Nekesa was out of breath as she flung open the door to the classroom. Her pant legs were dusty and her braids were coming out. She found her seat at the front just as the conversation was about to begin.

“What are some issues that women face in our communities?” the teacher asked. Nekesa was the first to raise her hand. She stood to speak: “In slum areas—especially here, in Kenya—men take advantage of the poverty of women. This is why we see so much rape, incest, and prostitution in our communities.” She paused to swallow, “This is why I’m here—to help survivors find their healing.”

Her whispery voice pulled me in to listen. She spoke with such assurance that I was eager to learn more from her.

As we left the university together, mamas were selling Maasai earrings for 200 shillings ($2.00) outside the university gate. “Sister, look here! I’ll give you two for 300,” the mama said. It was an offer I couldn’t resist. “Nekesa, do you want a pair?” I asked.

“Ah! No. I would much rather use that money to buy unga for my baby,” Nekesa said. Unga is the cornmeal used to make ugali, the staple food in Kenya. Stunned, I quickly learned that she and I had vastly different priorities. Feeling guilty, I took her into a supermarket, and I said she could get a few things. She only asked for a small packet of unga, a bar of soap, and a toothbrush. As we spent time together over the course of the month that I was in Kenya, a friendship began to form. I asked if I could interview her for my thesis film, and she enthusiastically agreed.

On our scheduled day of filming, I set up my equipment in a quiet corner outside her university. Shaded from the heat of the noon sun, she began to share her story with me. “I was born in Ebutayi, a small village in the western part of Kenya. When a girl is born, there is
a big celebration. The whole village comes together and the women will dance and sing and cry ululations. But even though the village celebrated my birth, the celebration would last much longer if I were born a boy,” she began.

At eighteen, Nekesa had dreams of going to college, but being a girl, she was expected to sell mandazi, breakfast fritters, on the side of the road to support her family of thirteen. Her father, a day laborer, and her mother, a maize farmer, were at odds about allowing their daughter to go to college. Most of the girls in her village were already married, pregnant with a second child, and dropping out of school to tend to the domestic needs of their husbands. Nekesa was able to finish both primary school and high school, resisting the expectation of marrying early. As a high school graduate, the bride price would be raised—instead of one cow, she could be worth three. Her father saw it as a benefit for himself, but the idea of allowing his daughter to go to college was senseless.

With only bus fare in her pocket and the few items of clothing she owned, Nekesa jumped on a matatu, a bus, painted “Nairobi” in red letters. She planned to meet a distant relative in the Mathare slum when she arrived. Eight hours passed.

READ: When Children Learn They Are Black

She stepped off the matatu and asked people where the bus to Mathare was. Most of the people ignored her question, but finally a well-dressed man approached Nekesa and asked, “Did you say you’re going to Mathare? I’m heading that way too, I can take you.” With relief, Nekesa thanked him, happy to have found a bit of kindness in this unfamiliar city. He spoke in Luhya, her mother tongue, and mentioned places and things that were familiar to her in Ebutayi. “We’re like brother and sister!” he laughed.

When they arrived in Mathare, he let Nekesa use his phone to call her distant relative. There was no answer. “Why don’t we go to my place while we wait for your relative to call you back? I can make supper.” Nekesa enthusiastically agreed. She hadn’t eaten all day, since there was no food in the house when she left. While preparing to cook ugali with mrenda and chicken, he served her a glass of orange Fanta. Nekesa finished the glass in a few gulps. They continued to share common stories of Ebutayi.

“At first, I felt like I was in the right place. But then I started to get dizzy. I didn’t understand what was happening to me, and I fell asleep,” she said as she shook her head in disbelief. As she paused, my stomach tightened. I distracted myself by double-checking my camera to make sure she was still in focus. She continued her story.

Hours later, Nekesa’s eyes opened wide. Curtains closed. Body naked. Pain. Sheets covered in
blood. He was reclining next to her. “What did you do to me?” she asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re in my house, I can do whatever I want to you. Now hurry up! Get your filthiness out of my house. If you tell anyone that you were raped, trust me, I will kill you!” The man took her back to the matatu stage—the same place where he had tricked her into trust. As passengers boarded the matatu to Western Kenya, he grabbed her elbow with a twist. Nekesa opened her mouth to scream, but fear silenced her.

“On the bus, I cried throughout the long journey home. I felt so alone—no one on the bus bothered to look at me or help me,” Nekesa’s throat tightened. I tried to think of some comforting response, but the words would not come. I did not know how to hold the heaviness of her story.

After a month of filming various women throughout Kenya, I returned to Los Angeles to edit my thesis film. I was particularly challenged by Nekesa’s story. As I edited, her story played over and over, and a barrage of questions filled my mind: What would I do if her story were mine? Would I rebel against familial mandates to pursue my dream? Would I go against cultural expectations that risked bringing shame to my family? Would I pursue an unconventional career despite community ridicule? Would I be brave enough to commit my life to helping others through the same trauma I had experienced?

Her story could have been mine had I been raised in a different political climate in China, had I been born to parents who preferred a boy as their first child, had my grandparents never fled communism, had my parents been unable to find jobs because of discrimination, and had I not been given opportunities to pursue my academic dreams. While I was attempting to make a career out of telling other people’s stories in the film industry, Nekesa was rewriting her own story. While I was pondering all the ways I could become profitable in Los Angeles, she was trying to put food in her daughter’s belly in Mathare. While I was finishing up my final year of university, she was just beginning hers. While I was focused on building my own dream, Nekesa was building a dream for many starting with her daughter.

I saw how the struggle of my ancestors paved the way for me to write a new story as well. For I too desired to create a better world for my future daughters, should I have any. And if I did, I wondered, what would I want their world to look like? I did not know at the time, but I knew that I had a responsibility to reconcile the suffering of the generations before me. A common dream united Nekesa and me across borders. I paid her balance for the remainder of her semester.

When Nekesa’s results came back, she was at the top of her class.

