doubt about whether or not it was worth it for me to come.

I don’t know how the others in the group feel. To some it may be a cool experience just to travel to a faraway place. To some in our group it changes the world just a little bit to give out angel stickers to poor children who come up to the car when we stop. What real difference am I making besides fueling the economy? Even the money I have given to the drivers and the orphanage; the songs and sweets for the little ones haven’t made a real difference in anyone’s lives. When I am here among such enormous grief and need and staying in the Serena Hotel like I am royalty, spending hundreds of dollars to see gorillas and being guarded by men with machine guns, sitting in the VIP section of the stadium to watch a parade and leaving that event to enter crowds of people some with only one arm and asking for money in one language after another…

Scars and laughter, grief and forgiveness, mothers toiling in fields with little ones wrapped to their backs in the rain, pictures of those who died in the genocide, prayers to forgive, pushing bicycles laden with fruit or wood up mountainsides… Richard.

The Reception

2007-09-08T09:38:00.001-04:00

A soldier prepares his speech at the Liberation Day celebration.

The reception was also surreal. It was in the office compound of the president. He was socializing and having his picture taken with dignitaries. I never approached him, although I wanted to. He is so brave, so selfless. He saved this country in its most desperate hour and he presides over a peace and reconciliation process like the world has never seen. I am in awe of him. But I couldn’t approach him. So much heavily armed security – of course.

Beautiful women in traditional dress, high powered government officials and officers in uniforms, huge tents open at the sides – a full bar in every one, exotic food, wonderful traditional dancers. They were beautiful/mesmerizing/haunting/enchanting/sensual. Large hollow animal skin drums and chanting. You would have loved that part. They danced the land; swaying grass, long horned cows, the wind, the savannah, the rainforest. There was so much power in that compound. It was kind scary (beginning to see a pattern?). Not so much the awe-of-the-elite. Just knowing how much blood had been spilled by the men in that place. Also the suffering many of them had to endure. Men with machete scars across their heads, bullet scars, slash marks. It wasn’t bad. It was exciting, intense.

It was also a little creepy leaving because we headed out to find the cars and drivers without exactly knowing where they were. There was a lot of desperation there. Soldiers with machine guns everywhere. People driving crazily (which is pretty average here). Lots of poor people asking for money.

We ended up going to a soccer game in that same stadium where the president spoke. Weary. Long day. I miss you more than you can know. I love you.

The Military

2007-09-08T09:37:00.004-04:00

Paul Kigame delivers his Liberation Day speech.

One of the surprising things for me was how much the military/violence/weapons were glorified during the parade and ceremony. It’s just that it wouldn’t be all that acceptable in our country. Lots of demonstrations of hand-to-hand combat, bayonet drills, hatchet-knife-pickax-and machete throwing demonstrations, etc. Different sections of the military part of the parade were devoted to showing off different weapons. A hundred guys would march with M16s.

Then another hundred with

Kalashnikovs.

Then grenade launchers. The VIP section was about half military men in camo-type uniforms. It only stands to reason that the military would be held in such high esteem since it was what stood between genocide and eventual peace, madness and civilization. It is also what keeps their enemies at bay (the Interahamwe – extremist Hutu – are all around in neighboring countries). I’m sure this was just as much to show their enemies their military strength and resolve as it was to give the people of Rwanda peace of mind. Still it was kind of spooky. Same with all of the heavily armed police and military presence around Kigali. Lots of guns. Big ones.

The Soccer Field

2007-09-08T09:35:00.004-04:00

Paul Kigame enters the futbol stadium on Liberation day

Independence Day in Rwanda is remembered by the people here to celebrate real independence. The ceremony at the soccer stadium was surreal. Because we were with Immaculee, our little eclectic group was seated in the VIP section. Parade. Business, military, dignitaries. It lasted for about four hours. Paul Kigame’s speech was pretty amazing. He would like to see Rwanda’s image go beyond malaria, AIDS, poverty, third world status and, especially, the genocide. It was all about individuals making a huge difference in the lives of their countrymen.

Boring at the time because it was in Kinyrwanda but it was later translated for us by Richard and Immaculee. The president was only a short distance from us when he gave his address to the country. Before going into the stadium we met some important dignitaries and men in the military. The head of all of the military in all of Rwanda set us up with the nice seats and the invitation to the reception with the president afterwards. I can’t remember his name (James ?). He’s one of the most powerful people in the country.

Liberation

2007-09-08T09:33:00.002-04:00

Thursday 7/4/07

I miss you so badly today. Fourth of July is one holiday we have always spent together and one we enjoy so much. Not so much because we think of or honor our independence. Just because we make it special. The fireworks, the boat, grilling out… family.

Today is the thirteenth anniversary of the end of the genocide. Today the Hutu and Tutsi celebrate the end of real madness and the beginning of goodness coming back into this country. Before the genocide the Tutsis were mercilessly persecuted. When they were mocked, compared to cockroaches, threatened, beaten, raped, even killed – they could do nothing. Just look away, just hope that it didn’t get worse. Just pray. Then there were three months of Hell.

Today, things are not right in Rwanda but they are getting there. Thirteen years ago well over a million people were killed in the worst ways imaginable. Thirteen years ago Immaculee and the others were praying in the bathroom they had been in for months. There was no government, police, social services, transportation – nothing civilized except for the unbelievable daring of some selfless people who risked their lives to save others.

So Rwanda

2007-09-08T09:30:00.000-04:00

About a mile into the trail, skirting farm fields, there were several people dumping dirt from containers they carried on their heads into a large squared in foundation. One after another after another dumped their dirt and walked really far to get another load to dump into this huge space. They were going to build a pumphouse there. I have no idea why they had to get the dirt from so far away and carry it on their heads that great distance. There was dirt everywhere. But again, slow, steady, persistent, consistent.

