Why I go to Rwanda

Just at the edge of Kigali, a city that swells to 3 million people during the workday, is the bustling bus depot. As the diesel fumes from large work trucks burn your nostrils and you navigate through the sea of red helmets of moto-drivers, you finally break through to the countryside. Rugalika isn’t far.

Time goes quickly as you become mesmerized by the hillsides; the never-ending layers of mountains changing beautiful shades of blue the farther you look.  The hand-dug terraces create an unnatural yet stunning sight, as does the curved clay tiles roofs that imbed themselves in the hills and large exotic banana tree leaves that decorate the landscape. You find yourself wondering about all the footpaths you see along the hills, where they lead to and who walks them. You wonder how far the young boy has been pushing his bicycle – the one precariously balancing long beams of wood that jet into the roadway. Or the beautiful woman dressed in vibrant kitenge fabric, bold big-patterned dresses that seem too formal for the countryside and yet here she is balancing a large tattered grey bag on her head full tea bushes. Where is she going? How long will it take?  

But your most favorite is the unsuspecting children walking home from school in their uniforms. As you pass dozens of children, no more than 5 years old, you struggle to withhold judgement against their parents. Who would allow their children to walk home unattended next to the dangerous highway? But your thoughts are interrupted when you see that one child spotted your hand catching the breeze outside the window. Their jaw drops open for only moment before it transforms into a big giant white grin as they nudge their friends to look, look! Despite the buzz of traffic and wind whipping through the car, you hear the faint shouts, ‘Muzungu!’ as you pass them. You chuckle and wave, turning back to make eye contact as they quickly disappear out of sight. And the scene repeats itself, which actually makes you wonder, where on earth is their school?  You’ve seen waves of students for the last mile at least. Is this how far they walk every day?

You notice more people along the road as passing banana trees are replaced with more mud-brick buildings smoothed over with plaster and adorned with tin roofs. Town must be near. You pass by the familiar yellow umbrella casting shade over a small wooden booth where a man sits selling phone minutes. The hair salon. The food mart. The shoe shop – each one just a small doorway along the same long grey-plastered building. Someone is using a broom made of branches to keep the business sidewalks clean. Everyone seems unhurried. Motos sit on the corner waiting for their next customer.

You’re getting closer.

You turn up a side road as the landscape repeats itself – doorways, plastered mud houses, clay tile and tin roofs, banana leaves. Another turn and you’re on a dirt road of orange clay. The downpours from rainy season wreak havoc on the unmaintained roads, leaving behind mini-ravines and big exposed rocks as your car climbs its way up. ‘Enjoy the free back massage’, Ben jokes as he drives. Somehow the view gets more striking the further up you climb. There are less cars up here and more moto drivers with customers sitting perfecting balanced on the back texting away on their phones.

Finally you’re in Rugalika – the small town sitting at the top of a hillside. Everything is familiar and your face can’t help but smile at the fond memories here and the anticipation of creating more. You unstick yourself from the sweaty leather seats and climb out of the car to be greeted by several men and women. The men are in black suit pants, well-worn, with button down shirts and suit jackets, amazing since you instantly sweat in your tank top under the beating sun. Some women are wearing long kitenge dresses, while others a tattered tee shirt with beautiful kitenge skirts. The older women wrap the vibrant fabric on top of their heads – they look regal despite the dusty layer on their clothes. The greetings begin – both of your hands embrace each of their arms just above or below their elbows, like an open hug. You embrace for a moment then pull back to give a high-five like entrance into a handshake with your right hand. With the women, they add kisses first to your right cheek, then left, then right again. The first few greetings you awkwardly miss the ending high-five-handshakes or miss the third cheek kiss but they don’t care. They’re welcoming and gracious. You giggle and find the rhythm after a few greetings.

You’re at church on a Wednesday. It’s a bigger brick building painted a teal blue color with a big banner marking the church. The uneven steps up to the door lead into a big cement floor room. Bright pieces of solid fabrics line the walls and the room is full of low wooden benches, maybe 30 of them. The room is lit by the sunshine pouring through the thinly draped windows. This is where the community group of survivors from the 1994 Rwandan genocide meet every month – or at least try to. The elderly survivors can’t make the walk but their group of 100 is split into smaller groups based on location so they can care better for each other. Today there are 25 people waiting patiently as you walk up to the front of the room. Predictably, waiting for you is a row of white plastic chairs positioned behind a low coffee table with red fabric draped over. The seats of honor. You’ve learned to accept it– to see it not as a distorted favoritism of foreigners but as a beautiful culture of welcome and honor.