Adapted from Liberation is Here by Nikole Lim. Copyright (c) 2020 by Nikole Lim. Published by InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, IL. www.ivpress.com

Editor’s Note: The following is the final part in a six-part series by Nikole Lim of stories painting juxtapositions of immense pain and tremendous hope in Rwanda. Read the Artist Statement, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5

She was no more than five-feet tall, wearing a traditional sari in white cotton decorated with only three blue stripes hugging the fabric’s edge. Her face was framed perfectly within the blue border wrapped around her head, symbolizing her vow to the life of chastity, poverty and obedience—her life’s work is to serve the poorest of the poor, seeing every person as if they were Jesus himself.

“We don’t allow photos inside but you may take a picture with your heart.”

She spoke softly with a strict but sweet tone—her gentle accent from her homeland of Kenya. The Missionaries of Charity, founded by Mother Teresa of Kolkata, is home to children, women and men considered to be the poorest of the poor around the world. Here in Rwanda, this home serves people of all ages, some with severe mental and physical disabilities. A little figurine of Mother Teresa greeted us as we entered. Below it hung a hand-painted sign quoting sweet words of wisdom,  “Make of your life something beautiful for God.”

The sister led us down the steps into the first area for babies and children that had been orphaned by HIV, abandoned because of their disability, or ostracized by their community. She invited us to hold them, to play and speak with them. The babies that were mobile immediately leapt into our arms but there were some who could only cry for a touch—unable to command their legs to walk or convey meaning to their words. One boy lay in a crib with his frail limbs and tightly clenched fists—his muscles too weak to control. My mentor placed his hand on the boy’s head. In an instant, the boy stretched to reach around my mentor’s neck and pull himself up and out of the crib, coming to rest in his arms.

Earlier, as we drove to the Missionaries of Charity home, my mentor shared a story of his Hindi friend who, in looking into the eyes of a child with severe disabilities, saw Jesus. In the neglected, oppressed and marginalized—he saw that Love resides there, where few dare enter. The sisters at Missionaries of Charity believe in seeing Jesus in the neglected women, men and children of the world—the abandoned, the ostracized, the dying. They share whatever they have with they who resemble the actual body of Christ. They recognize that their gifts of love are freely given to Love himself.

Moving forward in our visit to the home, we came to a place housing women—some elderly, some with severe mental disabilities and physical ailments. As I put a scented hand sanitizer on my hands to not spread germs from the children into the women’s building, the sister told us that one of the women is obsessed with the scent of perfume. It was too late, I saw her approaching. She was nearly six-feet tall, wearing clothes that did not cover the length of her thin limbs. Unable to articulate words, she could only moan—desperate to convey meaning. She immediately grabbed my hands and sniffed them intensely, she would not let go. When I turned away,  she would throw her arms up in agony, shrieking in frustration.  Again, she would clamor for my hands—she tried everything she could to sniff my hands and search my bag for the source of the scent. I’ve been to places like these many times before but somehow, this was different.

I failed to see Jesus that day.

I dodged him, I was hiding from him and I was ashamed. His beauty was hard to find in the eyes of a tall woman with a fixation on scents and I failed to find him. I felt like I was aggravating her and I was embarrassed. I could’t love her based on my own insecurities and discomfort to touch. I was confronted by my limitations to love better, to accept better, to engage better.

Like her, I felt paralyzed—unable to control my reactions. I withdrew,  unable to embody unconditional compassion, unable to recognize that it was Love in her eyes.

Moving onto the men’s area, I was hoping to find some source of consolation—redemption for my failures. The sister continued in sharing some history of the home. She said that during the genocide, no one inside was hurt—as if there was a protective shield around the confines of the home. I couldn’t help but remember that not every building was kept safe and unharmed.

My heart bleeds every time a story of trauma is told—every time a life was taken, every time innocence was executed, every time bodies were mutilated, bones broken and dreams crushed. Unspoken words are expressed through tears of frustration because mere words can’t quite articulate the tragedies experienced. Images won’t transport you back into the time where the stench of death shook your bones. Words are failing and pictures can’t possibly stimulate all human senses. We can only remember—embodying the experiences that become points of transformation.

Missionaries of Charity does not allow photos on premises to preserve the dignity of those in the home. In inviting us to take a picture with our hearts, the sister conveyed that capturing memories with our camera is not enough—we can’t merely retain these thoughts, feelings and experiences with eloquent words or colorful images. We often aren’t able to take a photograph of what was most meaningful to our hearts—the metaphors, paradoxes or moments most transformative. In recalling the stories of Rwanda, I began to see that taking a picture in your heart means to live-out these transformative moments—to permanently burn the experience into the retina of your heart. Then, we begin to see things outside the frame—adjusting the aperture to maximum clarity and the speed of the shutter to not miss a beat. We find that life is but broken fractures of dark and light, coexisting together, making the memory of the image more beautiful.

We capture the juxtapositions of our existence, the paradox of life that is only processed through the lens of the heart.

Here, we see hope in the midst of pain.

We see dignity in the indescribable sorrow of a man’s tears after honoring the lives of his friends whose bodies were tortured, hacked or raped to death.

We see healing in the overwhelming silence of a father—in respecting the unspoken words that could not convey his feelings of loss after his daughter was killed at the hand of a priest.

We see life in the graveyard of bones when we are interrupted by the comfort of a little girl’s hand slipping into ours,  a simple gesture of journeying through difficult experiences with us.

We see light in immense darkness—in war-torn places that once dismembered a people, now unites them together in their shared humanity.

We see compassion in identifying with the oppressor, realizing that we too, are guilty of tearing apart dreams instead of restoring dignity.

We see courage in the profound example of Rwanda’s future who, in solidarity with the oppressed, go back into the destruction to pull out life within—exemplifying bravery that triumphs the enemy.

We see Love in the eyes of the broken—offering redemption in our moments of guilt and shame that forever exposes the darkest secrets of our hearts.