Many people working the fields. Plowing by hand with big heavy hoes. Little children working with muddy clothes, mothers with babies wrapped to their backs, rainy mist, fog, cool dampness, rainforest at the edges of the fields, beehives, eucalyptus trees, rich black tilled earth, wet black faces. Soldiers accompanied us – trailed us actually. They carried AK47’s. Supposedly they were there to scare the gorillas by shooting into the air if one got violent. Thinking back on it (and considering conversations I’ve had since returning) I’m pretty sure they were there to protect us from guerillas not gorillas. That part was weird. The soldiers, or guards, never looked us in the eye or initiated any contact. I know they were just doing their job. Still, AK 47’s for protection? It was a reminder of just how far we were from home. How far I am from you.

After reaching the gate to the park we had only about another mile before encountering the gorillas. We could hear them (and smell them?) before actually seeing them. We made plenty of noise to alert them to our presence and Anoclet made some pretty convincing gorilla sounds to announce us. At first I saw a young one in a tree and thought that was about the level that our contact would be. It got so much more intimate. Eventually a small group of mother, father, juvenile son, five month old baby son and juvenile friend all pretty much played around within seven meters of us.

The baby gorilla at Virunga

Anoclet was beside himself with joy. He hadn’t had a very clear view of the baby himself and he was sincerely awed at the sight. He spends around an hour a day hanging around with these guys. He said that the parents “presented” the baby to us. The little one, not a great walker yet, frolicked and nursed and ate and rolled around constantly. It seemed to be showing off. It would barely stay still long enough for me to take pictures is the low light. The juveniles wrestled and thumped their chests; shoved, kicked and farted to our great pleasure, awe and delight. The older ones were very laid back. I was never scared. Photographs and videotape definitely won’t do it – neither will my feeble words. The beauty and power and ease were breathtaking. But I guess the theme of so much of this trip is the Godness in these moments. It was there, Heidi.

Virunga Park

2007-09-08T09:28:00.002-04:00

Cindy and Anoclet at Virunga

At the park today we were with a cool group of people. Cindy, her step-son Brandon, two others from our party (Midori and Portia). Three Germans came with us as well. The others in our group Immaculee, Tim Van Damm, Tina and Nancy as well as Richard went in another car to a different part of the park. Amazing.

We spent an entire hour hanging out with five or six gorillas. The thing is… I didn’t want to have that experience without you. I don’t regret coming. I will get the most out of this trip. But I so miss being with you. One of my biggest lessons from this trip is that your presence in my life has been the single most important part of me.

The trip to get to the park was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. [The car wreck - maybe I'll write about this later]

When we got there we headed down a fairly long winding muddy path through farm country on the edge of the rainforest. It was about an hour walk. Not steep exactly but uphill. Overcast, cool, wet.

It was a little spooky at first. Lots of people hanging around the station. Some of the men there used to be poachers and now they carry backpacks, water, etc. for people who can’t make the trek unaided. Many of the men had unfriendly looks.

We left there and our guide (Anoclet: ann oh klet) was wonderful. He truly loved his job and these gorillas. As we walked he often stopped to talk about the vegetation and the community’s role in maintaining the park and vicinity.

Too Long Gone

2007-09-08T09:27:00.001-04:00

Heidi, when I called you this morning I could barely hold back the tears. Two weeks is too long. This has been great. It has been life changing. But I really don’t want my life changed without you.

Terraced Fields

2007-09-08T09:25:00.000-04:00

Today we hiked in to see the gorillas. We went by many people farming. On the way we drove by thousands of terraced fields. Mountains are made into a series of horizontal planes for farm fields. For miles and miles, mountain after mountain, fields are cut out of the steep sides. Every tree cut down and every stump cut out by hand. Every scrap of wood used for cooking.

The farmers (men, women, children, women with babies on their backs) all use this sort of heavy hoe. Every field is tilled by hand. The work looks back breaking. It looks unending. But the people are patient and resigned. They do what needs to be done. What else can they do?

Chopping Wood/That is Rwanda

2007-09-08T09:23:00.001-04:00

Wednesday 7/3/07 8:00 PM

I didn’t get to finish my thoughts on Mother Teresa’s orphanage. Just one more before I forget. There were about half a dozen guys chopping firewood for cooking in a big open area inside the compound at the orphanage. Somehow they managed to haul in some huge logs. They looked like cedar but smelled different. Three feet across. Really hard wood. It was a hot and sticky day. The men were working with machetes and really dull looking hand axes. The axes had pipes for handles. Hot. Hard work. The kind of work that would have taken about an hour in the US with chainsaws and splitting equipment. Six guys. Chipping away at tree trunks with machetes. That’s like a metaphor for how things are done in Rwanda. This scene stays with me. They had their shirts off. Their dark bodies were glistening with sweat. They were relentless. We were there for about an hour and when we came out they were still chipping away with machetes and these tiny axes, hatchets really.

Then a puff of cool breeze came. Almost as one the men stopped their labor, closed their eyes and sort of leaned into the breeze. Little smiles came to their faces. Just that little pause. That tiny sip of refreshment. Then, just as quickly as it arose, the breeze left and the men went back to work. Sleek. No body fat. Thin and muscular. Determined. Uncomplaining. Facing a limitless task – That is Rwanda.

Richard

2007-09-08T09:22:00.001-04:00

Richard, me, Cindy and Brandon (left to right)

During the day when we were standing around waiting for the forms to be processed for us to go to the gorilla area (Virunga), I got the chance to talk to Richard (Immaculee’s friend and videographer for this project). Very big man. Dreadlocks. Powerful. Not in a physical way so much as in presence. Kind of quiet. Wonderful with the children at the orphanage. I asked him about his work (he told me, in no uncertain terms that you don’t ask people about their families or their past). He went to mass with us the other night. It was the first time going inside a church since the genocide.

“Oh?” I asked. His parents were killed in the church where they went for protection. Since then he said, “I have no use for the church.” He went on that it seemed to be good enough for Immaculee and brought her comfort. So why not?

