The Rwandan Genocide. I had flipped through the many pages of its dark literature, and most recently looked across the thousand hills where it unfolded its rage. But now, it invaded my unguarded senses full on.
My stomach plummeted down a dark shaft of unknown horror and emotion as the first classroom of bodies was opened. White, twisted, maimed, disfigured bodies. Preserved in lime, the bodies looked almost alien to me. Yet the toes, fingers, and tufts of hair screamed of their once undeniable humanity. The severed ankles cried of the unmerited torture endured before their slow death. Some arms seems raised in an attempt to defend their life. Children. So many children.
Classroom, after classroom, after classroom.
Many had run from their killers to church buildings for safety. Many looked to the West to save them. Not but 20 feet from fresh mass graves the French played volleyball during their Operation Turquoise.
More than comprehending just the sheer volume of people that died I cannot understand how someone could so methodically plan such a massacre. But what are numbers of dead in Africa? It would seem that at least over one million must die before acknowledging that genocide is taking place.
Rwanda and Burundi are dealing with their respective genocides and ethnic differences in their own separate and very different ways. While I have my opinion these different approaches I want to express my belief in the unconditional love and hope of the Father. He is the great healer, and without Him all is lost. All the Western development money and political advice cannot and will not heal, if barely numb, the pain of human sorrow. Only He is able.