Cornered in the courtyard of the men’s housing area, there was a teenage boy confined to a wheel chair. A mosquito net covered him from seeing the outside world—hiding his bent body and frail limbs. He sang quietly to himself, head thrashing to the beat of his song. I grasped his forearm tightly praying that he would engage, that he would calm his thrashing head, that his eyes would connect with mine. In a moment, they did. As our eyes locked, both of his hands grasped mine so tightly that I didn’t want to let go.

Editor’s Note: The following is Part 5 in a six-part series by Nikole Lim of stories painting juxtapositions of immense pain and tremendous hope in Rwanda. Read the Artist Statement, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4

Our fearless driver, Jacque, is a security guard. He speaks with an eloquent French accent. His words are few, but every now and then he’ll tell us a pertinent and profound fact as we drive. The tone of his voice perfectly narrates our scenic drive—whether we’re driving along the backroads of Rwanda’s hills, cruising peacefully through Kigali or chasing elephants.

His story comes out in pieces:

When the genocide hit in 1994, Jacque was in High School studying in Kibeho, a beautiful village known for apparitions of the virgin Mary. He fled for another town to find safety with his family. The first time he’s been back to Kibeho was 20 years later, with us.

His son is now in High School at a boarding school. On our way from Kibeho, we stopped to say hello so that Jacque could give him money. Jacque was beaming with pride when he introduced us to his son.

Jacque also has a 3 year old daughter—she’s the cutest thing.

When we visited Kigali’s Genocide memorial, Jacque stayed in the car. We found out later that the bodies of his wife’s parents are buried in the mass graves there.

His wife barely escaped death herself. When she was just 9 years old, her village was raided by the interahamwe who savagely hacked apart bodies, her parents’ included. As the genociders were merely Hutu youth who knew little about taking one’s life, victims were left beaten, mutilated, bleeding profusely—left to die. Thinking they had finished the job, the interahamwe threw all of the “dead” Tutsi bodies into a pile and moved on to the next village. She was one of the bodies—broken, but not dead. She was just a little girl—her body thrown into darkness among hundreds of other broken, bloody and hacked-apart bodies.

When the interahamwe left, her classmate, neighbor and friend, a Hutu, went back. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing any more of her friends to the blood-stained hands of her tribe members. She went back to dig through the piles of bodies—desperately searching for any semblance of life from the friends she held most dear. There, she found her dear friend, still grasping for breath, clinging to life, refusing to be consumed. In that moment, I can only imagine the overwhelming relief as the pendulum swung from sorrow to joy as they looked into each other’s eyes and identified with each other—literally finding life in death and hope in the midst of pain. Jacque’s wife survived only by the hopeful expectancy of a friend who intentionally went back into the destruction to pull out the life within.

We arrived at dusk. A teenage boy ran alongside our vehicle as we drove on the dirt path toward Saint Joseph Secondary School. The boy opened the school’s gate for us because the security guard wasn’t there. Arriving at the school’s basketball court, three students stopped their game to welcome us. They were so excited to see visitors but admitted that they didn’t expect anyone to come at this hour.

The boys told us that their teachers had gone home for the evening but that they would be honored to be our guides. They were extremely proud of their school’s history.

To begin the tour, they brought us to a small field beside their school—a gravesite burying students that were murdered at too young of age. The boys began by telling the story of the tragedy that took place on these very grounds before they were even born.

After the 100 days of slaughter, the Rwandan Patriotic Front, soldiers comprised of both Hutu and Tutsi, captured Kigali and overthrew the government—finally ending the genocide. The interahamwe escaped to the Democratic Republic of Congo but their blood continued to boil in rage against the Tutsis. Years later, they returned to Rwanda with schemes to kill remaining Tutsis to prove that the government couldn’t fight against their weapons of hatred.

This high school of Rwanda’s future leaders became a target.

On March 18, 1997, the students at Saint Joseph continued their daily routine and gathered together into their classrooms to study for exams. It was dusk, they had just finished supper and the teachers had already left for the day. Suddenly, a group ofinterahamwe invaded the school. They murdered the security guard, broke down the school’s gate and stormed into the classrooms.

By then, it was already dark.

The boys continued to lead us into one of the classrooms. We sat amongst students who were already there, studying for their exams. Being here and sitting in the same seats at the same hour the attack happened 17 years ago was an eerie experience. We were able to enter more fully into their history immersed in the tragedy yet finding profound examples of courage. They continued the story…

Shouts from the militia and screams from the students penetrated the silence of study hour. The militia ordered the 27 students to separate—Hutus on one side, Tutsis on the other. The defiant teenagers refused.

The militia continued to bark orders—threatening to kill them all when Chantal Mujawamahoro, her name literally meaning “maiden of peace, ” proclaimed,

“We do not have Hutus or Tutsis here. We are all Rwandans.”

“Here, Chantal was shot in the head and killed, ” the boy said as he pointed to the desk beside me. She was 21 and Hutu.

Her family buried her body on the grounds of the school as a reminder of peace for the current and future students, visitors and pilgrims.

We moved onto the next classroom and took our seat next to the students studying.

“The militia continued to terrorize the students, moving from classroom to classroom, shooting them off one by one.”

Still, in this classroom, the students refused to be separated. Instead, they fought back with words of affirmation claiming the truth that, “We are all Rwandans.” Fed up with the rebellious students, the interahamwe threw grenades into the classrooms and fled, defeated. Many of the student’s limbs were blown off by the grenades. One of the boys sitting next to me opened his notebook. He showed me his notes on what he has been learning in his classes. His definition for “unity” was a paragraph long on understanding unity as an alternative to war and violence—a communal voice of peace. Neatly hand-written on the first page of his notebook were the names of the six students who died that night in solidarity. He read each name aloud:

Chantal Mujawamahoro
Sylvestre Bizimana
Hélène Benimana
Beatrice Mukambaraga
Séraphine Mukarutwaza
Valens Ndemeye

I was deeply moved at the intentionality of this teenage boy beside me. In remembering the courageous examples of the students who have gone before him, he is given courage.