He is sort of working on a documentary about the genocide. He explained that the documentary could take a long time because many people still can’t make themselves talk about it.

The Party

2007-09-08T09:17:00.003-04:00

Playing and singing for the children at Mother Teresa's.

So we came back several hours later with all kinds of sugary treats. Fanta (soda), biscuits (bis – kweet) and big suckers. There were suitcases filled with clothes and necklaces which were kind of like little toys. About fifty kids were seated on concrete benches singing beautiful African songs. The adults in charge would not let them get up at first. I recognized some of the children from our visit earlier in the day.

We gave out the treats. I played guitar. These children (music video The Forgotten of Rwanda) didn’t know English or any of the songs I played but they seemed to rock out at the instrumentals. Mostly blues. That’s sort of universal I guess. They jumped up and slapped the guitar with sticky fingers and pulled on the strings. That part was tremendous fun. The grownups who worked there kept insisting that everyone sit down. They eventually gave up and let the kids get loose. One kid, about five or six but hard to tell, could really dance. He spun and swayed and jumped in a free form style. He was having so much fun moving to the music. He was uninhibited and danced the wild dance of elation. He looked very handicapped. One eye was nearly closed. It looked surrounded by scar tissue. Teeth everywhere. But he danced with wild and free abandon.

I went to another area after a while and played for some of the adult women. Widows of the genocide mostly. They were seated on a low brick wall outside of their cramped and crowded rooms. Maybe fifteen or twenty. Mid-twenties to pretty old. Some were sort of dazed and had to be led around. A few really attended and clapped when I finished each song. I sang some blues and “Amazing Grace”. Slow. As loud as I could sing outdoors. Several women gave me an appreciative look and spoke in Kinyrwanda. One woman came up to me and clasped my hand to her chest.

After we had been there a pretty short ime the nuns whisked us away. They seemed relieved to be rid of us. I don’t think I blame them. We blew in, jacked up the kids on sugar and trinkets, hyped them up with crazy music and dancing and left them to the difficult task of getting them settled into sleep. In a way it was thoughtless. I do think it was fun but when I looked at it from the nuns point of view… I gave the Mother Superior some money as we left. She did not seem grateful in the way that I thought she would. I knew that they could use the money but the Sister didn’t seem to want it. I surely couldn’t read what she was thinking but there was no thanks for the party or the money or the suitcases of clothes, only relief when we left. Again, I don't understand so I cannot question.

There was a weird energy between her and Immaculee and Tim (Immaculee’s agent) and Richard (I’s old friend and cameraman). I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of that but it was an important day for me. I realize that this day didn’t make a real difference in the lives of these children and we probably made the adult care givers lives a little more difficult. It seemed to be a hassle to them. It did make a difference to the others I am traveling with and to me. How much I take for granted. When I am hungry I go the cupboard. When I need comfort, Heidi, I wrap my arms around you or hug Devin or Colin. When I am cold I put on a sweatshirt; when I am uncomfortably hot I turn on the air conditioning. There are so many who live with so much less. There are so many who don’t even have a hand to cling to. [Please God, help me to realize and appreciate the many blessings in my life. Let me not take anything for granted.]

The Chapel

2007-09-08T09:16:00.000-04:00

We prayed before we left in a small chapel. Silently at first. On our knees. Then one of the young sisters said a prayer. I left with this overwhelming sadness but intense gratitude for these strong young women who give their lives completely to the service of others. They receive no recognition. They too are hungry and their work is endless. They only give. I cannot fault Mother Superior for her decision not to allow photos or videotaping. I am certain that Immaculee would only do good for this place, but who am I to judge? How could I ever question the judgment of a person so selfless, who lives only to serve?

Mother Teresa’s Orphanage

2007-09-08T08:38:00.004-04:00

Monday 7/1/07 5:45 PM

Strange day. Everyone in our group is so unique. Probably connected to this is the fact that whenever we go anywhere it takes so long to get organized. Add to that “Rwanda Time” (where no one is ever really on time or expected to be on time) and how disorganized all systems are and we end up with so much time and energy wasted – or at least not used even close to potential. The plan for the day was simple. Nothing very far away. Go to Mother Teresa’s Orphanage, visit with children and staff, sort of assess some needs for a party, treats, etc. Take some video footage for the documentary, then go get the stuff for the party. Stop by the place to pay for the gorilla tour. Go back to the orphanage and give the children an “Opra Party” as Cindy calls it.

No reason to write all of the details but so much time was spent between things, riding around (three cars, three big sets of packages, three drivers, ten passengers), waiting at the place where we purchased the passes to see the gorillas. We could only spend about an hour at Mother Teresa’s this morning. We were probably there for ninety minutes for the party.

A child outside of Mother Teresa's

Visiting the orphanage was one of the most important and powerful things I have ever done. There were over well over a hundred infants in one concrete floor room. Steel cribs lined up end-to-end, side-to-side with aisles between. Just a few matrons attending at the time we were there. Some babies just sort of lying there. Some standing up in their cribs. They liked our attention. We walked through sort of stroking, cooing, comforting. I think they enjoyed our presence. I don’t think the caregivers did.

There were lots of flies. Some of the grownups had mosquito nets around their beds. None of the infants or toddlers did. Some of the little ones had flies on their faces and didn’t try to brush them away.

The toddler aged kids really warmed up to us. We all held one or two kids at a time. And we laughed and we smiled. That was the language we shared. Many were wet – cloth diapers. The smell was disinfectant and waste. I saw no toys. It was wonderful to spend a little time with the kids but I’m not kidding myself. But for a few moments, we made no difference in their lives.

People are left almost everyday at the gates of the orphanage. Some are newborn. Others older. Some are handicapped. All are unwanted or parents simply cannot take care of them. The sisters never know what situation will greet them, or who, when they roll back the big metal door to the compound each morning.

