MAY I HAVE A WORD? A ngela K ays - B u rden
Predestined for Adoption* I wasn’t paying attention in 1994 when the Rwandan genocide happened. It wasn’t until years later, when I saw the movie Hotel Rwanda, that I was twice horrified —first, because of the atrocities that saw 800,000 Tutsis killed by their friends and neighbors; second, because the tragedy had escaped my awareness. The terrible and inspiring stories of Rwandan genocide survivors have helped direct unprecedented attention and resources towards the small African country. Convicted of our 1994 apathy, we have opened our hearts and minds to learn what we can from the past. It was after hearing Immaculée Ilibagiza share how she survived the massacre by hiding in a 3- by 4-foot bathroom for 91 days with seven other women—and emerged with a profound faith in God— that I decided to take a short-term mission team to Rwanda. I went to Kigali last August with mixed motives—compassion, guilt, and curiosity. I hoped the trip would somehow shake me from my comfortable Christian life. Our suitcases held small toys and children’s clothing for the orphans we expected to meet. After visiting three orphanages on our first day, it was clear that these things would not be needed. In preparing for the trip, we failed to fully understand how genocide shapes an individual life and the consciousness of a nation.The orphan estates on our itinerary did not house small children but rather adults in their 20s and 30s. In Rwanda, where family connotes a vastly more elevated and interconnected web of relationships than most Americans can comprehend, anyone who loses a parent, especially if the loss occurs during his or her childhood, is an orphan.
Instead of institutional orphanages, the Rwandan government built estates of homes (called “imidugudu”) where young genocide survivors can live together in communities. The eldest child cares for a family unit that includes siblings and extended relatives. Rwanda has an estimated 101,000 children living in 42,000 child-headed households. There are imidugudu for approximately 6,000 orphans who have organized themselves into formal “associations” to support one another and share common needs. As we visited each estate, seats of honor were arranged for our team, and the orphans from each community gathered to tell their stories. Each survivor gave his or her name, then ended their introduction with “I am an orphan.” After more than 30 young adults had reminded me that they were orphans, my American sensibilities overtook me. I was agitated. These were not dependent children, I thought to myself, but resourceful adults who could care for themselves and others. Many were Christian men and women. Why was “orphan” the critical identifier, used almost like a last name? Christ’s promise that “I will not leave you as orphans” kept coming back to me. These young adults asked honestly why we had come, hoping perhaps that we had something to give them. But I had come only with a faith to share and clothes that were too small. A 24-year-old man shook my hand, and I began to grasp a reality that would never be mine. I saw the young man as a 9-year-old in 1994, who, bereft of the emotional/spiritual compass of his murdered parents, had turned for help to those who first visited Rwanda after the genocide. The orphans before us were fed, clothed, housed, and educated. I couldn’t help but think that they were among the lucky ones. I began to hope for the imidugudu Christians to understand that they were not orphans but rather children who had God as their father. But as I raised a hopeful prayer for the orphans PRISM 2009
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of Rwanda, an awareness began to emerge within me that I ought to be praying the same for myself. Although I have experienced neither the personal trauma of the 1994 genocide nor the private and public abandonment faced by a people recovering from this tragedy, there are many times when I act more like an orphan than a child of God—each time, in fact, that I fear tomorrow, lean on my own understanding, or fail to feed on the Bread of Life. It is not just Rwandan genocide survivors who need a revelation of God as father.What if each of us in relationship with Christ embraced an identity formed, not by our past and present sufferings, but by our future glory? An identity rooted in confidence in the unconditional acceptance, limitless love, and unmeasured forgiveness of our heavenly Father? Although we eventually met orphans small enough to fit the clothes we brought, I was very much aware that we were mere visitors passing through—visitors with limited resources in the face of great need. Many had come before us and many would come afterwards.We had no choice but to leave all the orphans in God’s hands. Did we really believe he would do what he promised? “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you” (John 14:18). I began to see that embracing an identity as a child of God, in the face of such a past, could restore every heart touched by tragedy. Christ’s love transcends geography, ethnicity, and circumstance for all those who turn to him. He can do the same for us in our own difficult circumstances. As Rwanda remembers the 15th anniversary of the genocide, may God come as father to every orphan in Rwanda as the country rebuilds its infrastructure and the hope of its people; and may Christ come with his spirit of adoption to each of our hearts as well. n Angela Kays-Burden is a licensed master social worker living in New York’s Hudson Valley. *Ephesians 1:4-6