On the school’s grounds stood the touring Kwibuka Flame of Remembrance to commemorate 20 years since genocide and to honor places where life, peace and hope have been reflected. My heart leapt when I saw the flame—for me, it was more beautiful than the Olympic torch.

These are my heroes and she-roes. Indeed, the students who banded together at Saint Joseph’s are all examples of the united body of Christ—promoting their friends, communities and nations toward healing and reconciliation.

The future of Rwanda belongs to them—the audacious teenagers who remember that they are all Rwandan. Despite differences, disagreements and ethnic tension, they affirm that their history is relevant. They too, are symbols of hope for our world. May we all echo Chantal’s courageous voice of defiance, proclaiming peace, unity and solidarity. May we have the boldness to do the same and stand amongst our friends in oppressive places, refusing to deny our common humanity and lifting the torch of peace. May we be reflections of hope, going back into the destruction, the pain and messiness of the world, to pull out semblances of life we find within.

We are all Rwandan.

Editor’s Note: The following is Part 4 in a six-part series by Nikole Lim of stories painting juxtapositions of immense pain and tremendous hope in Rwanda. Read the Artist Statement, Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3

Over banana beer and fried plantains, we sat around a communal table—us and them. Together with both a victim and a perpetrator of genocide, it seemed impossible. My mind could not comprehend the juxtaposition I was seeing with my eyes—from betrayal into brotherhood, these men came. As they sat beside each other, I felt as if I were watching a live screen play of a fantastical story propagating the ideal picture of justice and reconciliation. But there was no fanfare of propaganda, no idealized sermon—just their painfully honest and vulnerable journey toward friendship. Their presence was humbling and their hearts, full of truth. Every detail of their innermost fears and failures came to life and I was left in awe.

In the various situations in my life, I’ve often asked myself this question: Which is easier—to forgive or to seek revenge? My human nature automatically errs toward seeking revenge—I’ve attempted to “punish” with silence or take away what I formerly gave as a way of protecting my broken heart. In desperation, I cling to what I know is “right.” It’s easier to identify with the victim, but to identify with the convicted? I’d rather not.

Animosity between Hutus and Tutsis wasn’t always there—it grew immensely during the colonial period. The two are very similar in that they speak the same language, live amongst each other in community and follow the same traditions. Appearance is the only difference—Tutsis are thinner and taller, perhaps, making them easier targets to identify.

When the Belgians colonized Rwanda in 1916, they made identity cards to classify the Rwandan’s according to their ethnicity. This was common practice among colonial administrators who believed that dividing a common people would create more unity, or political allegiance. The Belgians favored the Tutsis and gave them greater standing academically and professionally. Tutsis were placed in more authoritative positions in the government simply because they were traditionally landowners, appearing to be more “aristocratic.” But the ordained superiority of the Tutsis caused the Hutus to resent their friends and neighbors. For years, there were uprisings in violent clashes between the two ethnic groups—until the Hutu-extremists decided to systematically obliterate the Tutsis.

While some grow apart in hatred, others grow closer in love.

Charles (left) and François (right) were childhood neighbors and friends growing up. They played together, ate together, and visited with each other even into their adulthood.

On April 6, 1994, the president’s plane was shot down and the interahamwe instantly initiated their plan of attack to wipe out the existence of the Tutsis. Extremists inundated public radio waves with propaganda—preaching that all Hutus must reclaim the power that was stolen from them. They demeaned Tutsis by calling them “cockroaches” and brainwashed Hutus into avenging the blood of their deceased Hutu president. All Hutus were mandated to carry out their plan of attack—forced to slaughter their Tutsi friends, neighbors and extended family members. The oppressed became oppressors and victims became assassins.

François was one of them—responsible for murdering Charles’ parents and his young siblings.

After 100 days of bloodshed, the Rwandan Patriotic Front finally regained control of the country and Hutus fled. François went into hiding while Charles returned to regain his life after losing the majority of his family members. After two years in exile, François was captured and sent to prison as retribution for the violent crimes he committed.

To promote healing and reconciliation among Hutus and Tutsis, the Rwandan government invited perpetrators of genocide to come forward and confess. As a result, they would be freed to reintegrate into their communities and reconcile with their fellow neighbors. François desired to be freed not only from the physical chains, but the emotional chains that held him captive from finding healing. He waited in solitude for his name to be called—he so desperately wanted to confess. Finally, after eight years in prison, his name was called and his opportunity came. As François publicly admitted to the acts of atrocity he committed against his friends and neighbors, he could only think of Charles.

François was then free to go back to the same village where he was once a boy—the village where he once put his neighbors to death and where memories still live, where he once betrayed his dear friend and where Charles still calls “home.”

François was fearful of returning home, afraid to see Charles—for how could he? How could he ever confront him? How could he possibly overcome his guilt and find courage to apologize? He thought,

“I committed genocide. I would rather stay in prison than to see the eyes of whom I have committed crimes against.”

Returning to his home village, he felt that everyone’s eyes were on him—eyes full of bitter resentment and hatred. People he once held dear were angry and hurt. Friends he once trusted were betrayed by his actions. He felt judged by his community but on the inside, he was judging himself even more.

Walking down the road, Charles saw François for the first time after his release. He was not the same boy he played with growing up. François wouldn’t dare look into Charles’ eyes. But instead of ignoring an old friend, Charles extended his hand and said, “How are you?”

François was stunned. For him, this opened up the possibility of a mended relationship. It took eight years for François to muster up enough strength to even begin the process of reconciliation. Intent on seeking forgiveness from his community, and more importantly Charles, François attending a group that fostered reconciliation after genocide. There, he was able to reconcile his own feelings toward himself so that he could respond by seeking forgiveness for his crimes of violence. He couldn’t wait to see Charles again in hopeful anticipation that he would find the courage to finally ask for forgiveness. He waited to see Charles again at that week’s reconciliation group, but Charles wasn’t there. He wasn’t ready.

After some time, Charles invited François to his home.

