Dear Family and Friends,
The boys and I had a very full and emotion-draining day. In the morning we drove forty-five minutes to the Nyamata and Ntarama Churches where over 15,000 men, women, children, and even babies were hacked, blown up, shot, and bludgeoned to death during the Rwandan Genocide of 1994. Our guide at the Nyamata Church, Charles, was eight-years-old in 1994 and one of only eight who survived the mass murder of over six thousand. He survived by going out to forage for food at night and hiding under dead bodies in the church by day.
We spent the afternoon at the National Genocide Memorial in Kigali learning more about the Rwandese Genocide as well as twentieth century genocides such as Turkish Armenians at the beginning of the twentieth century, Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge in the 70s, Bosnia and Serbia in the mid 90s, and, of course, the Jewish Holocaust during World War II. The boy were very quiet and sober after our visits. It was a rather overwhelming day-but a very important one.
Tonight is our last night in Kigali. We head to Nairobi tomorrow (Sunday) leaving at 5:45 a.m. MST. All of us have hearts and minds full of new experiences, have gotten along incredibly well (Shelly’s asked me how we’ve gotten along several times-I don’t think she believes me that we haven’t killed each other yet J), but yet we are ready for more of an easy-going tourist experience in Kenya.
Here’s a blog I wrote a couple of weeks ago (June 5) when we were still in Bukavu, DRC:
“Give a man a fish today and he will be hungry again tomorrow. Teach him how to fish and he will never be hungry again.”
Ever since I first crossed the border from Cyangugu to Bukavu in 2004, I have been intrigued by the larger number of handicapped men at the border who use their limited means to haul 300-400 pounds of cassava, rice, or cement up the hill to Bukavu from the Rwandan border. The handicapped men sit in three-wheeled bicycles that have the pedals where they can pedal them with their hands. Each of the men has an assistant who pushes them up the hill and shares in the days’ profits however meager they may be. A few men carry petrol or oil in plastic yellow Gerry cans rain or shine, mud or dust up the hill with nothing more than rubber pads on two stumps that only remotely resemble legs.
The last couple of years I’ve gotten to know Chirikaza and Bokilo fairly well. Whatever they are doing when Celestin and I cross the border, they get huge grins on their faces and immediately come and give me a vicegrip-like, two-handed handshakes. I must admit that when I first met them and they came to greet me I inwardly cringed thinking how dirty their hands and the rest of their bodies were from crawling crawl around in the dust and mud all day.
When I was in Bukavu last fall, I resolved the next time I visited that I would sit down with these men and learn more about their lives. When I see them at the border, I am awed at how much they do with so little. All of them could be licking their wounds, bitter that life has handed them such a difficult journey through life. But in spite of daily set-backs they radiate a simple joy, knowing God is with them and that this is enough for their daily bread. This is not to say that their lives are not full of discouragement, but that they keep their eyes more on God than on their problems.
One of the men from the local church that meets at the District Center where Celestin lives is Victor. After I came back to the U.S. last fall, Victor started meeting with the handicapped group to encourage to work together more intentionally as well as to seek God’s wisdom in starting a project that the handicapped people can be involved with. The first time we met with the handicapped group, who call themselves “Brotherhood,” there were twelve handicapped men and three women. At our second meeting, there were over thirty! The word is evidently getting out that hope is afoot. Some of the ideas they have come up with so far are tilapia ponds, raising goats, a bread-making business, and a sewing cooperative. We are prayerful and hopeful that these projects can raise enough money to provide food, rent, and school fees as well as support a medical clinic for the Brotherhood’s families.
After returning from Mudaka (the village where the handicapped children, Pasie and Seraphim, live), we met with the handicapped group. Here are a few short snippets from the lives of those in the handicapped group:
Jean has one hand, but is a nurse who helps with the medical program at the Betsaida Church.
Jean-Marie, with legs that stop at the knees, says in response to my question-How can we help you?: “We do not want to be beggars. We want to help ourselves. We want to develop a project that we can do together. It is impossible to pay the school fees for all of our children, but I am confident that there is one project we can work on together to help each other’s families. We may be physically handicapped, but we have a brain and a will to work.”