There was conflict between Immaculee and the Mother Superior. The Mother said no photos or video. “It would rob them of their dignity.” Immaculee pleaded that showing the world could only help raise money and awareness (the orphanage is a recipient of the Left to Tell fund but you wouldn’t know they had any funding). The Mother was adamant. Immaculee is not used to being refused. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Mother Superior felt that publicity would be exploitation. Immaculee was sincerely trying to help.

We met adults and a few teens as well while we were there. Some with severed arms or legs. One woman wanted, needed, to show us the stump of her arm which she kept wrapped in a shawl. One girl (thirteen or fourteen) who was blind, wanted to smell the women’s wrists for perfume or, I suppose, simply clean skin.

Thanks

2007-09-06T21:25:00.000-04:00

God was there, Heidi. I cannot in my life remember a stronger feeling of that. God was with us. I’ve never felt so blessed. I cried throughout most of the mass. Not out loud. For the people of this and all genocides. For the opportunity to travel here. For our lives on this lovely planet. Most of all my prayers of thanks were for you and everything in my life connected with you. My career, our family, our home. I know you probably couldn’t feel it, but in a very real way you were with me in that small, humid brick room where mass was held. You have been with me in my weariness and tears. When I see something beautiful I am reminded of your beauty. When I see children I know how much you would enjoy their smiles.

How can I ever thank you for sending me here?

Mass with Ganza

2007-09-06T21:22:00.002-04:00

Before mass at Aimable's with Immaculee, Ryan Aimable and Souda. Below are Nikki, Tim and Souda.

From there we went to mass at Immaculee’s cousin Ganza’s church. Quiet man with a hearty laugh. A Jesuit priest. Such power in his presence. Remember connecting to the Jewish traditions and practices at Emily’s Bat Mitzvah? This was like that for me only multiplied many times. We sort of prepared for the mass by sharing informally about our experiences here. I practiced reading some scripture I was to share in mass. Portia practiced the second reading. There is a retreat center at this church and we hung out in sort of a large living room before the service. On the wall was a picture showing three priests who were killed here during the genocide. I wish I knew their stories.

The mass itself was in a small room. Chairs around a table (the altar) in a semi-circle. We practiced a few songs before mass. Most in English. Ganza wanted to say his first mass in English for us. It was hushed, solemn. We could hear the city sounds through the open windows. It was just our little group with another priest and a “priest to be” in attendance. The mass itself was very much like what I remember from all those years ago when I went to Catholic church. Lots of memorized prayers and responses including the Apostle’s Creed and Our Father. Even though it has been a very long time since I have been to mass, the responses and prayers came forth automatically. There were long times when Ganza spoke directly to us. His message was love and forgiveness, strength that comes through mercy. Many of his prayers were spontaneous. He thanked us over and over for coming to Rwanda. He asked us to tell the world about what we see here. He said we were brave for coming. I didn’t feel brave. When I thought of all of the pain these beautiful people have gone through and their willingness to reconcile… That is bravery (video - Rwanda, No Bravery). Stepping out of my little comfort zone to come to stay with these wonderful people does not seem brave when I consider Rwandans.

With Ganza after Mass. A wonderful man in Brave times.

Ganza prayed for the Tutsi and the Hutu. He prayed for people in conflicts all over Africa. His prayers spun out in an ever widening circle until it encompassed the world. I wish so much that I could have recorded the sermon, the whole service really because I can’t remember the exact words. Prayers for thanksgiving. Prayers that we might be the best people we can be and use our goodness to make the world a better place. Prayers of hope. Prayers of love.

Aimable’s House

2007-09-06T21:20:00.003-04:00

Immaculee, Aimable and Ryan

We went to Immaculee’s brother Aimable’s house (uh-mob-lay) after the memorial. His wife, Souda (sp?) and their little two year old boy, Ryan, just spent six weeks with Immaculee in NYC. Their reunion was wonderful. Aimable is a vet and has taken the week off to spend with us. He is quiet and laid back. They have another one on the way. We hung out at their house with neighborhood kids flocking over to see us. We had Fantas (soda) and decompressed after going to the Genocide Memorial. I went outside and took a few pictures of the kids from the neighborhood and Ryan. Immaculee’s older daughter Nikki is also with us. She seems happy to be here if a little disinterested in the goings on of the adults. I think she is ten or eleven. Aimable is very hospitable and, of course, enjoys Immaculee’s presence. Quite accepting and encouraging as well. I think she’s only come with one other group of Americans before and I sense that they were a little afraid of everything.

Kigali

2007-09-06T21:19:00.000-04:00

The Kigali memorial is on the side of a hill. Looking down and across the valley you see very poor homes. Row on row, corrugated roofs packed tightly together. When we think of the poor in America it really isn’t like this. As we drove down the winding hill and through the streets people were everywhere. Women in brightly colored wraps carrying firewood on their heads, children in ragged clothes playing soccer with something – not a soccer ball. One old man with no eyes being lovingly led by a very little one, maybe five or six. Well dressed people too. Business suits, colorful shirts and blouses, high heels. Such a wide assortment. Just like everywhere I suppose. Most seem happy. That big old smile was everywhere. So many smiles here. Among the many unforgettable images that smile is the best.

Monday

2007-09-06T21:16:00.001-04:00

7/1/07 7:30 AM

I’ll pick up from where I left off last night. The rooms with the large children’s pictures were so sad – only a word like sad can’t really describe it. No words really can. It was something like reading Left to Tell but so much more. Immaculee said some simple words along the way, words I wish I had written down. Among these words was the idea that unless we take what we know now and do what we can to change the world then our trip here will have been for nothing. [Please God, help me to do something with the knowledge I have gained here. Help me to change the world for the better.]

Guilt

2007-09-05T18:04:00.001-04:00

In a crazy way I feel guilty. I am blessed to live in a free country. A powerful country. A country which chooses war over engagement. My guilt is about why I/we didn’t care that much. It was played down in the news but we did hear it. The news that was reported to us was at best incorrect and insufficient and at worst an outright lie and a cover up. Was it the O. J. Simpson trial or some other mind numbing distracter that kept us from feeling the intensity of what was happening? Something, that while it was happening (and certainly before) could have been stopped. Guilt implies fault. Was it at least partially our fault? Could I/we have done anything at all to save a child with bright inquisitive eyes or an old woman who lived alone or Immaculee’s family or the Bishop’s niece?

