The greasy thumbprint.

Since arriving here in Rwanda, both Ryan and I have sensed an undercurrent in daily life. Sometimes the undercurrent comes rushing to the surface in a way that has continually proven to be uncomfortable for us. The undercurrent is of course the genocide which occurred 15 years ago and as I described to one friend over email, it left a greasy thumbprint on everything.

Now, I need to clarify up front that these are just my impressions and thoughts. In no way am I an expert or even all that well-informed about Rwandan culture, the genocide, or their politics. What I'm going to share here are some of my observations and questions that have come to mind since we arrived just two weeks ago. It isn't necessarily easy to read this, I'm sure, but it isn't easy for me to write it either. But, in truth, I think a great disservice is done if we're not honest and open about our time here.

During our first week here we went to the genocide memorial. Photos are only allowed in the outdoor sections which consist of several very symbolic gardens and the mass graves (which are not ornamental in any way) where more than 250,000 victims of genocide have been buried.

As you would expect, the memorial is very somber, and the designers of the memorial have laid out the facts and events leading up to the genocide in bare terms, beginning with colonization, and the church's part in developing a resentful divide between the native people who had lived harmoniously prior to their arrival. It lays out the political underpinnings of all the events leading up to 1994. And, in quite an extraordinary honor to the rest of the world, they also have displays about other genocides throughout the world. It is in many ways a museum as much as a memorial.

We took our time passing through each exhibit and realized, before we had even completed all the exhibits, that we'd been there well over 2 hours. The memorial had, unbeknownst to us, in fact closed. When we rushed upstairs to the lobby to see how late it was open (we saw on our phone that it was already nearly 5:20 PM) the security guard came behind us switching off lights and closing doors. So, I must also admit that while we have seen at least 65% of the memorial we have not yet finished our visit there and must return.

I hate to admit this, but being a the memorial I realized, even in the moment, that I could not fathom the 250,000 people who were buried there, let alone the entire toll of the genocide. Such a diabolical scheme is incomprehensible to me in the first place. To try and understand such evil in the world and to then also comprehend the number of lives taken was, quite simply, too much. The realities were too big to grasp after just a visit to the memorial. That was Tuesday.

On Wednesday, our house cleaner came for the first time. She is a very sweet woman and I will call her Carol here, although this is not her name. She is in her mid- to late- twenties and has a rather quiet disposition. She is very fun to talk with, and she has been so gracious to help me with speaking Kinyarwanda. She is quick to correct me when I pronounce something wrong, but not in an offensive way. She works so hard, and she makes this house shine.

On Wednesday, I noticed that at the secondary school across the street there was a loud assembly or event going on all day long. There was a lot of music, someone on a microphone, and it was kind of nice to have in the background. I couldn't understand anything being said, so for me, it was just music.

On Thursday, Ryan left the house for work with a driver from the office who picked him up. Shortly after he left, I heard someone outside making quite a ruckus. I could not tell if it was screaming, or wailing, but whatever was going on, the person was quite upset. I decided that it was likely a child walking to school who'd gotten in trouble for something and was still carrying on a bit as they dragged their feet to school.

Carol came again to clean and as the morning hours progressed, I worked from my "office" which is the section of the house closest to the school. I was deep in my work when I realized that the wailing and screaming would come and go. Maybe this wasn't a single child who was crying on their way somewhere. Sometimes, the wailing would sound like several people.

It was nearly 11 AM when I finally realized (coming out of my concentrated work stupor) that something must be happening. I knew I was safe in the house (we're bolted down pretty tight here) but I was also extremely disconcerted about what I was hearing. The unknown creates such fear in us.

I asked Carol what was going on and she told me that the music I'd heard yesterday was for the school's day to remember the genocide. Now, this is somewhat unusual I learned because usually the national commemoration and memorials happen in April. But, the school had apparently decided to hold something in June as well.

She told me that there were many students who had been so deeply affected by the memorial at school that they had gone to the hospital on Wednesday evening. The wailing, crying and occasional screaming sobs I heard were students still overcome by events held the day before. They were not actually IN school, but likely leaving school.