Once seated, you wait. Ben is greeting the leaders of the group as more people slowly fill the space. It's quite a sight seeing the way he interacts with them, not just as the man who runs the nonprofit that supports them but also as a fellow survivor. You can clearly observe their love, admiration and respect for Ben. 

You take this brief moment you try to smell deeper, taking in all the sights and absorbing all the accents – you’re willing the moment to imprint on your heart. You know it’s special.  The meeting starts with singing, always singing! It’s rhythmic, you might say it’s ‘African’ but it’s more likely Rwandan – unique in its own right. As the singing continues, a few of the older men and women start stomping their feet on the floor in the same clapping rhythm while their arms graciously extend out wide, wrists bending back and forth, elbows and knees slightly bent. The traditional Rwandan dance. Instantly you’re grinning. Actually, you’ve been grinning the whole time – which is why your cheeks already hurt. More people file into the room.

After a song or two the community leader formally welcomes your team. Ben translates but he doesn’t need to. We see the warmth and gratitude on their faces. When she asks us to send their greetings to our families back home, everyone in the room, in unison, puts both hands in the air and waves them side-to-side. It’s quite the sight and incredibly heart-warming. The leader’s name is Candid – you remember her strength and kindness from previous years. Although this year she has ditched the beautiful traditional dress for a Puma track suit and tank top. You don’t blame her as you wipe sweat from your neck. She explains to the room why she hasn’t visited their group for a while. She started a restaurant in a nearby town and implored them to consider the same – continue economic projects to sustain themselves.

Then she asks us to introduce ourselves and then they invite the community members to share updates, as more people walk into the room. A man wearing a white button-down shirt and slacks stands up (hard to know his age but you’d guess in his 30’s) and explains how their small group within the community is growing kasava plants to earn an income. Ben noticed three or four youth sitting in the front row and makes one of them share too. They giggle and elbow each other until one bravely stands to explain that they’ve finished University but are still looking for jobs. As he sits, his friends break out in chuckles again.

Ben stops being translator for a moment and starts talking to them directly. You’ve learned to be patient because eventually he’ll turn and explain himself. When he does, he says that though they gave great reports of their economic progress, he wanted them to open up about their spiritual and emotional healing. That’s Ben. Supportive, respected, compassionate, honest and also direct.

Which is why it feels comfortable for you to be direct with him also. In years past you’ve asked him if it would be more beneficial to these groups to send money instead of using funds to fly teams out. His response is full of conviction and passion. Don’t just send money – send teams. These survivor groups might need starter money for new economic projects or extra funds to cover the elderly’s mandatory health insurance costs, but they equally need our ‘ministry of presence’, he calls it. It’s what Jesus did – met physical needs and emotional needs.

That’s what he was getting at in this meeting. Their emotional and spiritual well-being. I love that about him. The same man who stood up before stood up again to explain how they encouraged one another in prayer and reading the Bible before working in the fields.

Then it was our turn. 

At first it felt so awkward. What on earth would you say? How could you relate at all to these people who have suffered so severely? But over the years you’ve embraced solidarity over the differences, that everyone in the room is human, with different suffering but common faith. That’s what unifies us more than anything – the idea that we are the family of God. So you say so, that you don’t come as visitors but as extended family. And they respond with warm smiles, the men clap, and the women let out a gentle but high-pitch ‘eeeeee’ – it always seems to put a smile on Ben’s face. If you were to guess, it's from pride of his people and the love of his culture. You decide to share about your own loss and suffering and the room audibly responds with empathetic sounds. You see them wiping tears from their cheeks as you wipe your own. It's all so moving. The connection and love is palpable. You feared that they'd interpret your story as comparing your wounds with theirs, and nothing compares to theirs, but the fear fades when you see their empathy. Pain is pain. And love is love. It's that simple here. At least today.

The team takes turns sharing personal stories of God’s goodness or sharing a scripture that encourages the group. Not everyone speaks, which is fine. Everything is unplanned, and although it’s not the way you’re wired to do things, it seems to work best here. It gives God room to stir and speak - you need only the courage to act on it. That’s secretly why you love coming here – it forces you to do things different. To be more free.

