On faith + genocide + refugees.

“I don't think about heaven enough because death isn't chasing me.”

On our fifth morning in Rwanda, we departed from the capital city of Kigali to make our way south to Gashora, Rwanda where we would spend the next week becoming acquainted with the small rural village that was bustling with children and some of the sweetest people I have yet to meet.

I had my headphones jammed in my ears, feet and legs resting up on bottles of water and piles of luggage, and my skin was baking in the Rwandan sun that was streaming through the window of the bus that our team was occupying. I was falling in and out of sleep, eager to get to our new destination.

My slumber was disturbed as the bus turned off the main road and onto a narrow bumpy road. I woke up as we were approaching a schoolhouse. A few sentences were exchanged between our bus driver and the guard outside, before the guard directed us around the side of the school. The bus came to the stop while our team shared glances of confusion and curiosity as to where we were.

Our leader Tim told us that we were about to visit a genocide memorial that was one of six in the country, and that it was unique in the fact that it was kept in a similar condition to how it was left when the massacre occurred 23 years ago. Below, is what I wrote in my journal moments after I experienced Nyamata, a memorial at a Catholic church.

_____________________________________________________________________

45,000 killed locally and remains are stored there. 10,000 in the church alone, some 35,000 killed on the premise. Piles of soiled clothes stacked on church pews under a dusty roof that was covered with bullet holes. The holes were in part due to grenade explosions that pierced the ceiling. The bright sun shined through the holes and created speckled light across the pews.

There was evidence of death everywhere. Of torture, or anger, of rape, of pure violence.

Bars bent on the doors to force entry into the church by the militia.

Skulls with wounds that tell a story- as if your story has to be told by the scars you have carried until death. The tiny ones and big ones, the disfigured ones and the "perfectly shaped" ones.

The clothes with tags and stains and evidence of life.

The smells of bones and must, death and life.

The table of small belongings but also of weapons that were used in the massacre. Jewlry, a machete (the most common weapon), a necklace, an ID card that read “Tutsi”, a small spear that was rusted over with what looked like to be crusted blood.

The piles of clothes show solidarity and unity and lives tied together with the hope of safety. Perhaps the most disturbing type of solidarity.

The cross hangs on the wall. It’s jagged spears hung up on the tattered brick inside. The cross was used as a weapon to cause death. But it also causes life, in many instances. The paradox between that is deeply disturbing and frightening but also redemptive. In the Christian religion, the cross can be seen as a symbol of redemption in the story of Jesus’ sacrificial love and life of service. A cross can signify a place of safety. A place of both solitude and solidarity. The Rwandans who saw the cross hanging on the outskirts of the church must have been drawn to the hope. Drawn to the protection they may find inside.

In a place of worship, of all places. They were slaughtered. Murdered. Raped. Because of their ethnicity that they were born with. Their place of hope, their safe space. Compromised instantly.

We want to trust the church to be safe. To be holy. To be redemptive. How can you trust a god or a faith or a clergy member when you have loved ones who died in the holy house of the lord? The main pastors / clergy / whatever of the church fled before it got bad. A woman named Tanya was left, and was ultimately killed.

As I walked through the pews, I started to hope that everyone of these people is in heaven… I think there's a verse that talks about not knowing God and not having the chance to know Him but still making it to the golden gates. I hope all of these people who died knew that they were loved by someone. I cannot imagine the despair. I wonder what they were thinking as the grenades were penetrating the ground.

I don't think about heaven enough because death isn't chasing me.

I had this sense of urgency to rush through it because I didn't want to believe the reality of it. I didn't want to believe the ignorance and the pain and the wounds that continue to lie deep beneath the iron rich soil that embodies a rich burnt orange hue. Almost like its blood stained. I feel uncomfortable and there is a pit in my stomach that aches. It aches for every life that was lost in that church. It aches for every single family member who has been affected by the genocide who now sees Christianity as a surface level love.