Bubala needs assistance moving from his bicycle to his bead and vice versa. I’m sure he also needs assistance getting to and from the bathroom as well, although I didn’t ask about that. I did find out that he has an assistant, who helps him at the border and at home. Without consistent help there is no way that Bubala could negotiate the pitfalls of mud, dust, traffic, and potholes from the small place he and his family rent to the border and back every day. I don’t know how many hours a day the assistant helps Bubala or what their arrangement is, but I can’t imagine that it’s 24/7 although it may very well be. Celestin is reading these emails so hopefully he can help me here. Bubala’s assistant is also the secretary of the handicapped group, so he seems very committed not just to Bubala, but also to the handicapped group.
When I asked what motivates him to get out of bed every day, Bubala gives the obvious answer, “I am a human being and God has created me to work. If I do not go to the border, my family will not eat. Eating is an everyday thing. But sometimes I am sick and cannot work. When I do not work, my family does not eat. We pay rent and sometimes we do not have money for rent or school fees. So each day I get up and do what needs to be done.”
I can’t imagine having the weight of such a burden pressing down on my shoulders every night when I go to sleep and every morning when I awake, always dependent on someone else to get me in and out of bed and having no guarantees for today, let alone for tomorrow. But this is precisely my lot in life whether I realize it or not. Bubala is my teacher and my friend.
Willie, who has no legs below the knees and walks on rubber pads strapped to the bottom of his knees, says: “We have learned to help ourselves. It is very difficult when we are working at the border and it rains. There is no shelter and we get soaked. In the dry season it is very hot. We sweat, we get thirsty, but yet we must continue the struggle so that we and our families can eat today and have hope for tomorrow. Sometimes we face discouragement in our families. It’s very difficult to send your children to school when you have seven children.”
Bokilo is married and has ten children. Bokilo lost the use of his legs due to complications of malaria when he was a young boy. He says about his life, “At one time I thought it was better to die. But then I realized that God created me and that I have a purpose. I don’t have a house of my own. This life is not easy, but God is always with us. Let us keep praying that the Lord will help us.” Bokilo’s son, Tito (twenty-three years old), is one year away from finishing his degree in economics at the University of Bukavu. That amazes me. I can’t imagine what sacrifices Bokilo and his wife have made to create this opportunity for Tito. It’s truly remarkable that Bokilo’s son is within a year of graduating from college. I can’t help but think of how many sweat-soaked, rainy, mud-caked, dust-infested years have made his college education possible.
Jimmie and I were talking about our meeting with the handicapped group that same night. I was so gratified to hear some of my own words come from his mouth. He does listen sometimes! He talked about how the handicapped in Congo are the poorest of the poor as Congo ranks among the five most impoverished countries in the world according to the United Nations. He pointed out that when someone is handicapped in a developing country then they are literally at the bottom of the food chain.
I wonder what it was like for these men growing up so I ask them. I learned that many of them experienced at least two years of sand bag treatment in the hospital trying to stretch out contracted limbs. Kids made fun of them and tormented them. People looked at them as less than human. People physically abused them. Many of their handicaps are due to complications from Malaria. Even though there are only five women in the group, I believe that four out of five have been raped at least once. Several of the women thought they had a husband only to have the husband impregnate them and then leave never to be heard from again. One woman from Mudaka has been left with a blind child to care for in addition to herself and one other child. The sheer fact that each of them is still alive and functioning in their culture is a miracle in itself. Rwanda and Congo are almost nothing but hills. It’s not exactly a handicapped-friendly area.
Both Jimmie and Chuck were very moved by our meetings with the handicapped group and our plans to create a sustainable project for them and their families. Chuck said he almost cried when I choked up talking to the handicapped group. I didn’t think I was going to choke up, but I was overwhelmed as I looked out at the diverse group of men and women and imagined what it’s like for them to struggle every day of their difficult lives just to survive and give their families a place to live, food to eat, and provide school fees for their children. When I looked at their faces, I also saw Annie’s face (my daughter) and wondered what life might have been like for her if she were born to a family in Bukavu rather than a family in Lakewood, Colorado who has access to the best medical treatment money can buy. As I talked with the boys about this, Jimmie made the comment that he didn’t think Annie would have lived past age eight in Bukavu. None of us said anything for a long time after that.
Love and prayers,
Joe, Jimmie, and Chuck