And suddenly, I started to leave behind the abstract understanding I'd developed reading books about the genocide and visiting the memorial only two days earlier.

I like to simplify, label, and neatly package "things" in life. I do it all the time without thinking. People, ideas, concepts, beliefs, feelings. I'd venture that we all do it on a subconscious level. Wasn't it Peter Berger among others, who suggest that we use language (and labels) to make sense of the world? To create order in our lives?

I simplify in order to get to the bottom line.

I label in order to call something by name and to have a common name that everyone understands. And package?

Well I like to package things so that I can put them away in their proper place. I package things, wrapping them up as neatly as possible so that perhaps they will look better and help me to access them when I want them for some reason. It makes for a tidy "life."

So that is what I began to do in my first 3 days in Rwanda, but this public mourning was preventing me from my task. And when I am confronted by things I cannot simplify, label, or package, I have questions. So I began an internal dialogue which later turned into a conversation with Ryan. A conversation which continues throughout each day that we spend here.

How could it be that after 15 years, mourning could still have such power? How, as a secondary student, (high school) could you even remember anything from the genocide? I don't know much about early childhood development nor the psychology behind violence, but even the oldest student at the school would have been only 3 years old when the genocide ended. At the age of 3 would you remember the events? I guess so - but you see, it was in this bevy of questions that I realized that the undercurrent of genocide is still very strong. That greasy thumbprint was suddenly everywhere, dirtying up the packages I was trying to sort and store away.

As the week progressed and we met new people from Ryan's office, we realized that even the simplest and most well-intentioned question is imprinted with the genocide. A simple conversation with questions like "Where do you live? How long have you lived in Kigali? Do you have siblings?" requires the person to draw upon the past. In the past, is the genocide.

And yet, as I have been learning, it is very much a part of the present as well. I don't know that it is part of Rwanda's present in a violent way which would cause a repetition of events. But it is very present in collective society. Cultures mourn in different ways, and I suspect that the only thing I might possibly draw upon from a recent American experience are the attacks of September 11. And yet, even in an attempt to draw any type of comparison which might help develop understanding of cultural mourning, I am confronted with the truth that the only common thread is tragedy itself.

The events cannot be compared even for the sake of trying to understand how a culture mourns. To compare the events is to minimize one tragedy or the other, it does not allow them to stand in their full sorrow, depth, or loss.

And so, I am left without a simplification. I have no labels and this package will refuse to be wrapped up in a tidy fashion. I don't mean to sound depressing, but it seems that all I have at the moment is the knowledge that the greasy thumbprint is there.

At our church back home we are helping to plan an annual conference which brings church leaders from resource-poor countries to share their experience with us. So often the churches of resource-rich counties (NGOs and governments too for that matter) think it is necessary that we do the talking and the telling. We've got the resources, the access to education, the money, the power. But in truth, it doesn't mean that we have everything figured out. Nor does it mean we should be talking or telling. This conference is intended to help us listen. And to learn.

The theme is about joy and generosity in the midst of suffering. I have been reflecting on that quite a bit, but again feel as if I am lost in a similar bevy of questions. The first element of this theme that I tackled was suffering. Much like my attempts to understand cultural collective mourning, I realized that I must accept that the suffering of people cannot be compared. We all suffer. However, there is perhaps, a comparison we can draw out, a question we can ask ourselves to open up our minds and our hearts. What comes in our suffering? What comes out of our suffering? Is there a joy that can be found even in the midst of suffering? A generosity?

As I shared at the start of this blog post, I don't have answers. If you have made it this far in the post you will see that I have mostly questions. But I am beginning to relax a bit in the midst of the questions. Letting loose the paper wrappings, the labels, pushing those stored packages around a bit and allowing the dust to float sparkling in the sun-filled air. Maybe that is part of what this summer holds. We have 8 weeks remaining, and I can sit with that quite contentedly.