One Snapshot along Rwanda’s Long Road to Reconciliation

The jeep dipped, jerked, and rose as it navigated the dirt road to Bugesera. We were on the cusp of the second rainy season, the shorter one, and the deep gullies and splashing mud created from the harsh August rain reminded me of a jet-ski hitting wakes on the waters of my native Florida. As I looked out the window, some of the tropical plants also reminded me of home: jacaranda trees bursting with yellow and fiery orange, mango trees with heavy limbs like stooping shoulders, and fields of sturdy sugar cane standing to attention. Other sights in that Rwandan hillside were unfamiliar, like the newly cut sorghum stalks, the mud homes with their corrugated metal roofs, or the continual stream of people walking or bicycling. They carry their lives: yellow jerry cans of water, banana bunches, firewood, potatoes, babies, baskets of papayas or dried tobacco leaves, school books. They are constantly moving, constantly carrying their loads, constantly pushing on.

Nowhere is this truer than the place where a few have discovered reconciliation after the genocide. Rwandans are taking great strides, but forgiveness is one of the most excruciating journeys imaginable. Its miles wind through memory’s chasms of pain, across solitary deserts of rage, and up suffocating altitudes of bitterness. Yet, while its rough trails shred the feet, and its arid plains leave travelers raw and exposed, its many pathways lead inexplicably to release.

RESTORING BROKEN PEACE
The jeep lurched to a halt in front of a mud house with a thatched roof. Approaching the car from an intersecting road, a woman caught our eye. I wondered if she was Chantale—the Chantale I had traveled hundreds of miles to interview, whom documentary filmmaker Laura Hinson had recorded the summer before, in a film dedicated to exploring the process of forgiveness and reconciliation in post-genocide Rwanda. Among others, Hinson had searched specifically for someone who had not yet forgiven, but who was willing to meet the perpetrator of genocide-related crimes against his or her family. Chantale, a survivor who had lost her father, mother, husband, and children as a result of the genocide, fit the profile. A Rwandan non-profit organization known as CARSA had been working with Chantale, helping her put some semblance of life back together. And a mediator named Pascal had also been talking with Chantale about the possibility of having a face-to-face meeting with John, the man who killed her father.

From the uncut footage of Laura’s film, I had seen pain, bitterness, and rage reflected in Chantale’s eyes. Who could blame her? Thoughts of what happened in Rwanda in 1994 are torturous enough—nearly a million people killed in the span of some 100 days, the rough equivalent of three September 11’s a day for 100 days, as Hutus took up arms against Tutsis and anyone else who objected to genocide. And for Chantale, all of the horror had personal names and faces, including her father’s killer, a former neighbor. So when she told Laura in words the story that her eyes had already told—that she had “not even one iota of mercy” for John—who could fail to understand her reaction?

From our American context we wonder, “Why meet? Why put this woman through another trauma? Why not just let her move on with her life?” But for Rwandans, ideas of justice involve more than just punishing crime. Dating back to pre-colonial rule, Rwandans participated in a communal form of justice known as gacaca, or justice on the grass, because the hearings took place, as they still do today, literally in grassy fields. The gacaca process, revived today to deal with tens of thousands of people incarcerated for genocide-related crimes, stresses not just punishing crime, but restoring broken peace. Though the process has many faults, clearly evident to outside observers, it rightly emphasizes a restoring of peace between the offender and the offended that is absent in many of our Western paradigms of justice. So while the idea of Rwandans encouraging truth and, when possible, reconciliation may be foreign to us, it is not to them.

When Chantale finally met John, in the presence of their mediator Pascal, Hinson, and her film crew, no one knew what the result of that encounter would be. The silence hung heavily, like the air in the room. John broke the tension with this confession:

“Chantale, thank you for this moment. I sinned against you terribly by killing your father, a man I lived beside and even shared drinks with. I even prepared the feast when he received the sacrament of confirmation in the church. But the archenemy of evil embedded my life, and I committed this horrible sin of killing your father. I’m falling before you begging for mercy for the sin I committed.”

Chantale probed John for details of how he killed her father, details he shared. She pressed him further:

“How long has it been since you came out of prison?”