The Children

2007-09-05T18:03:00.000-04:00

There were large portraits of beautiful children (I know I’ve overused the word beautiful) from about two to ten years old. Simple statements in three languages were under their sweet faces… Favorite Animal: My cat, Favorite Food: Rice, Favorite Toy: The doll my sister and I share, Last Words: Why would you do that? You are my friend… All of these stories so terribly cut short. For the perpetrators these images must be ghosts.

Photographs

2007-09-05T18:02:00.000-04:00

The next area was a small amphitheater. Survivors told their stories on large TV screens. Tiny alcoves with soft benches lay around the outside of the room. Cables with rings and clips held thousands of photographs. Tens of thousands? Some were blurry, taken with inexpensive cameras. Wedding pictures. Blank stares. Joyous expressions. Some were looking past the camera at the photographer with so much love in their eyes. Old men in their very best clothes. Young ones playing with simple toys. Messy hair. Patched pants. Blank stares. Some of the photographs were copies. Some were the actual photographs with the owners’ handwriting on the back. Someone’s birthday. Someone’s new coat. Someone at age four.

I wanted to see every face. My eyes were so blurred with a veil of tears that I could barely see at all. I sat alone in one of the corners. Alone with images of people just like Imaculee and just like Asha and just like Ali and Saniyo and Isha [our Somali Bantu friends] and just like the Jews and the Gypsies and the American Indians and like the women in Afghanistan under the Taliban and like the victims of genocide in Darfur, and those in refugee camps all over… And I was overwhelmed, Heidi. For a while I couldn’t breath. That was the room that affected me the most. Until I went upstairs. I thought I was overloaded then I walked up the stairs to a simple area devoted to the children.

Immaculee

2007-09-05T18:01:00.003-04:00

Being there with Immaculee brought it to another level. Getting to know her and seeing her memories flash back was… I’m blocking here… incredible, unbelievably sad. It touched my soul in a way I didn’t know was possible, as nothing else could. Her anger and sadness were palpable. At the end of the self-tour were other rooms. One was very dark. For a while I was in there alone. The only sound was a silken voiced woman reading the names of those killed. There are well over a million names. I could hear my own breathing, feel my heart pounding. My sinuses were clogged from crying. My head was throbbing and I was numb.

One case held long bones from legs. Femurs. Stacks and rows of femurs. There were cases of skulls. Some little, some really tiny. Some with machete marks. Some cracked open as if hit with a heavy club. One case in this darkened room held what must have been found on the bodies of the victims. Photos, pocket knives, a simple wedding band, hair clips, an earring. Just the stuff of a human life. The musical names were being read one after another. It would take thousands of hours just to read them all. Darkness. Bones. Pocket stuff. Names. Tears.

The Kigali Genocide Memorial

2007-09-05T17:59:00.004-04:00

The Kigali Memorial Centre

The map of Africa at the memorial that shows Rwanda

Sunday 6/30/07 11:50 PM

Tim (Immaculee’s friend and agent) talked us into going swimming after dinner. Hilarious. He is such a salesman. The water was cold and we laughed until our faces hurt. Everyone came back, at least part way, from an emotionally wrenching day. I didn’t know what to expect from the Genocide Memorial. Thousands of innocent Rwandans in a mass grave. I took some pictures, just a little video but nothing will be able to describe the power, the sadness. Most of the visitors were Europeans, a few Rwandans, a few Americans besides us. One of the drivers was there in the room with the photographs staring at a picture of his own family.

Outside, large cement slabs – maybe ten yards by twenty yards, covering hundreds (thousands) of bodies each. A large black wall, not marble or obsidian, concrete. Black, stark, simple. Hundreds of names on small plaques were attached to the wall. So many of the ones buried there remain unidentified. A perpetual flame. Simple. There are several mass graves across Rwanda. Official graves. They are still finding bodies. There were some flowers. The black painted wall. A perpetual flame. Many names.

Inside a man told us in a very quiet voice a little about the genocide. He must have said the same things many times. He was reverent. When we entered the memorial we saw an enlarged photo of an unnamed Rwandan child. A boy. Maybe ten years old. It was ripped and scratched. Stained with blood. He was just a child. It was found in the pocket of an unidentified victim. His eyes were looking into the lens of the camera. Into our eyes. Just a child.

The guide left us there. As we walked through the maze of stone walls and rough cement or brick floors there were pictures showing the history of Rwanda from the early days before it was a colony throughout its history. Photos of leaders, ordinary people, military. Pictures showing the persecution of the Tutsis. The text was in Kinyrwanda, French and English. It was detailed, honest, brutal. The farther we went the quieter everyone became. We cried softly as we saw the horror of everyday people, simple good people, killed by their neighbors, coerced by their government, betrayed by their friends, their religious leaders. There were videos of survivors telling stories of what happened to their families. To horrific to write now. Rape, physical torture, families made to watch their loved ones brutalized, killed. We cried. Occasionally we stopped to reflect, to talk softly, to pray, to cry.

The Veranda

2007-09-03T13:58:00.002-04:00

Sunrise from the veranda

I was on the patio earlier this morning by myself. The sun was blazing – not really hot but clear. Different songbirds flocking around the tall palms. Large butterflies a lot like our black swallowtails. A tall waiter brought me the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had. Super strong, very black and hot. Last evening when we got to the hotel where we are staying (The Serena) we were served tall slender glasses of passion juice (I think). Cool, syrupy, tangy. Delicious. Maybe it’s because it’s because I’m here in this special place. But the sunshine, the beautiful birds and butterflies, the fruit, the coffee all seem so rich, so extra, so… God.

