Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (34 page)

I answered him with the truth: “Forgiveness is all I have to offer.”

EPILOGUE

New Love, New Life

I
t’s impossible to predict how long it will take a broken heart to heal. I was blessed, though: With God’s help, my heart was strong enough to love another after two years. But while I healed, I lived a quiet, reflective life.

I continued to work at the UN and live with Sarah’s family, and during my free time I volunteered at a Kigali orphanage, acting as a big sister to dozens of traumatized, lonely children. I was always on the lookout for the brothers I’d cared for at the French camp—I never found them, but I did find plenty of other youngsters in need of love.

In late 1995, I was finally reunited with Aimable. His scholarship administrators decided that Rwanda was stable enough to travel to and paid for his ticket home. We’d written often and talked on the phone a few times during the year, but we weren’t prepared for actually seeing each other face-to-face. I’ll never forget our meeting at the airport. Rather than a huge outpouring of emotion, our reunion was tentative, as if we were guarding our hearts. We hugged and kissed, but cautiously, for I was afraid of his pain and he of mine. We found it difficult to look each other in the eye, knowing that if our true feelings surfaced, we’d be unable to control them—that if we began crying, we’d never be able to stop.

My brother and I went to a restaurant with some friends of mine and playacted our way through dinner, talking about his studies and my job, and even laughing at my friends’ jokes. But later that night, when I was alone in my bed, I cried my eyes out. I’m sure he did, too.

The next day it was easier for us to be together. We loved each other so much that we found comfort in each other’s company, even though seeing each other was a painful reminder of our family’s tragedy. I wanted to tell him that I was strong enough to deal with the pain, and I wanted to console him, but I knew instinctively that he was inconsolable. After a while, it was clear that we’d silently agreed not to talk about what had happened to our family. We mentioned everyone by name, but spoke about them as if they were still alive—it was the only way we could cope. We carried on like that through letters and phone calls for the next two years. And things didn’t change when Aimable graduated as a doctor of veterinary medicine and moved to Kigali. We saw each other every day but would mention the genocide in very general terms, as if it had happened to someone else. When he went to visit the graves of Mom and Damascene in Mataba, he didn’t ask me to go with him.

It’s been that way for us ever since. Aimable still lives in Kigali, is a successful doctor, and has a lovely wife and child. We love each other dearly and are as close as ever, speaking often and writing at least once a week. But still, after more than a decade, we never talk about our family in the past tense. I suppose it’s our way of keeping their memory alive.

I PASSED MANY EVENINGS CLOISTERED IN PRAYER and meditation at a nearby Jesuit center, which became a second home to me. It was in those quiet surroundings that I was again able to experience the strong, intimate connection with God that had saved me during my long months in hiding.

As my heart slowly recovered, I began to dream of sharing my life with someone special, of having a family of my own to care for and love. But I was nervous . . . I remembered my experience with John and was unwilling to subject my fragile heart to a relationship that could go nowhere and end painfully. So, as I’d learned to do whenever faced with a problem or challenge, I called on God. If I wanted a marriage made in heaven, what better matchmaker could there be?

The Bible tells us that if we ask, we shall receive, and that’s exactly what I did: I asked God to bring me the man of my dreams. I didn’t want to cheat myself—I wanted to be very clear on the kind of person God should send me. So I sat down with a piece of paper and sketched the face of the person I wanted to marry, and then I listed his height and other physical features. I asked for a man of strong character, one who had a warm personality; who was kind, loving, and tender; had a sense of humor and strong morals; who loved me for who I was; who enjoyed children as much as I did; and, above all, who loved God.

I didn’t want to give God a deadline, but having placed no restrictions on race, nationality, or color—and considering that there were more than five billion people on the planet—I figured that six months would be a reasonable amount of time to wait for the Lord to send me my soul mate. I did include one caveat: Because I loved the rosary and the Virgin Mary so much, and so many other aspects of Catholicism were important to me, I told God that He had better send a Catholic. I wanted to make sure that there would be no tension in my marriage because of religion, and that my husband worshiped God in the same way I did.

Once I was clear on exactly what I wanted, I began to visualize it, believing in my heart that it had already come to pass. I’d put it all in God’s hands and knew that it was only a matter of time before He would bless me with my wish. But to hurry things along, I took out my father’s red and white rosary and began praying for my husband to show up. Three months later, he did: Mr. Bryan Black, who was sent by God, courtesy of the UN, all the way from America!

Ironically, Bryan came to the country to help set up the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, the UN court prosecuting those responsible for planning the genocide. Bryan had worked for the UN for many years and was excited to be part of a mission that would bring justice to the killers. Personally, I felt that he was on a mission from God.

When I first saw Bryan at UN headquarters, I thought that he looked exactly like the man I’d asked God to send me. Later, when I passed him in the hall and saw the deep gentleness in his eyes, I was sure that he was “the one.” But since I’d put my faith in God, I waited for Him to bring Bryan to me . . . and He did.

Bryan asked me out on a date, and we had a wonderful time. At the end of the evening, I was certain that we were a perfect match and that he was the person I’d spend the rest of my life with . . . if only he were Catholic! I braced myself, and asked him the big question: “What religion are you?”