“About nine months since I came out.”

“All these nine months you had no clue where I live?”

“I knew where you lived, but I was afraid.”

“Fear?”

“Fear of one’s crime.”

“You could have tried to see whether I would have sent you back or welcomed you or called these people around to hear what you had to say.”

“Forgive me for all that.”

“I will not forgive you on the account that you didn’t counsel yourself to come, and it had to take this mediator for you to come. You knew us well. . . . I can’t forgive you, because all this time you never thought to come. . . I won’t forgive you.”

“To come before you has been the most difficult thing for me, the most shameful.”

“How come we live with others who killed and we meet . . . but you have never come?”

“It’s true, but have mercy upon me.”

“It’s painful . . . for someone like me who had a big family, but today I’m alone. I can’t even go back to where we used to live. Why do you think I can’t go back? It’s because I knew I was going to see your face again. You were not able to come and even ask me for forgiveness. Did you think I was crazy that as soon as I would see you I would stone you? Even if I would do that, people would stop me!”

“To kill someone is the most terrible sin someone can do. Even for someone to confess and ask for forgiveness is a result of many years of teachings to a point where your heart is set free.”

“It’s so painful to see someone you shared together with, your neighbor. You shared drinks with my father; he would come to your house. . . . But when the time came, you were the first one to kill him. In the whole community he was the first one to die. . . . I’m not going to forgive you.”

“I’m begging you, be merciful.”

“It’s painful for an old man with gray hair like you. You never even bothered to come and ask for forgiveness.”

Chantale and John parted ways that day, without a resolution. But the encounter, though painful, had been a very important first step. Chantale had been able to hear John’s confession and sense his remorse. She was also able to find out how her father died. That knowledge, though unpleasant, gave her a bit more closure. For John, even though disappointed, the encounter relieved a lot of fear. He knew afterward that he could meet Chantale on the street and bear to see her, and that a door of communication had been opened. He knew that he could visit her and offer to help her with her chores, and that he could begin to show her that his repentance was real.

ACHIEVING THE ‘IMPOSSIBLE’
As the woman approaching our jeep got closer, she smiled. Her face was radiant. Getting out of the jeep, I shook her hand and my translator introduced us. It was Chantale—a changed Chantale, but Chantale nonetheless. Carefully stepping through the slick, clumpy red mud, we moved into her hut. It was dark. There were two benches and a sack of harvested sorghum and nothing else but the swept dirt floor. Almost a year had past since that first encounter with John. I had heard through the people of CARSA that Chantale had forgiven John. But I wanted to find out for myself. After more formal introductions, a tour of the small house, and a look at Chantale’s goat, we climbed back into the jeep and headed toward John’s house, next to what remains of Chantale’s father’s home. It would be Chantale’s first visit to her old home and John’s since the genocide.

Along the deeply rutted path, we stopped at a site where about 30 people were knee-deep in mud. Filling molds with the dark earth, they worked to make bricks for homes. But this was no ordinary work group. This was a work party of ex-prisoners and genocide survivors, voluntarily working together to build a home for a returning prisoner. They had just finished building a home for a survivor. Such interdependence not only helps rebuild their community; it also helps restore broken relationships between survivors and ex-prisoners. CARSA has helped nearly 800 people to form groups like these.

After a short visit, we continued our journey with Chantale to John’s home. We stopped a few hundred yards before the house, the road narrowing to a foot-path, and we walked the rest of the way. Chantale did not lag behind, nor did she seem nervous. Through the translator, I asked how she was feeling about being back here. She told me simply, “It is no longer any problem for me. I have forgiven.” I was still a bit skeptical. We passed an open field. Chantale explains that this is where her father was slaughtered. Christophe, one of the members of CARSA traveling with us, encircled her shoulder with a brotherly embrace as Chantale explained how the murder happened. A few moments later we were at John’s home.

John emerged from a cassava field behind the house, wiping his dirt-covered hands and buttoning his work shirt before greeting Chantale. They embraced. I am not sure who reached first, but a stiff but cordial greeting followed. Then John turned to shake my hand. He looked me in the eye, but then dropped his eyes quickly. There is a certain gravity in guilt that makes a gaze fall so heavily, I suppose.