Hotel Rwanda

2007-09-03T13:57:00.004-04:00

The power of being in Hotel Rwanda (music video) - now Des Mille Collines - was huge. No one really spoke about it – but it was there for me. Just imagining the Interahamwe outside with machetes raised, searching for others to kill. The Tutsis and their sympathizers hiding inside waiting, probably expecting to be murdered at the hands of their countrymen. Imagine the bravery of those who did the right thing in the face of all the madness and the relief as the madness seemed to pass, and the grief to find what was left of Rwanda. All of this happened just thirteen years ago. Thirteen years.

Today Ganza will say mass for our group. It will be casual. I haven’t been to mass in a very long time. One thing that has already been happening on this trip is an openness, an awareness of God and manifestations of God. It is a wide view/interpretation/compass now.

Des Mille Collines

2007-09-03T13:55:00.004-04:00

Des Milles Collines - Hotel Rwanda (movie trailer)

Sunday 6/30/07 7:50 AM

Last night before we went to sleep we went to the hotel formerly known as Hotel Rwanda (tribute to Paul Rusesabagina) for drinks. We were all bone weary. The airport was tiny and the customs procedures were very slow. We’d all been awake for two days. Eighty degrees, sticky, humid, diesel fumes, body odor, heavy bags to lug from the conveyor to customs to a disorganized but extremely kind and well meaning group to “collect” us and take us to the hotel.

The moon was full, burnt orange as we touched down. Immaculee’s brother Aimable (uh mob blay) met us with some of his friends, relatives and possibly coworkers. He’s a vet. At least two cousins came. One, Gonza, is a catholic priest (Jesuit). Much love all around at our arrival. We must look like typical American tourists with our huge, over stuffed bags.

Cindy, her step-son Brandon and I went in a Toyota SUV with a driver named Wycliff Kalega (They call me Wycliff). He is our interpreter and driver while we are here (at least in Kigali). Soft spoken, expressive smile, rarely speaks, two young children (one is two yeeahs the uttah is seven munts). It’s a funny feeling to have a drivuh. His work as long (as we are here) is to drive us wherever we want to go. His English is basic and I think he understands more than he can express. He has a light spirit.

At the hotel last evening we were all a little dimmed by lack of sleep. Beer, wine, coffee, African tea. We sat around a lovely swimming pool. The moonlight was pale and huge. We laughed. This is an amazing group in as much as we are from the other side of the world and the Rwandans gathered there accepted and trusted us. Of course we came with Immaculee. She is loved. We talked about… just stuff. It was sort of a getting-to-know-you session. It was lite. The laughter was easy. We were all a little drunk from exhaustion.

Beautiful People

2007-09-02T22:48:00.002-04:00

Rwandan children in Ntarama

Heidi. I am so weary from lack of sleep. It’s Saturday 5:00 PM. No sleep since Thursday night/Friday morning. I guess it’s 11:00 AM your time. Every time I look at my watch I think of you. I wonder what you are doing – what you might be dreaming of. We are still on the plane but we must be getting close by now.

In the airport in Belgium I know that you would have enjoyed watching all the people. Seeing thousands of faces (Charlotte, New York City, Brussels) always makes me marvel at how wonderfully unique we are. No two people are alike. Incredible. God. When I look into all of these beautiful faces I miss your face. Sometimes I’ll see someone from behind with hair that looks like yours or who walks like you or I’ll hear a snatch of laughter that sounds like you. Then you come swimming back to me. And I am grateful. Seated at the gate in Brussels we were with everyone going to Rwanda. Beautiful people. Exotic to me. So many have a look similar to Immaculee. Dark, beautiful smiles. I know that you would recognize their beauty. The God in them.

On the plane a little one has had a hard flight. She has cried a lot and whined a lot. Some of the grown ups around her can hardly stand it. You can see it on their faces. Her beautiful mom just hugs her and sings to her and rocks her. And it makes me think of you because you would recognize the beauty in the mom’s kindness, in their love for each other. You hear music in babies’ cries. The God in them.

A Rwandan child with lovely elaborate braids is asleep on the fold down table. Peaceful. Serene. Two Belgian guys are walking down the aisle. Older guys. One stops for a moment and takes in the breathtaking beauty of this innocent little scene. One nudges the other drawing his attention. They both stare at her. Just for a few seconds and then move on. You would have appreciated that little moment. That Godness.

In the airport all announcements were in French, English and some other language (German?). The people who work there are so adept at subtly seeking your language before talking to you. I think French is the default language but they switch over so fast. Incredible to me. Cindy got me a bottle of water so when we got coffee I bought. $4.00 for water. $4.00 for coffee.

I think of you when I read words put together well or when I hear laughter, when I hear a baby cry or see an old man’s wrinkled smile. Because you would appreciate these things too. I see the world partly through your eyes. And my life is better because of it.

Why Did I Come?

2007-09-02T22:47:00.002-04:00

Saturday 6/29/07 6:40 AM

Personal retreat. Why Rwanda? Why not St. Christopher’s Retreat Center? The Lake Michigan sand dunes? Yellowwood Forest in Bloomington, Indiana? Why Rwanda? Imaculee? Cindy? Heidi? Advenure? Fellowship? New friends?

Is it because of the history of this place? The madness? The sadness? Holocaust. Genocide? Innocence? Innocence lost?

Immaculee and Bishop John said that there is so much goodness in Rwanda. Forgiveness. Grace. There must be magic there. There must be God. Love. Maybe I came to find God.

My biological clock has me at about 1:00 in the morning but it’s already well past dawn down here. I might have dozed for about ten or fifteen minutes last night. One little dream. Immaculee. Skinny. Skin and bones really. Her hair fallen out. In this little dream she was filthy and ashy. Just the opposite of what she looks like now. She is elegant and shiny and dark, her hair long and curled. In my dream her eyes were filmy and sunken. And she was crying.

Humans

2007-09-02T22:45:00.003-04:00

FREE PARIS (?!)

