The Rwandan crisis of the last months was launched by the breaking out of the war in October 1990, even though its real causes go back into a remote past. This acted as an electrical shock, awakening little by little the minds of Rwandans to the degree that social injustices in their midst can open the door to dire and unheard-of consequences.
The invasion looked like a desperate action by the Rwandan refugees fighting for their right to have a place back in their country. The war dragged on with its untold atrocities. In the course of time, as desolation spread over the northeastern part of the country, about one million people were displaced, having neither adequate shelter, food, nor clothing. Consequently, the death rate was soaring, especially among children and the elderly. But unknown to Rwandans, this was only the tip of an iceberg. Already, the absurdity of war, whatever its reason, was apparent to many. In reality, to any objective observer, the seeking of justice through death became hardly distinguishable from the causing of injustice itself. Couldn’t there be a better way?
I was delighted to hear that a peace agreement between warring factions was eventually signed in the middle of 1993. My country was healing its past wounds and resolutely building a better future and social harmony. Then, unexpectedly, the president of the country was killed in a plane crash. My heart was gripped with an indescribable apprehension.
However, after some hours, the media reported some killings in Kigali. An inquiry about this death should have followed. I was shocked, but at this stage, like many people, I was fooled into thinking that this violence was limited in its scope. Then the news of a mass murder began to unravel. A killing spree, set off by Hutu extremists, targeted other Hutu political opponents and especially the minority Tutsi ethnic group. How could such a thing happen in my country?
My first reaction was disbelief. It was hard to admit that the hopes I had been piling one upon another for months were now shattered. My heart sank after appalling images were poured out by the media. I saw with horror and dismay unburied bodies littering the city of Kigali, decaying bodies floating down the River Akagera. It was reported that women, children, and even babies were mercilessly slaughtered alongside men. There was safety neither in churches nor on hospital beds. It was evident that mass murder was turning into genocide. The unthinkable had happened. My reaction turned to anger, and a feeling of revenge overwhelmed me. How can the deaths of innocent people, slaughtered because of their political or ethnic background, go unavenged?
Telephone calls from Rwanda soon brought revelations, putting precious names to the dead: my acquaintances, my friends, and my relatives were on a long and unending list, and also among the dead were members of my close family. My sorrow and my desperation were so intense that I was speechless; my senses were clogged with numbness all day and night. I was not only suffering as a bereaved family member but also as a Rwandan whose country was on the verge of disintegration and self-destruction.
How do I react to a calamity that wipes out all the world I know? In my culture, the male stereotype of being insensible to grief is pushed to extremes. The image of a weeping man is the most contemptible thing. In this instance, however, my culture proved totally unable to control my intense emotions. I withdrew so that my fellow Rwandans would not notice the shameful scene and ostracize me; then I wept uncontrollably. But why should I hide? Isn’t this one of our problems? We don’t cry. The result is obvious: the drier the source of our tears, the harder our hearts are to compassion.
Conversely, my tears brought with them a salutary element: a deep understanding pervaded my mind. How did I think of revenge? The result would be the deaths of other innocent people. Thus, I came to the recognition that any retaliation is as evil as the massacre.
Then my wandering memory made a quick comparison between the past and the present that filled me with deep nostalgia. I could figure out how the physical beauty of the country contrasts sharply with the present tragic ethnic situation. Anyone who has lived in Rwanda has inevitably been conquered by the charm of this “thousand-hills” country, with its flush valleys, its sun-glittering mountain flanks, its gorgeous and meandering rivers, and its almost ever-spring weather. And in recent years, before 1990, its people used to apparently be among the most peaceful in the world. To hear that one of the bloodiest acts of violence in Africa is rocking the country now, leaving the whole world aghast with horror, seems irrational and unbearable.
Amid this tragedy, however, beams of light come to me, however sparingly, and strengthen me. First, a small number of determined foreigners who stayed behind to save lives at the risk of their own forced my admiration and my gratitude to God. Could I have done the same? Second, the account of not a few Rwandans who preferred to die instead of killing their neighbors or who hid their friends despite a fatal threat over their heads is an invaluable lesson of dedication for generations to come. Third, numerous humanitarian organizations rushed to the rescue of the people in refugee camps, in spite of the presence of killers among them. This is real charity!
However, this did nothing to relieve my obstinate and deep-seated trauma. A good friend of mine came up with his solution to the problem—I had to look for counseling services. I thanked him for being considerate, but I chose another direction—I crumbled before God. And I stay there, arguing with Him, or simply keeping silent before Him, or shedding prayerful tears for Him to hear. Why this? Why God? Then, I became aware with horror of my possible responsibility, whatever slight, in the tragedy of my country. Did I speak against evil as I should? Despite my constant effort to stay fair, didn’t I favor my ethnic group even unconsciously, thus contributing to the slow but sure shaping of the present crisis? Didn’t the spirit of revenge I briefly felt represent a deadly poison for the future of my country? Eventually, I realized that the problem in my country does not lie in the fact that one is a Hutu or a Tutsi, but in extremism, greed, selfishness, and lethal ethnic pride. The solution, I am convinced, belongs then only to the God who can change the heart.
Image: The Catskills in Upstate New York represent an eroded plateau. Public Domain