“I went to his house and sat together with him. We talked about things like the weather and our children… I was scared to death, but knew that I must overcome my fear. I stood up to kneel—but Charles was confused at why I was kneeling. I told him that I would rather lay down on my face to express my authentic remorse for committed genocide against him. He kept telling me not to kneel, but I refused to move. I said, ‘Charles, your highness. I’m kneeling before you to ask for your forgiveness. Our relationship was sacred and I broke it—to be exact, I killed your family. Please forgive me. Please forgive me.’”

Charles softly replied,

“I’ve forgiven you—not just now, but forever.”

A few days later, Charles became deathly ill. François immediately came to his side.

“When I learned he was sick, I went to visit him in the hospital—he was half dead. When I saw him near death, the feelings of regret, guilt and shame returned. He had no family around him because I killed them all during the genocide. So from them on, I took care of him for the three months he was in the hospital. Time was nothing to me—I spent eight years in prison doing nothing but being with Charles provided a great sense of peace for me.”

François sold everything he had to care for Charles and to pay for his emergency operation. When he was released from the hospital, he had no money left to bring him home and so he found a bicycle. He sat Charles on the bicycle and carefully pushed him all the way home—all 14 miles.

In gratitude for saving his life, Charles gave François a cow—the most valuable of possessions and the highest gift of honor in Rwandan culture. He wanted to bless François as a public symbol of true forgiveness. Traditionally, the receiver comes to the house of the giver to accept the gift so that the whole community can be a witness of their reconciliation. But François, too ashamed of his blood-stained hands, couldn’t receive. He could never forget the violent crimes he committed against Charles in the past. But for Charles, his gift was a symbol of untainted gratitude, forgiveness and friendship that transcended everything that had ever happened. Overwhelmed, François accepted and received so much more—the unbroken gift of healing.

The process toward healing and reconciliation took 16 years and the restored relationship is evident. As questions were being translated, François and Charles would converse amongst themselves—chuckling at each other’s jokes and reminiscing on their tense, but close friendship. A new question arose,

Which is more difficult—to forgive or to ask for forgiveness? Without hesitation, Charles responded, “To ask for forgiveness is more difficult. Your heart is still closed until the person who hurt you asks for forgiveness. The offender unlocks the heart and opens the door for forgiveness to take place.”

It’s often easier to stand on the outside and watch the convicted be put to shame, to point our fingers at the oppressors or to advocate the death sentence for those who “deserve it.” Yet, we are all convicted of betraying trust with those we love most, of committing violence with our impatient words or killing the joy, hope and dreams of the people around us. We discourage instead of encourage. We condemn instead of defend. We place burdens on shoulders instead of liberating souls. We break instead of restore. We dismember instead of remembering that we all inadvertently take part in oppressing each other and even ourselves.

Charles continued,

“Forgiveness is difficult—if I haven’t seen him in three days, I start to miss him! It’s so difficult because we always have to be with each other. He means a lot to me.”

The retelling of their story brought us all together unity. Instead of segregating ourselves through accusations, perhaps we can all identify with both sides—both the oppressed and the oppressor. Instead of protecting our broken hearts, perhaps the possibility of healing is found in identifying with the convicted—where bitterness, hatred and disgust toward the killer is taken away by our shared humanity. The sword of revenge is taken from our hands allowing love, mercy and forgiveness to enter in. As Charles and François stood together, shoulder to shoulder, in friendship, in solidarity and in brotherhood, I realized that the only divide between the oppressed and the oppressor was the air in between.

Editor’s Note: The following is Part 3 in a six-part series by Nikole Lim of stories painting juxtapositions of immense pain and tremendous hope in Rwanda. You can read the Artist Statement here, Part 1 here, and Part 2 here.

I felt the ground crumbling from beneath me and so I clung to silence. Still, the sound of death was there. I tried to drown out the haunting screams echoing in my brain with my breath—but the rising and falling of my chest exhausted my efforts. In remembering those suffocated by inhumanity, I felt guilty for breathing in the sweet scent of life. Here, memories of death are inescapable in a country that holds so much beauty.

We stayed in silence together as we drove home—attempting to escape the bloody reminders of death. Home is at the Pallottine mission guesthouse built on the same campus that the Gikondo Massacre took place 20 years ago. On April 10, 1994, three days after the genocide began, the interahamwe savagely murdered 110 Tutsis in a large parish on this campus. As if simply killing wasn’t enough, the militia slowly tortured and mutilated the bodies of all Tutsis present at the church. Somehow, 11 children survived the slaughter and were hidden in another chapel by the parish nuns—I could see this chapel from the balcony of my guest room. But three days later, the interahamwe returned to Gikondo to set the chapel on fire. There were no survivors. This is the place we call “home.” The UNAMIR considered this massacre at Gikondo the first evidence of “genocide, ” referring to violent crimes intending to wipe out the existence of a people group. In response to these evident systematic killings, the commander of the UN Peacekeepers pleaded with his superiors to allow him to intervene before more died. He said that he only needed 2, 500 troops to end the slaughter within weeks to defend the Tutsis. His plan of attack against the interahamwe would stop their violent rampage. Shockingly, the UN denied his request and instead, required 90% of peacekeeping forces to withdraw from Rwanda. A month later in May, the UN Security Council finally voted to send 5, 500 peacekeeping troops to Rwanda however, the United States stalled their deployment. Delighted by the world’s lack of response, the interahamwe continued to reign and the bloodbath escalated. One hundred days passed and still, the world did not say a word.

Joshua broke the silence,

“I want to take you to the little village that was my first home in Rwanda. After remembering the bloodshed that I witnessed, I need to go for me—I find so much hope there.”

When we arrived in the little village, Joshua came alive. He saw an elderly man and jumped out of the car to greet him—noticing the scars on his face and on his body as reminders of the history he endured. Alphonse was his name. He was a dear neighbor of Joshua’s when he lived here. Life in the village was so different back then—forced to draw a divide across ethnic lines as if they had nothing in common to share. They were supposed to be at war with each other—conditioned to disembody, mandated to kill and authorized to hate. But they didn’t. Refusing to deny their common humanity, they raised the banner of peace. They are able to share freely in recognizing their brotherhood. Reunited after 20 years, I can only imagine that there was much for Joshua and Alphonse to catch up on. In reminiscing, I think Joshua became a young boy again.