After everyone shares what they want, we conclude with singing and prayer. It’s hard not to notice their passionate loud prayers in comparison to our quieter calm prayers. At first these things bothered you, wondering if perhaps one was lacking reverence while the other was lacking honesty. But prayer is prayer – culture is culture – judgement fades as now it all seems beautiful.

The session is over and now the fun begins. Ben can’t possibly translate for each one of us as we greet the room on the way out. Let the facial expressions and gestures begin! You break out of formation behind the decorated coffee table (something you’ve learned to bravely do but it still feels a bit awkward at first). But all the anxious feelings melt away the first moment you look into her eyes, embrace her in the traditional hug, and exchange huge grins. She’s older, maybe 80, but again age is hard to guess here. Deep down you wonder what her eyes have seen, what her heart has endured, how significantly her faith has been tested. You wonder her story. And the visible scars - you try not to make assumptions, but you recall other vivid stories of machetes and violence and torture.

There’s something so beautiful about her. Not by American standards, of course.  She has wrinkles. She doesn't wear make up. Her beautiful hair is hidden. Gosh our standards are so clearly shallow here. You’re mesmerized by her beauty. You speak ‘God bless you’ over her even if she doesn’t understand (she doesn’t). She speaks over you, even if you don’t understand (you don’t). But the eyes speak. And the heart feels. And it floods the room with overflowing hard-to-describe joy. Abundant joy. It makes you feel fully alive.

This goes on for 20 minutes, person after person. The joy feels intoxicating. You look around the room and see your team members beaming. They feel it too. One takes out her phone and shows a curious group of women pictures and videos from our visit here last year. A young woman recognizes her daughter in one of the pictures and calls more women to come look! They gesture us to take selfie’s with them and then immediately want to see it. It’s not until the car ride home that we wonder if they’ve never seen themselves in a photo.  

As you make your way through the church and back outside, you see that school must have ended because down the street is a sea of children in uniform. From a distance one of them spots you and starts elbowing their friends and pointing our direction. Within minutes they’re by your side. Some boldly come close, but a hand full stay distant, peering through bushes. ‘Muraho’, you say while shaking their small hands. They crack a nervous smile. You ask in slow clear English, ‘What is your name?’. You give them an opportunity to practice the English you know they are learning in school. Only the really brave souls attempt to answer. You ask them their age. One little boy, no older than 10, responds “I am 16.” A for effort, you think. 

There’s now a large group of children nervously standing around. You so badly wish you spoke Kinyarwanda fluently, to the point of playfully asking God why, at the Tower of Babel, He divided the people into different languages. Are you sure, God? Sure would be helpful to have one language right now. You notice a soccer ball made of light brown paper held tightly together by string under the arm of one of the kids. You gesture towards it and he smiles. He drops it to the ground and kicks it to you. You kick it back. Quickly a circle is formed with the kids giggling as you kick the ball back and forth. More joy. More play. More connection.

It’s time to leave so you load back into the hot car. Ben’s on the phone for a minute so you sit there as kids stare at you through the window. You shout out the first Kinyarwanda word you remember, which happens to be ‘ihene’, goat. Then your teammate baa’s like a goat and the kids erupt in laughter and baa back at you. Laughter seems a fitting way to end our time together. The car backs out of the church lawn and you start waving goodbye. As you head back down the orange clay road you turn around and see through the back window a dozen kids chasing after you. They last a lot farther than you anticipated but eventually they’re gassed and give up. They grin and wave goodbye. You turn back around and sit starting out the front window at the passing banana leaves, moto drivers, and mud-brick homes. You take it all in.  

This is why I go to Rwanda.  

My mind gets clear. My faith deepens. My heart expands. My soul rests. My assumptions get challenged. My worries fade. My gratitude grows. 

They feel loved. They feel seen. They feel encouraged. They feel solidarity.

Rugalika is just one of four different survivor groups we visited on our trip and I could dedicate a blog to each one. After leaving a group in Nyange, I had a moment alone with Ben walking to the car. Tears unexpectedly rolled down my cheeks. “Why me?”, I asked him. “Why do I get this opportunity? Why do I get to meet these people?” I’m ordinary. So very ordinary. But here I am, with them, feeling these ways and I’m not sure why God let's me have this. Everyone should have this experience. Everyone should feel fully alive. So why me?

I don’t know the answer. I suppose I don’t need the answer.

I just know that if I can, God willing, I will be back. 

Because Rwanda, it's people and culture, are imprinted on my heart.