Hope inspite of what we can see......

I am currently sitting in Kigali in Rwanda in a cheap internet cafe where the cost of an hour is 60p. Slightly different from back home!

Let me begin by apologising for the length. Anyone who know me is aware I was not given any gift of brevity by God. Or spelling for that matter. This week has been one of the hardest and most amazing I have ever had. I have seen despair and hope in the same moment and am still waiting for my thoughts to crystallise. I still need to think, but part of me needs to type to share the story of those we have met. Suffice to say this week we have been in and returned from the Congo, and I am currently typing amidst the malestrom of thoughts and emotions spiralling through my skull.

On Thursday we got a bus from Kigale to Gisenyi at the border with the Congo, and went to border control. The walk down was beautiful (Gisenyi is a stunning place, look it up on Google, the beauty at the cusp of Lake Kivu is stunning) and we exited Rwanda easily to stand on no-mans land between Rwanda and the Congo.

And here is where the problems began. A 90-day visa is meant to cost $35 but it was soon to become apparant that the Congo operates under very different rules from the rest of the world on this regard. After being shuffled into a small back office inside the border office and asked many questions in French (needless to say I had no idea what was going on!!!), the situation revealed itself to be slightly different from our plans. While I am still unsure what exactly was said by the border guards to us, we found that it would cost us $50 for 1n 8-day visa. You don't argue with guards holding several Kalashnikovs. Needless to say the extra money handed over never reached the register in the next room.

We now entered Goma, a city you may remember from the tail end of last year when the outside world finally roused itself from its apathy towards Africa to look to the Congo and see the tragic horrors that were unfolding there. To put it simply a rebel group led by Nkunda was moving and commiting many atrocities of mass rape and murder and was now outside Goma and was threatening to take the city. Many in the path of the rebels were fleeing to Goma and the situation remained precarious. Ultimately the news was to pass from our newspapers after we shook our heads and commented on how awful the situation was, before flicking to the business section to observe how our stocks had risen and fallen in the economic downturn (this is hardly a new point, but the criticism remains real even as I am aware I follow exactly the same patterns everyday I hear of tragedies in the world. Just because we all do it does not make it anymore acceptable).

The 'news' remained very real in Goma long after we had forgotten about such far-away matters. Ultimately Nkunda was captured by Rwandan forces but the situation remains volatile. It is not my place to even begin to comment on the Congo's history and situation, but suffice to say it is a potentially rich country the size of Western Europe, ripped and torn to shreds by cpuntless militias and war-lords. There is a reason it has been referred to as 'Africa's Broken Heart'. To put it simply, with many rebel groups active in the Congo as well as government forces who actively partipate in mass murder, torture and rape as legitimate weapons of war and control, the population in rural areas of the Congo, especially in the eastern provinces of late, have fled to the cities. Goma is one such city.

In Goma we grabbed a ride on a boda-boda (motorbike) and hung on for dear life while taking in everything around us. There was volcanic dust everywhere (a local volcano erupted and flowed through Goma in 2002), as well as soldiers striding through the streets. We saw no other white people (or 'musungos' for those in the know) there, bar the few UN peacekeeping patrols we saw. On the bike I heard a helicopter and looked up to see an attack helicopter flying over. What really struck me was that this did not even register with the people of the city, who went on with their everyday business, obviously used to living within the shadow of war.

Our destination? One of the many refugee camps at the edge of the city. As I type I simply don't know what to say, but I have promised some people I would blog, and I strongly feel that the story of those people that we met at this camp needs to be told.

The children were amazing. They were my first impression when we arrived, as they swarmed around us and jumped and danced with us, all trying to grap our hands. They were beautiful. Many of them had bellies swollen through malnutrition yet their smiles shone out and spoke to each of us more than a thousand words could (which seems to be what I am trying to do here). Their eyes had probably seen worse things than I could ever comprehend, yet still they smiled and put each of us to shame.

Because we were with the kids I was not aware of where our steps were taking us until I realised we were in the middle of the camp. It was horrific. Countless small tarpaulin tents spread over a comparatively small area, yet within this area dwelt 8000 refugees, with new numbers arriving everyday. The toilets were filled to capacity. There was no food. Many of the tents did not have coverings. And here is where people had to live.

We talked to many of the people dwelling there. The stories would have broken your heart. Most of the people were women, with their husbands butchered in the fighting. Many had lost several (one person all) of their children. One family we saw consisted of a mother with six children, the same as my own family. The vital difference is that unlike my family which lives in a two-storey house, all the members of this family lived and dwelt in a tarpaulin tent about a quarter of the size of any of the rooms in my own home. And they slept on rocks and straw.