The echoing screams in my brain were drowned out by the sound of children laughing—I found that I was able to breathe again. Joshua’s efforts to preserve the memory of the genocide is not to seek revenge, but to highlight the symbols of ever present hope in his country. Alphonse alive and well is a result of Joshua’s courage to defend his neighbor, regardless of ethnic identity. As Joshua interacted and reminisced in this place, once a war zone, he was at home.

To be at home in the discomforting memory of death and destruction, silence and agony, offers a light into the dark memories we would rather forget. In remembering the places from which we came, home is where we find rest from the screaming voices and tormenting thoughts that haunt us. On pilgrimage, Joshua returns—revisiting these dark places in his history to find redemption, to highlight the symbols of hope, to celebrate the next generation who represent a peace-filled Rwanda. He goes back into the darkness to slay the strongholds of hatred, disdain and despair, embracing the opportunity to live freely in peace.Then, he can come home once again. And we can come home to Rwanda as a metaphor of the dark and light corners of our own hearts. As disconnected as I am from Rwanda’s genocide that happened 20 years ago, I’m seeing that entering into these spaces of immense pain with Joshua is a reflection of myself—inviting me to learn from the failures of the world’s lack of intervention, to identify with both the oppressed and the oppressor and to mirror the heroic courage that arises from unexplainable agony.

As Joshua revisits these places, the memories persistently haunt his mind—memories of the tremendous loss his family experienced, the atrocities his friends committed and the psychological hold that this juxtaposition has on him. His intentionality in revisiting these memories shows immense courage and strength. Joshua later told me that this was the same village where his mother was killed before his eyes—the village where he himself was supposed to die. He returns to this place to remember the life he is privileged to live.

Remembering those whose bodies have been dismembered honors the memory of lives lost and ushers in a painstaking and profound process of embodying newly restored life. 

Joshua stayed for a while longer—laughing with the village members and admiring their newly built water well. After drawing water, two sisters played hide-and-seek behind a jerry can. Upon leaving, the elder sister, not more than 7 years, stuck a passion fruit into the mouth of the can to keep its precious contents from spilling. She struggled several times to lift the heavy jerry can onto her head and finally, after regaining her balance, walked home—her baby sister trotting after her.

Editor’s Note: The following is Part 2 in a six-part series by Nikole Lim of stories painting juxtapositions of immense pain and tremendous hope in Rwanda. You can read the Artist Statement here and Part 1 here.

Next to a glass casing displaying neatly stacked skulls, Rwamasirabo flipped through the pages of a dusty notebook holding the church’s paperwork. He pulled out a church program. On it, was a photo of his former friend, Father Athanase Seromba, a 31 year-old Roman Catholic priest who was responsible for killing 3, 000 of his Tutsi congregation members. The priest wore a black oxford with a white clerical collar accessorized with a distrusting mustache and a toothy smile seething betrayal. Rwamasirabo stuffed the program back into the notebook.

Rwamasirabo’s thin stature commands respect and the lines in his face convey tragic sorrow. His careful, soft-spoken voice expressed feelings of loss. With worn hands, Rwamasirabo searched through a pile of salvaged rubbish to find the chalice from which communion was served.

It reminded him of his daughter.

Rwamasirabo was a well-known government official and during the genocide, he was asked to report to the district office. Because of his standing as a Tutsi, he knew he was a target for the Hutu-extremists. He thought that his church would be the safest place to hide his daughter while he left for the meeting.

The priest of his church, a good friend of Rwamasirabo’s, invited 3, 000 of his Tutsi congregation members to hide in his church. He promised that they would find safety in God’s sanctuary. And so, Rwamasirabo brought his daughter there before he left for his meeting. Soon after everyone was gathered inside, the militia surrounded the church by the priest’s tip. The interahamwedid everything they could to kill each and every person inside. They set off grenades, poured gasoline over the roof, set the walls ablaze—but the church was so strong that the attacks were unsuccessful. For ten days,  interahamwe camped out on the church’s grounds planning their next attempt to destroy all Tutsis inside.

On the tenth day, the priest ordered a bulldozer to destroy the church building. He locked the doors from the outside and gave the bulldozer driver the signal okaying the demolition of his church an the death of his congregants. Three times the driver asked, “Do you really want to do this?” Cold heartedly, the priest said, “Another church can be built.” With no means of escape, Rwamasirabo’s daughter was trapped inside—crushed by the weight of tumbling brick walls. While the ceiling fell, some managed to run outside only to be shot dead by the priest himself.

Three thousand were murdered at the demand of their own priest. The only remaining survivor from the massacre told Rwamasirabo that before the walls tumbled down, his daughter, bloody and bruised, crawled to the feet of the priest and begged for a drink of water. The priest screamed at her,

“You’re ruining the floors with your filth—get lost, ‘cockroach.’”

Behind the church ruins is a reincarnated church with no walls. Rwamasirabo worships there, but hasn’t stepped into a church building since the massacre. Walls remind him of what was torn down. Ceilings remind him of what crushed the people he loved most. A crumpled chalice reminds him of the sacrament that was not passed to his thirsty daughter.

Rwamasirabo examined the chalice for another moment and then threw it back into the pile of rubbish.

Here is a man whose hope, future and source of joy had been taken away in the place where we stood. In a place where he once sought safety, hope and faith, he found only violence, pain and betrayal. How does one find healing again in such a place? As he told his story, his gaze was elsewhere. He seemed disconnected, or rather, so connected that he was forcing himself to disengage to suppress the emotions triggered by memory. He haphazardly flipped through the dusty notebook as if he were searching for something he knew was not even there.