That afternoon while interviewing both John and Chantale separately, I got to hear the rest of the story.

After their first encounter, John had been discouraged, but asked Pascal to keep talking to Chantale for him. For Chantale’s part, after the genocide she had left the church. But after her encounter with John, she began to attend again. She could not explain what had drawn her there, but in church one day, she found herself thinking, “Maybe if God forgives, He can help me also to forgive.”

Not long after, with Chantale’s permission, John finally visited Chantale at her new home, something that in their first encounter Chantale had complained about John failing to do. Bringing traditional Rwandan beer and other drinks, John and Chantale engaged in a practice of hospitality that dates back to pre-colonial times in Rwandan history. Rich in meaning, the exchange of drinks symbolizes a deep trust and a hope for a free-flowing relationship and prosperity for both partakers. At this meeting, Pascal could still sense distance between John and Chantale, but it was another step.

Meanwhile, Chantale had joined one of the work groups. One day, in conversation with her neighbors, the topic of forgiveness came up. The neighbor expressed disbelief that such a thing as forgiveness could even be possible. Chantale replied, “If you think it’s impossible, come and see.”

For months, little by little, Chantale’s heart had been opening to the possibility of forgiveness. Pascal came by often, continuing to mediate with words like this,

“Chantale, I’m so glad you’ve said that you started praying. That’s a great step. The saddest thing was for you to lose hope. Once you find hope again all things are possible. God didn’t leave you, for His love endures forever; His love is everlasting. Maybe God protected you for such a time as this. God will always help you. And we cannot force you nor pressure you, saying, ‘Hey, forgive!’ No. This is still a process. The journey is still on. I want to commend you for even going to see John. Some other people do totally refuse to even see their killer’s face. This is the first step. But forgiveness has a source. You can honestly say to God, ‘I have no strength in me to forgive John. But you, oh Lord, have the power to forgive. Give me the power to forgive John.’

“Chantale, through forgiving John, you are receiving healing as well. Even [your father’s] land [that] you abandoned and no longer go to farm—through forgiving, you can live together again, even to a point where John can help you cultivate your land. But, Chantale, carnally you cannot have the heart to forgive. Why? The mere thought of the images of your father, your siblings, and other relatives is renewed in your heart making fresh wounds. But because the mercies of God are new every morning, you can tell God to give you His mercies towards John and you can forgive him.”

Conversations like these, and the real relationship she was forming with God, enabled Chantale to invite John and her neighbors to her house that day. There, with her neighbors gathered around in a circle, she said in front of them all, “John, from now, I have forgiven you.” John clapped his hands at the news and lifted his gaze toward the sky in thankfulness. His usual somber eyes filled with tears—this time with tears of joy.

The public demonstration of forgiveness also sent ripples out among the community. One neighbor present said, “If Chantale, who has suffered more than most, can forgive, why not me?”

‘EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE’
Soon harvest season will arrive, and John has volunteered to help Chantale with the crops. When the rains have past, John will help Chantale in building a new home. And today, when they meet at the bus stop, Chantale does not worry about taking the bus along with John and his wife. They are sharing again, traveling the same road.

I asked Chantale if I could relay any message for her to those in the West, with whom I would share her story. She said simply, “Tell them, today Chantale loves John, she can see him . . . Tell them everything is possible.”

Likewise John explains, “My vision and hope—from the forgiveness I have received, I hope the same for my country—that my children and Chantale’s can live in peace.”

While there are still deep wounds across Rwanda, many that may never heal, across a landscape of so much brutality and pain there are also people like John and Chantale who are moving along that path to further and deeper reconciliation, and they are calling others to journey with them. If forgiveness is possible after a genocide, then, as Chantale says, everything is possible. Even, perhaps, people like us, with our comparatively small rifts, can gather up our burdens and begin our own journeys toward reconciliation.

Catherine Claire is a senior writer and editor for BreakPoint and regular contributor to The Point. Her forthcoming book with Zondervan, tentatively titled As We Forgive Those: Stories from Under the Umuvumu Tree, scheduled for release in February 2009, will delve more deeply into the lives of seven Rwandans on the road to reconciliation.