Thirty five thousand feet in the air. Humans have only been flying
at all for 105 years. Now we are cruising at thirty five thousand feet above Nova Scotia. By the time we land in Rwanda we’ll cross six time zones. Three continents. Three hundred people, cruising at seven miles above the earth, going six hundred fifty miles per hour, getting ready to cross the Atlantic Ocean. It’s 7:39PM where we took off in New York City. It’s 1:39 AM where we’ll land in Brussels. I’m looking at a monitor that shows our progress as we cross the ocean. A tiny picture of a plane with a dotted line showing our direction, where we’ve been, where we’re going. Soft drinks, coffee, TV shows, magazines, ear buds, multi-channels in our arm rests, overhead lights, flight attendant call buttons, reclining chairs, little pillows, portable DVD players, MP3 players, headphones that cancel flight noise, laptop computers, expensive hardcover books bought in the airport, battered paperback books, the Bible, The Koran, Skymall catalog. Perfume, a baby crying, laughter, playing cards, adolescent boys punching each other in the arms, irritable stewardess, lovers holding hands. Humans are amazing. Onemilliononehundredseventeenthousand deaths in the Rwandan genocide (that we know of so far… rounded to the nearest thousand). The US fussed about whether or not it was genocide. We watched. We knew. We did nothing. Humans are more than just amazing.

Clinton and Albright apologized for not trying to stop the genocide in Rwanda ( music video). Sincerely. How long before we apologize for not stopping the genocide in Darfur? Digital watches, iphones, ipods, handheld videogames, in flight movies, CBS Sports on TV, sitcoms with canned laughter. Flying seven miles high over the Atlantic Ocean. Onemilliononehundredseventeenthousand Rwandans were killed in one hundred days. Over ten thousand a day. Humans are amazing.

Onemilliononehundredseventeenthousand stories. It’s almost too big to imagine, too big to believe, too immense to even think about. FREE PARIS HILTON. That’s what a sign said at the nursery and garden center by my house. FREE PARIS HILTON. Humans are amazing.

Paris Hilton

2007-09-02T22:44:00.003-04:00

Sunrise in Kigali

What I learned about the Rwandan Genocide I discovered only recently. On my own. These remarkable books, the internet. Why do I know so much about Paris Hilton? I avoid it. Still I know too much about her. Why don’t we know more about the genocide? The Sudan? The Democratic Republic of Congo? Is it because they are far away? Because we have no “strategic interest” in the region? Because they have no resources in the ground that we need? Is it because they are black? Poor?

One million one hundred seventeen thousand deaths during the Rwandan genocide. So far. And we watched. We did nothing. The Clinton Administration spoke of “genocidal acts” but couldn’t bring themselves to use the G-word. Civil war. Internal affair. Tribal warfare.

Heidi Mills, my greatest blessing.

When I take out pictures of my beautiful family I know one reason why I am here… to appreciate the rich blessings of my life. So many people lost so much. Right now with this picture of Heidi (you – Heidi) in my hand and our boys in my heart I am the richest man on earth. It’s selfish. But that’s one reason I am here.

The Group

2007-09-02T22:42:00.002-04:00

Immaculee Ilibagiza and Nancy Strachan

Tina Robinson, an adventurer with her own brave story to tell.

Tim Van Damm, Immaculee's good friend and agent.

I don’t know most my new friends yet. I’ve known Cindy for a few years, but not well. So, anything I write is an oversimplification. Not dishonest, just surface level impressions. It isn’t my intention to write biographical information about anyone.
Cindy – Bright, full of positive energy, a thinker, organizer, great mom
Brandon – Young, funny, irreverent, on an adventure, college-bound
Portia – Wise, teacher, from NYC, confident, experienced
Nancy – Her husband just broke his hip yesterday. He insisted that she come! Mystical, spiritual, creative, entrepreneur, the jewelry maker
Midori – The bravest of us all according to Cindy. A masseuse, quiet, organized, still waters run deep
Tim – (Immaculee’s agent) Hilarious, honest, a mover and a shaker
We meet Tina (from the Bahamas) in Brussels. I read her blog. She lost her baby tragically. She is a proud mom. A seeker.

Portia Jones a wise and powerful teacher

The money people sent along will make a difference if I can get it into the hands of those who need it. Ruck (my mom) $1,000, Paula (my sister-in-law) $500, Ruthie (my sister) $1,000 ($4,000 more!?). Others on the trip brought clothes, jewelry making supplies, sunglasses, toys, Brandon, his technical expertise, stories to tell. And money of course. I brought my guitar. Who knows how I’ll put it to use?

Meeting Immaculee

2007-09-02T22:40:00.000-04:00

This is Immaculee's nephew Ryan at the airport in NYC.

When I met Immaculee today I was in awe. I was tongue tied. What to say to a hero? And she is a hero. Not because of what happened to her, bad things happen to good people all the time. Bad things happen to all of us if we live to be old enough. Crime. Loved ones die. Accidents. Sickness. Bad things happen all the time. It’s part of life. What makes her a hero is how she dealt with it. Those days in the bathroom didn’t make her great. Bad things – good people. Things a happen. But that time in the bathroom made her stronger. She isn’t a hero because her family and the ones she loved were massacred. Bad things – good people. She hurt. She was angry. That was natural. She became stronger. She forgave. She is changing the world with the message of grace and forgiveness. That is supernatural. Coming out on the other side of that horror a better person – that’s what makes her a hero. And I am in awe. Could I forgive? No.

So when she rushed to the gate with her daughter and sister-in-law and nephew and Cindy and her other acquaintances rushed to her and snapped pictures of themselves with her I was embarrassed. Who am I? Why am I here? What can I hope to accomplish? Will I, in some way, be worthy of the resources it took to get me here? Will I make any kind of lasting difference?

Immaculee's sister-in-law, Souda, is feeding Ryan at the airport.

