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I expected grinding poverty, African red-dirt roads, sepia plains and flat-topped acacia trees. But the latest 4x4s ply the city streets, the towering hills burst with a million greens, and everyone seems to have a mobile phone.
In the east, the round-top hills melt to the expected and much-filmed plains, though lush with that hazy, emergency green that knows the crisping sun is but a month away.
To the west, the slopes launch from narrow valleys and peak out a thousand feet above, a seamless patchwork of garden-plots blanketing the entire landscape, clear to the tops. Jungly bananas, mauve casava, emerald soya or runner beans, red splashed with new diggings, the entire fabric is managed immaculately. And throughout this montane tapestry are strung eucalyptus, wattles, pines, and still-to-be-learned natives.
In the scarce national parks we saw blue moneys and mongoose oblivious to the graunch of petrol tankers feeding the Democratic Republic of Congo, and the platoons of very bored soldiers impossibly trying to keep the gorilla-forests free of guerrillas.
Despite the aid-induced and apparent prosperity, poverty is here of course. She (?) shows her face in the stony boredom of the unpicked day labourers (were they the ones who started it?), the humble mud-brick houses and ubiquitous bare feet; the mother with hoe at front and baby at back, bent to her hillside; the homeward bound banana seller, who could only give me 30p change (was that the reason?)
It is impossible not to ask. And herein lies the problem. For the greatest poverty is of spirit. The Rwandans are friendly, tactile, gracious and easy going. Genocide is always an unexpected horror. Among the Rwandans it seems totally ridiculous. Puzzled disbelief masks the still too tender pain. How could such a thing have happened? And of all places, here? Among the birdsong hills, and gentle smiles…
How can a nation that committed suicide continue to believe in itself? It is a question asked by a million minds still trying to come to terms with themselves. It is asked in a million roundabout, oblique ways in true Rwandan style, but like an ocean current it steers the course of every conversation, every day. In a billion-watt lightning bolt, the insanity of the war has etched its negative upon the eyes and hearts of the nation.
To grieve is good – it relieves the heart. But to grieve forever is deadly to the soul. In all loss there comes a time, prescribed in Scripture, to leave behind the fatal fascination of the past, to turn from our feelings, and resolutely walk forward into our destiny, determined to rejoice. True, the songs may have a softer edge than once upon a time, but they must be songs of thanksgiving, or our spirits will perish with our loved ones. God has a better plan than that.
There are seas to conquer, hills to climb, cities to build, and other nations to rescue. Who better to go than those who have tasted hell, and learned to walk away with peace, with dignity and praise? Surely they have a greater understanding of the grace of God than those of us who shook our heads, sucked our teeth, and changed channels…
It will be a privilege to be part of the attempt, next year, to bring Hope to this garden nation. Bron & I expect to be there for four or five months, from March. The vision is too big for us, but not for God. I have never felt such a pawn, but the King is on the march!
Rwanda was a surprise - Nov 2005
