His name is Vital. We asked to hear his story, but we weren’t prepared for what we were about to hear.
It was March 1994. He was eight years old. His father was Kenyan and his mother was Tutsi. He had many siblings, some at home and some away at college. His best friend lived next door and he was one of the top students in his class. His president had just died in a plane crash. He was eating sweet potatoes when he heard the news.
In a moment, everything changed. He was told he couldn’t play with his best friend anymore and he was no longer allowed to attend school because the crash sent the Rwandan genocide of Hutus against the Tutsis into full effect. It was plotted out months, perhaps even years in advance and then quickly executed. The entire country spoke one language and is roughly the size of Maryland – allowing word to spread quickly. There were radio stations and other forms of propaganda devoted to encouraging hate crimes and spurring others on to violence and murder. Government officials equipped the Hutus with weaponry and no one was left unaffected. Neighbors turned on neighbors, friends on friends, family on family…pastors even turned on their churches…inviting in their flocks and then leading them to the slaughter.
Men came to his house and said, “We’re going to kill your family.” His father gave them enough money to leave, but they said they would be back to kill the “cockroaches.” His father knew they had to head towards the borders for safety, so they moved quickly. His older brother was on his way home from college when he was stopped at a roadblock and brutally killed. This was the first tragedy their family experienced.
On their way into hiding, his sister’s primary school friend invited her into her home. The Hutu parents had offered to take her in as another daughter to keep her safe. The family parted with their daughter and sister hoping to be reunited after the war was over. However, it was all too good to be true. The Hutu family had taken his sister in for the sole purpose of murdering her.
His family kept moving. His father became weak from asthma attacks and without medical treatment, his condition worsened. They had to stop moving. They dug a trench and his mother made a covering of the leaves of banana trees. They hid there, waiting for his dad to get better. They had nothing to eat or drink, but he couldn’t cry because the soldiers would hear him. His father progressed to a state of crisis and sent his family on toward the border. They never expected to see one another again.
Near the border, his mother led them to a refugee camp. They ran into soldiers on the way who shouted, “We’re going to kill your family.” A friend of his father’s stepped in at the last minute and spared their lives. He found an abandoned home to hide them in. Some time later, his father showed up. They were in disbelief that they had been reunited. Shortly after, the house was raided and again, men said, “We’re going to kill your family.” And they did…they started with his father who was a human shield for his young son. Then, they asked who would be next. His cousin/uncle/nephew (translation was rough here) stepped up and sacrificed himself for the family. The rest of the family managed to escape to safety at the border at last. They would never be the same.
The genocide lasted only 90 days…the death toll is estimated to be one million.
One million lives were lost in just 90 days.
Many years later, his family returned to Rwanda and he finally got to return to school. He was reunited with three siblings who had been attending college in Kenya in 1994. They lived those years all believing that one another were dead. He still hasn’t cried.
It was March 1994. I was eight years old. My biggest concern was getting straight A’s on my report card and my biggest tragedy had been a broken arm. Before the genocide was over, we celebrated my ninth birthday at Burger King complete with a cardboard crown, presents galore and an ice cream cone.
His name is Vital. We asked to hear his story, but we weren’t prepared for what we were about to hear.
It could have been me, but I was born in Muskogee, Oklahoma – 8300 miles away from Kigali, Rwanda. It could have been me, but I was labeled Caucasian instead of Tutsi. It could have been me, but no one has ever killed my parents or my siblings. It could have been me, but I’ve never truly starved. It could have been me, but instead, I’ve never experienced real tragedy. It could have been me, but I am blessed beyond measure and somehow still take it for granted. It could have been me, but I was spared.
Do you ever count your blessings? Do you consider all of the weapons of the Enemy that the Lord has spared you from? Or maybe you have experienced tragedy – do you know that the Lord has a plan to redeem you?
He wants to bind up your broken heart, set you free from captivity and release you from the darkness. He has a crown of beauty for you instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
-Isaiah 61 Paraphrase-
Jenn Dannelley