The back of the church had multiple mass graves. I walked down into the massive graves and felt a chill overcome my body and tingle my skin. The air was dry and cold. It was dark, and remains were surrounding me. Literally, surrounding me. I have never seen human remains until that moment and now tibias and skulls and femurs were poking out of the shelves and poking holes into my heart. You could see marks on some of the bones. You could smell the sadness, in a way. I wondered what their names were. When you strip down your clothes, your identifying factors, your name, your family, etc. all that is left is your bones and that is truly haunting state. Is it a state of vulnerability? Or oneness? What is it? Their bones are my bones. Our bones are the same size, same color, same chemical makeup. I could see myself in that grave.

The national ID cards that displayed the Hutu Tutsi and Twa ethnicities that were gently checked off. Essentially, You had a get out of jail free card if your Hutu identity was left untouched. The Tutsi did not have that same fate- theirs, rather an immediate death sentence.

Their mark. That was their fate. What mark is my fate? May my mark be love. May it be justice. May it be redemption and reconciliation and understanding and acceptance.

______________________________________________________________

When we reached Gashora later that day, we passed a large Burundian Refugee camp in the heart of town. Burundians were fleeing political conflict and violence in the country, and Gashora was only roughly 15 kilometers from the Burundian border. At its height, in August of 2015, there were over 10,000+ refugees that were in the Gashora camp. This camp was used for processing camp, before the refugees were permanently settled in the even larger camp of Mahama, up north. The camp received about 100 people a day at its busiest- most of which were children. When we arrived, there were only about 1,000 in the camp.

The organizations showed us around and we played a few quick games with the kiddos wandering the camp. We learned the operational procedures in a camp that size, and the learning experience was both disturbing and intriguing. We visited the health clinic, welcome center where the new refugees received food and clothing, we saw the mess hall and were even given a tour of the new water pumping system.

The most visceral part of the tour for me was stepping into the massive white tents that housed the refugees. When I stepped in, the air was damp and hot. Humidity plagued the space that was covered in dirt floors and separated by tarp like material to let families have limited privacy. Each massive tent could hold 200+ people. At its height, each 20'x20' paddock, within the tent, held 20-30 people. Packed like little sardines.

A refugee camp + a genocide memorial.

In my brevity… I saw, I witnessed, I smelled, I heard, I felt, I tasted, the most miniscule feelings of life in a refugee camp. I was disturbed by the idea of a camp, because if there was a camp, that meant there was such dangerous conflict, that families would send their children out into the wild to cross borders and sleep underneath the stars and fear their life in hopes of a safer country. I was also brought great hope knowing there were so many committed Rwandan being of assistance to the refugees. Many have said that they desire to help because they, too, had to flee violence.

I fully and firmly believe America could learn a lesson from these generous and resilient people who are lending a hand. With the ongoing Syrian conflict, now more than ever, America needs to act on behalf of justice and love and accept people seeking asylum and safety. We did not act during the Rwandan genocide, and while I was just 4 months old at the time, I carry a guilt that I have yet to get over. Love isn't easy, but it is right.

I feel helpless many times. I do not know the answers. I wish I could solve all of this in my humble position of a under graduate student in Washington State.

I feel like my identity as a Christian American can lead to more hostility instead of leading to more grace and safety and love. I understand why. The church has deceived the hurt and lost. But I also believe it has the power of generosity and kindness. As someone who has only very very slightly observed genocide retrospectively and sat in a room full of bodies that were massacred based on ethnicity, I am committed to fighting for humans who are seeking safety. Especially humans that are looking to the church for a place of refuge and of safety. I hope in the coming days the church can not only be a sign of hope, but that it can actually PROVIDE that hope. I do not want to see the church be an empty promise like it was in Nyamata.

( I do understand the church has done so much ogod. Foreign aid is present in Syria and abroad. I am thankful for that. )

Despite my lack of answers and of status to put out an executive order to let all the refugees into our home, this is what I try to remember and dwell in....

In the wake of current events, may we all recognize the hurt and the pain of the world.

May we continue to recognize how powerful humans can be. Powerful in both a healing and destructive way.

May our mark be love.

May it be justice.

May it be redemption

and reconciliation

and understanding

and acceptance.