Joshua suggested we move to the other side of the room, at least then, we wouldn’t have to listen to Rwamasirabo’s story with the casing of exposed skulls directly beside him. I couldn’t bear it either. I wondered if it was helpful—sharing this tragic story of loss over and over again.

Cautiously, my spiritual director asked,

“What gives you hope?”

He said that seeing people who pay their respects to this place where his daughter was crushed alive, gives him hope. People who listen to his story empathetically gives him hope. Remembering the life of his daughter gives him hope. Affirming that healing is possible gives him hope. He’s lost not only his daughter, but most of his family members in the genocide yet he is still gracious enough to open the doors of the gate where the church once stood—to open the doors of his experience and heartache, giving way for healing to enter in.

We stood in silence together.

There were no warm words to offer on this cold night. And so we stood—looking out of barred windows into the mass graves where his daughter was trapped by death.

We thanked Rwamasirabo for sharing his story and together, we walked outside.

Children from the community were playing outside the fence encasing the remains of the church. One sassy little girl told us a story, “There was an evil priest and he killed the people in this church. The devil was in him. He was involved in killing the people. Now, in this place there are dead spirits—dark spirits like ghosts. But I’m not scared of them because I pray to God and the people in my home pray too.”

She was only 5 years-old.

The sassy girl wasn’t afraid to ask us questions—who are we, where are we from, what are we doing here. Joshua told the children that we were coming from Kibeho, a sacred place known for a spring of holy water which is said to have healing remedies. Joshua offered some for the children to drink.

The sassy little girl took a sip and exclaimed,

“I believe I’m already healed!”

As we walked around the circumference of the church grounds, the crowd of children followed us. They would discreetly slip there little hands into ours. My heart bleeds every time a tragic story is told, every time a memory opens wounds, every time unspoken words are expressed through tears of frustration, loss and utter despair. Still, there are subtle reminders that in the midst of pain, there are always semblances of hope. As the sassy little girl held my hand, I felt that somehow, her presence offered a sense of comfort as a way of walking the journey with me. Perhaps, I need to learn from her and believe that I’m already healed.

Editor’s Note: The following is a six-part series by Nikole Lim of stories painting juxtapositions of immense pain and tremendous hope in Rwanda. You can read the Artist Statement here.

Conversations in the car are intense. Colonization, spirituality, politics and utter brutality, violence and betrayal—all incomprehensible factors that led up to genocide. Our conversations are set to the backdrop of thousands of lush hills and thousands of massive graves concealing bones—bones of innocent men, women and children whose only crime was being born Tutsi. The coexistence of Rwanda’s brutal history and scenic beauty is surreal.

No matter how many questions I ask, how many stories I listen to, how many fragments of bones I see, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand how in just one hundred days, close to one million people were slaughtered as if they had no worth. Identifying with these stories of gross atrocity seems impossible.

“I don’t really call myself a survivor because when the one hundred days of genocide began, I was in Uganda. Even though I came back to Rwanda in the middle of the killings, I was never in an area controlled by the militia. Yes, it was risky to return to Rwanda at that time and I remember two occasions where I got very close to being killed—but my story isn’t as significant as others we will be seeing. For example, my wife’s—she survived, but barely. She doesn’t talk about it.”

Our thought-provoking leader, Joshua, works with a renown international organization in Rwanda. Through his reflections, I was trying my best to wrap my head around the stories he told. Many members of his family were blacklisted—accused of significant standing, intellect and leadership within the community. Regardless, the fact that Joshua’s family is Tutsi was crime enough. The majority of his family members, including some of his brothers and sisters who were in Rwanda, also perished in the genocide. Joshua was just 17 when he witnessed the murder of his mother. His father, who was still in Uganda, heard that both Joshua and his mother had died in the massacre. Hearing the news, he fell unconscious and couldn’t eat nor drink—he died of heartache a week later. He never knew that Joshua was still alive.

Rwanda’s scenic roads trigger many memories for Joshua. As we drove on, he continued to tell us that his wife, Céleste, was constantly on the run during the hundred days of genocide. This game of hide-and-seek was a matter of life and death. We passed over a bridge and Joshua pointed to the swamp below explaining how Céleste hid in a swamp similar to that one for some time—barely covered by swamp shrubs, prone to the diseases of the earth. The interahamwe, Hutu militia responsible for the genocide, were always on the move. Her life depended on moving faster than they did. Sometimes moderate Hutu’s would be audacious enough to hide Tutsis in their tiny storehouses and at one time, Céleste was protected by hiding under a stack of corn husks—not that the stack wasn’t searched but somehow an invisible hand shielded her from bloodthirsty eyes.

Conversations in the car bounced around from heartwrenching stories of Joshua’s relatives, colonization’s role in the genocide and the history of struggle between political powers. I wondered how the world could just watch the released spy-cam footage of a man hacking corpses, bloated bodies and blood spilling over the land of a thousand hills. The world turned the channel in disgust to catch up on the latest O.J. Simpson gossip. If the world intervened, would these million lives be here with us now? Shockingly, even with ample data on the interahamwe’s vicious attacks seeking to obliterate the Tutsi race, the UN withdrew—refusing to claim genocide otherwise they would be forced to act against it. Refusing to let justice prevail, the world allowed ignorance and inaction to take precedence over a million Tutsi lives. I asked Joshua, “Why did the world turn away from Rwanda?” Perhaps out of selfishness. Perhaps denial. Perhaps the death of ten Belgian soldiers—the fear of losing our own. We failed to respond, some think, because there was nothing to gain in return. Joshua honestly said that Rwanda has no natural resources—coal, fuel, gold or diamonds which are often deemed “worth fighting for.”

“Ignorance wasn’t an excuse. The world knew what was going on here.”

It is said that God travels the world by day but lays his head to rest in Rwanda at night. Somehow in this land of a thousand hills, millions of lives were hacked to pieces leaving physical, emotional and spiritual wounds.

Churches, usually thought as a place of refuge, became targets for mass destruction.

