Rejoicing and Mourning

"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn."

Romans twelve, verse fifteen.

The phone rang and the news was in. Obama was winning. He was winning! I felt a bit overwhelmed and slack-jawed. This was really happening. The man was going to win! I was so happy for him and confused about what in the world (!) was going on. Here I am in Rwanda watching the election of the century on the BBC, talking on the phone with LA. It was all too much to take. McCain gave the best speech that I've ever heard and Obama spoke with hope and honesty about how these next years were going to go. He couldn't make change alone. It was going to be long, hard, and necessary for the cooperation of the American people to achieve it. I wanted a flag or something. BBC cut to a shot of Kenyans celebrating and I FINALLY had an understanding of what African partying was like. I hoped Rwanda would break out the drums soon. Kenya was declaring a public holiday. The apocalyptic facebook statuses were hilarious. Holy crap. I could feel the paradigm shift on that couch and the whole world celebrating. Oyee! Oyee!
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I sat where a frightened person once sat. Sitting on the edge of a low, wooden pew in Nyamata sanctuary, I was trying to take everything in. A church. People had fled to this church for safety. In 1992, before the official genocide, muhutus practiced genocidal behavior by killing 600 of mututsis of Nyamata village. People fleed towards the church and the Interhamwe left them alone. Holy ground or something. Two years later, the Genocide began and people fled for the lives to Nyamata church and barricaded the doors. The Interhamwe came with machetes and tried to break in but couldn't, the refugees inside promising to defend themselves.
It was quiet in there. There were piles of clothes on every one of the pews beside me, in front of me, around me, and layered around the altar. People wore these clothes once--bled in them--died in them. Piles and piles of clothes lay moldy, brown, and decaying. The smell in the room was strong and acrid. This wasn't as sterile and pretty as the memorial in Kigali.
The Interhamwe couldn't break through but then the army showed up. With grenades and artillery, they shot into the church and watched the people inside fall one by one. The resistance stopped and they broke in, finishing the women, children, and men with machetes. Machetes created more suffering than bullets. The sanctuary was brimming to capacity:10,104 people. Not one survived. Not one. Bullet holes scarred the baptismal fount and the display of skulls, femurs, and other bones awaited downstairs and in the tombs. You could see the blunt trauma of a sharp object in these bones that were once people. Mother Mary looked down over the altar and clothes, praying. I wasn't sure if it seemed mocking or intercessional. In the house of God...for goodness sake. Where I was sitting, someone sat begging for their life; and no one answered. Sometimes faith hangs from a very fine string.

I couldn't stand to take a picture. Not in there. So I took someone else's picture, on someone else's blog to give you an idea. It was just awful. I feel like some of my innocence has been taken away. It was a big day today.