The plane was already boarded. Only my companions were left. When Immaculee was late we were nervous. Cindy called her cell phone and left a message. We waited. What would we do if she didn’t show up? Then she came. Like the wind. Radiant. Beautiful. Peaceful. And Cindy, “Immaculee, this is my good friend, Tim.”

Awk. Awk. Awk. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“It's nice to meet you too," Immculee said. We hugged. I don’t hug people I just meet.

Now we’ve been pushed back from the gate for about forty minutes. Seven or eight hours of flying time ahead of us. 6:55 PM, Friday, June 28. We are scattered all over the plane.

Becoming a Little More Awake

2007-09-02T22:36:00.002-04:00

Midori Graham - "the bravest of us," Cindy said.

At 50 years old I am just beginning to wake up. I read the news. I understand most of what I read. I listen to Public Radio and The BBC. I read op-ed pieces written by the brilliant and the brave. I read them with my designer coffee and my beautiful woods. I read them with my sleepy boys and my beautiful and brilliant wife. I read them on the porch when the weather is lovely and in my house with the heat in the winter and the airconditioning in the summer when it is too hot.

I get outraged. But what do I do? I vote. Does it really make a difference? I argue – but even that is subdued. I don’t really talk about politics with friends. People are easily insulted. Feelings are hurt.

I read and I listen and I converse and I whine and get angry – but not too angry. Not angry enough to do anything. Then reading Immaculee, then Cindy asked me if I wanted to go, then I read The Bishop of Rwanda, then Heidi agreed.

Why Rwanda?

2007-09-02T22:00:00.002-04:00

Immaculee with her friend and manager Tim Van Damm

at The Serena Hotel.

Seeing Immaculee on the PBS broadcast. Reading her compelling story. Feeling like I know her a little… as much as one can know another person by reading their written words. More admiration than I remember feeling toward anyone. Hero worship? Yes, I guess so. Wishing that I could know her, have a conversation with her, get inside her mind, reach some insight into her brilliance, her light. How can someone overcome so much? How can someone learn to forgive so much?

Being profoundly moved by Left to Tell. Life changing, really. Critical time in my spiritual walk. Never thinking that I would ever cross paths with Immaculee. Realizing what a powerful teacher she is. Thinking that I might see her again on TV or wishing that she would write or publish again. Never imagining that we would meet. But in the back of my mind hoping so.

I was more than a little scared when the opportunity arose to go to Rwanda. Cindy Charles asking me at a school function. A little relieved to say no thanks. Heidi saying yes, that we could free up some resources and that it would be the trip of a lifetime. Trusting that it would be OK. Discovering that the copy of my birth certificate wouldn’t do. Tracking that down. Applying for a passport. Hoping that it would come through in time. Immunizations.

Brandon and Cindy Charles, my good
friends and co-adventurers

Rereading Left to Tell. Reading A Long Way Gone (Ref.) and The Bishop of Rwanda. Reminded of how average I am. As a human. As a citizen of the world. Living in a nation where selfishness and self-absorption are normal. Isolated from real news, from so many real people in real places. Real pain, real laughter, real tears, real joy.

Friday 6/28/07

2007-09-02T21:15:00.005-04:00

The beautiful faces and sincere smiles

of the Rwandan people will stay with me

forever.

What can be written about Rwanda that hasn’t been? Immaculee and Bishop John Rucyahanna's books have done so much for me. Immaculee’s personal witness of tragedy and hope – so moving and personal. Bishop John’s socio-political-historical perspective had so much of Immaculee’s depth (Don't pray for him to DIE - Pray for HIM to CHANGE video) but with a wide angle lens. The message from both: faith, love, forgiveness. Both seemed to use forgiveness almost as a weapon, at least a defense. “I wish he was alive and I could see him again. I’d forgive him.”

I cannot understand what these two have gone through. What Rwanda (Rwanda music video) has gone through. Their loss. Their pain. Imagine their pain and loss times millions – as millions were directly affected by the genocide. I cannot imagine the guilt of those who raised machetes against their neighbors. How must they feel to encounter the survivors? How could their lives ever return to anything close to normal? How can they not think of what they have done?

Introduction

2007-09-02T21:07:00.002-04:00

This is a picture of Immaculee at the airport in Belgium.

In July of 2007 I went on an amazing trip. At first I wasn’t sure exactly why I was going. Maybe I’m still figuring that out. The opportunity. The adventure. Experiencing something new, a place and a people I have never known. Immaculee Ilibagiza. Along the way I may have discovered my purpose for going.

So, here is my story. Part of it. It was written in a composition notebook. The kind with the black marbled cover. 100 sheets. 200 pages. Wide ruled. Because this was a letter/journal, the grammar is not exactly textbook. Lots of fragments. Lots of strange usage. It’s how I write in this context.

These are my memories. Often I recorded ideas and impressions quickly into a pocket notebook as words or phrases. Later that day or early the next morning I wrote out the ideas in more detail. I know that many words, especially proper nouns are misspelled. I may have mistakenly changed some numbers. I made judgments about the feelings of others I was with. I may have come to some wrong conclusions. I’m sure I got some facts wrong.

It is rambling. It is first person. At first it was sort of a “Dear Diary” kind of thing. Little focus. Before long, as I missed my family and my dear Heidi and it became a long extended letter to her. So, mixed up with the observations and recollections is a love story, a story of longing. I don’t apologize for this. It’s what it is. It’s also a discovery of God for me.

Not the kind of God who sits-on-a-thrown-throwing-thunderbolts at those who displease HIM. But God in the mango juice, in the morning mist, in the smiles of a beautiful people… in forgiveness. Neither do I apologize for this. Having gone to a Catholic school for 10 years during my youth, been an altar boy, read the Bible, received structured Christian religious instruction, attended a traditional Methodist church for years, played in a praise band for several years, etc. I have been on a search for God. Someone else on the same trip, on the same mission certainly wouldn’t have had the same personal experiences, the same conclusions. Me? I learned more about the meaning of life in Rwanda. Is that God? I think so.