“I’m Catholic.”

I wanted to jump into his arms and shout, “Praise God! Welcome to my life—you’re here to stay!” But I worried that I’d scare the poor guy off. So instead, I took his hand in mine, smiled, and said, “Me, too.”

I never burdened Bryan with the full story of what I’d been through during the genocide, but he listened to me whenever my heart was heavy, and he let me cry on his shoulder whenever I felt the need.

TWO YEARS LATER BRYAN AND I WERE MARRIED IN A TRADITIONAL Rwandan ceremony, and we came to America a short while later, in 1998. We have a loving, supportive marriage, and God has blessed us with two beautiful children: our daughter, Nikeisha, and our son, Bryan, Jr. Every morning when I wake up to my two little angels, I can see the beauty and power of God in their faces. I never stop thanking Him for all His precious gifts.

God remains part of my life every day and in every way; He sustains me, protects me, and fulfills me. He makes me a better wife, a better mother, and a better person. And He’s helped me make a career for myself as well. After my children were born, I wanted to resume my working life, but finding a good job in New York City was even more challenging than it had been in Kigali after the genocide—there were so many people, and so few jobs!

But I prayed for God to guide me, and then I looked for the position I wanted—at the United Nations in Manhattan. Once I knew where I wanted to work, I visualized that I already had a job there, using the same technique of positive thinking I’d always used: believe and receive! I went to the UN Website, printed out the directory that listed the employees’ names and titles, and then added my name to the list. I even gave myself a telephone extension! I tacked the directory onto my wall and looked at it every day. Of course, I also filled out an application, submitted a résumé, and made follow-up phone calls—but so had more than a thousand other people. I kept looking at my directory, believing that the job was mine, and I prayed every day until my phone rang. Sure enough, I was short-listed out of hundreds of other applicants and was offered the job after I went in for an interview. I’ve never ceased to be amazed by seeing God’s power at work!

This is the same power that I feel propelling me forward into the next phase of my life. God saved my soul and spared my life for a reason: He left me to tell my story to others and show as many people as possible the healing power of His love and forgiveness.

There are people I left behind that I must help. I hope to return to Rwanda as often as I can to aid in restoring hope to the hearts of genocide survivors, especially the orphaned children. I am currently setting up a foundation that will help victims of genocide and war everywhere to heal in body, mind, and spirit.

GOD’S MESSAGE EXTENDS BEYOND BORDERS: Anyone in the world can learn to forgive those who have injured them, however great or small that injury may be. I see the truth of this every day. For example, I recently shared my story with a new friend, and a few days later she called to say that my experiences had inspired her to contact an uncle she’d once been close to but hadn’t spoken to in years.

“We’d had a big fight, and I was so angry that I swore I’d never speak to him again,” she confided. “But after hearing how you managed to forgive the people who killed your family, I had to pick up the phone and call him. I didn’t ask him for an apology—I just opened my heart and forgave him. Soon we were talking the way we used to, with so much love. We couldn’t believe that we’d wasted so many years.”

Similarly, a genocide survivor whose family had been murdered called me from Rwanda not long ago, crying over the phone and asking me to explain the steps I’d taken to forgive the killers.

“I thought you were crazy to forgive them, Immaculée—that you were letting them off the hook. But the pain and bitterness I’ve been carrying in my heart for 11 years is about to kill me. I’ve been so miserable for so long that I don’t have the energy to live anymore. But I keep hearing people talk about how you forgave your family’s killers and moved on with your life . . . that you’re happy and have a husband, children, and a career! I need to learn how to let go of my hatred, too. I need to live again.”

I told her how I put my trust in God, and related all I’d done to forgive and move ahead . . . everything I’ve now written down in this book. She thanked me and later told me that she’d asked God to help her forgive the killers, too.

Then there was the woman in Atlanta who approached me in tears at the end of a talk I gave. She told me that her parents had been killed in the Nazi Holocaust when she was a baby: “My heart has been full of anger my entire life . . . I’ve suffered and cried over my parents for so many years. But hearing your story about what you lived through and were able to forgive has inspired me. I’ve been trying all my life to forgive the people who killed my parents, and now I think I can do it. I can let go of my anger and be happy.”

At the same seminar, a 92-year-old lady put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. She was so emotional that she was barely able to speak, but she found her voice. I’ll never forget her words: “I thought it was too late for me to forgive. I’ve been waiting to hear someone say what you did—I had to know that it was possible to forgive the unforgivable. I am at peace now.”

As for the land of my birth, I know that Rwanda can heal herself if each heart learns the lesson of forgiveness. Tens of thousands who were jailed for killing during the genocide are starting to be released into their old towns and villages, so if there was ever a time for forgiveness, it is now. Rwanda can be a paradise again, but it will take the love of the entire world to heal my homeland. And that’s as it should be, for what happened in Rwanda happened to us all—humanity was wounded by the genocide.

The love of a single heart can make a world of difference. I believe that we can heal Rwanda—and our world—by healing one heart at a time.

I hope my story helps.