One man called Zaccheaus whom we talked to had lost all of his family in the fighing, his wife and all of his children. He himself had been left for dead in the depths of the Congo. The scars he showed us on his back told their own story.

One woman named Davos could not talk of what had happened to her, and one of her daughters who clung to her had apparanlty not spoken in 6 months since she had seen things no human should ever have to see.

Another family did not have a cover for the sticks underneath which they lived. When it rained they shivered as the water poured over their bodies,a nd when the sun shone they baked int he heat.

The stories are as numerous as the individuals. I see no point in continuing. Put simply there was no food coming, and the kids often would rummage through the rubbish to find anything salvagable for a meal. They all wanted to return home but did not know when this would ever be possible. I felt despair gnawing at my soul, as I was fully aware there was nothing we could say to these people. What could we say? What hope could we bring? How could we pampered white people ever bring into situations we could never understand?

It appeared I was wrong. Inspite of the tragedies these people all spoke of a God they trusted, who they believed loved them and would provide for them. I may pay lip service to such a God but I do believe that very few of us in the West know this God as these people did. They know God and trust Him more than I could ever hope to, as I sit wrapped in selfishness and obsessed with temporary fleeting pleasures.

We prayed with the people we met and spoke of how they were our brothers and sisters, and how people at home were praying, and would pray all the more so when they heard their stories. Each of them are brothers and sisters and none deserve to be pitied, as this implies a looking down from above to those below. They were not below us, in matters of faith and community they were light years above any of us. They were dignifed and I can truely say I saw God there. While I reacted with despair at times, God was there with those people. While praying, the faith and hope of those people was a witness I cannot forget. And I pray I will not. I know not what else to say.

Much more happened, but I cannot find the heart to say more. The journey home was a blur. A man attempted to rob me in Goma. The dust from the city made the sky appear as dusk. We arrived back at the border only to find that our visa apparantly did not apply beyond that day and if we tried to re-enter we would have to again pay $50. Not having the money to fund this corruption this appears to be our one and only visit to the Congo for now.

On entry to Gisenyi in Rwanda I was struck again by the beauty of the place. Villas line the lake shore and there are many white people visiting as tourists, with many hotels and beaches scattered throughout the idyllic setting. This only a mile from a situation fo poverty and stories that would shatter anyone's heart. After the dire situation we had left it was like passing from hell to heaven. But on reflection I was wrong. God was more evident in the refugee camp than he ever was in the comfort of Gisenyi.

And hope. What can I ever say? Having been in Rwanda now for a while I am struck by how amazing the place is. Bearing in mind the horrific monstrous tragedies of 1994 and the genocide here, the land of Rwanda is nothing short of a miracle. The infrastructure is amazing and the city of Kigale is more advanced than parts of Belfast (I say without scarcasm). And the greatest miracle is the people. The people we have talked to see themselves as one. Hutus dwell alongside Tutsis in peace and forgiveness. Love has conquered over hatred. The healing is beyond my comprehension, and what has happened in Rwanda, at least to me as a simple uninformed observer, is truly an act of God.

There is still a long way to go. But the situation here is more than I could ever have dreamt of, and is a challenge to us at home in Norn Iron. That God could work so powerfully in such a dire situation as the genocide and its aftermath is a source of hope I am failing to convey. I sincerely believe that the prayer that has been poured on this country from outside and within has had an answer both in heaven and on earth.

And this can happen in the Congo. Just as anyone looking at Rwanda after 1994 may have not seen any hope for the future or the people of the country, a similar situation brews within the Congo now. Currently I cannot see how peace could ever dwell there. The problems are too endemic and complex, and the divisions and hatred too deep. Or at least they appear so to me.

But we serve a God who can do more than we can possibly ask or imagine. A God who can heal broken hearts and set the prisoners free. A God who asks us to declare the year of the LORD's favour. And I believe He is calling us to pray for the Congo so that a healing we cannot envision can begin to happen within 'Africa's Broken Heart'. He is calling His people, will we answer?

The people we met are our brothers and sisters and are as special and unique as any one of us. They hope and pray for a miracle, and we must do the same. Zacchaeus, Jaqui, Davos, Susanna and the many others need and want and expect our prayers. I often complain that there is nothing I can do (incidentally a lie from the pits of hell), but this is one thing we can do. Just as healing has come in may ways to Rwanda, that same river of grace and love can flow through the Democratic Republic of the Congo to heal and change the future of a people. A belief in a miracle may cause the mighty and powerful in this world to scoff, but we are called to hope, weep, rejoice and pray with our brothers and sisters here in Africa. Cynicism is the ideology of the dead. God can and will move. The question is, will we?