Immediately after the Rwandan president’s plane was shot down on April 6, 1994, a campaign of violence ensued, led by the rebel Hutu militia group. The interahamwe mobilized quickly, carrying out waves of slaughter. Tutsis, already victims of a history of civil war, flocked to the church in hopeful trust that they would find safety in God, in hope, in faith. They arrived only to meet death.

Twenty years later, we were meeting them there.

When we arrived at this church in Nyamata, primary school just got out for a lunch break. There were school children everywhere—playing and laughing and skipping and shouting along.

As we approached the threshold of the church, I peered through the bullet pierced doors and saw clothes—a massive amount of blood-stained clothes that hung lifelessly over pews from where they once sat. We were told by our very pregnant guide that after the UN evacuated the last of the expatriates from the village, this church was attacked. Ten thousand Tutsis sought refuge at this church where they worshipped, prayed and enjoyed each other’s company. But that day, instead of leaving the church with joy in their hearts, they were trapped inside—praying that their lives would end without pain. First, bullets spewed through the church doors, second, grenades exploded others and third, the few survivors left were systematically raped and their bodies dismembered by machetes.

I couldn’t breathe.

Again, Joshua’s memory returned. He remembered seeing a woman—a young woman who had been gang raped and pierced by two spears resembling a cross. He remembered the piles of broken babies that had been smashed against the alter. He remembered the thousands of decaying bodies hacked so violently that blood splattered onto the 30-foot ceiling of the church. The blood-soaked cloth on the alter, the blood-stained ceiling above our heads, the pure white coffin holding the remains of the young woman were still there and triggered Joshua’s memory, “I came back to this place four months after the killings subsided. The bodies were all here.” When I asked why, a tear fell from Joshua’s eye. He said, “I had friends here, ” and then he walked away.

He left me speechless—trying to comprehend a pain I had never before experienced. I tried to identify in his sorrow and rage and so I forced myself to walk the circumference of the church. I walked through the pews laden with clothes and remembered my best friends, I walked past the bloody alter and remembered my newborn nephew, I walked down the steps beneath the church to the young woman’s coffin and remembered that the people I love most are survivors of sexual violence.

I struggled my way out of the church and into the sunlight.

Alone, I continued to walk the outer circumference of the church where there were slabs of cement—under which were the bodies of the 10, 000 victims. A mama was sweeping dust off the graves as a gesture of uncovering the past so that we would see clearly—so that we would remember the mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters and brothers that died such horrific deaths.

The mama motioned for me to come forward—I didn’t want to, but I did and stepped up to get a closer look. She motioned me even closer and pointed to the stairway down to the graves below her feet. I stood above the steps, looking down into the darkness. She kept motioning for me to go down as if to say,

“Remember, remember, remember.”

Perhaps these were her best friends, her family, her children. As I walked down into the darkness my knees were shaking and my heart was pulsing—a reminder of the life present in my heaving breath.

Bones. Broken skeletons and shattered skulls. Tiny coffins holding baby bones. Names listed on boxes of more bones. Naked, exposed, beaten and dismembered bones. It took everything I had in me to keep my spine upright—I felt like keeling over, throwing up and weeping. Weeping in remembrance of the breath that held each bone together. Weeping for the beating hearts that would only see sunlight again in their dreams.

Surrounded by these bones, I paused in silence and I finally walked up and out when a little boy was passing by on his way from school.

He looked at me and with a smile said,

“Good morning!”

I was a reluctant artist, self-doubting leader and a broken soul. I was in search of healing.

After a series of traumatic experiences that culminated with my hospitalization in Zambia, I went on a sabbatical in search of courage, tenacity and renewal to continue in my vocation. It was early 2014 and we were entering into the year commemorating 20 years since the genocide in Rwanda. During this time, my mentors were leading a pilgrimage to Uganda and Rwanda to journey through places of immense pain and tremendous hope as a means to engage in the pain and hope in one’s active life. Because of my closely related work in Africa, I didn’t want to go—I knew I would have to intentionally delve into the hellish reality of a violent massacre I knew very little of. Simultaneously, I knew that by stepping into the pain, I would find the hope I was so desperately searching for. And so, together with eight other pilgrims, I went. We journeyed alongside of survivors and perpetrators of genocide as an attempt to identify in the incomprehensible pain that oppresses us all. It was through this experience that healing came in a profound way.

There, I experienced so much beauty as the juxtaposition of pain and hope became an embodied reality. I found immense healing in listening to the stories of utter grief blossoming into joy, betrayal into faithfulness and death into life.

Neither words nor images can fully convey the emotional crises, psychological torment and heartwrenching pain the Rwandan’s experienced during the genocide. The “On Pilgrimage” series features the stories that impacted me most—the stories in which I found active examples of healing that has transcended into my experience. The juxtaposition of these stories, themes and values are conveyed both in narrative and visual storytelling; each containing factual accounts and metaphors painted with a double-exposed photograph conveying an unlikely coexistence. As a way of remembering 100 days of killings, each series will be released weekly starting today, April 7, 2014, the day the genocide began twenty years ago.

I identify with these words from Francois, a former member of the Hutu-extremist militia responsible for carrying out the genocide,

“Telling my story helps me go back into the journey of what I’ve experienced—it gives me strength.”

As a photographer and activist, this series is the medium for telling my story—my story of identifying with both the oppressed and oppressor. On pilgrimage, I’ve learned that experiencing the brokenness of the world leads to a greater sense of internal healing. As I’ve begun to find healing in these paradoxical stories, my hope is that together we will begin to recognize the hope present in our situations of pain. Through it, may a new journey commence—a journey intent on healing the brokenness of the world.

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, and Part 6

On lazy mornings after my alarm clock goes off, I get back into bed and check up on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. I usually fall asleep again and don’t get out of bed until an hour later. I’ve tried to kick this habit in the behind many times but self-comfort often gets the best of me. Frustrating, I know.

Yesterday morning, the habit kicked me in the behind again. My alarm rang, I turned it off, climbed back into bed and surfed through Instagram. I saw TIME’s latest post of this haunting image, just minutes after it was released:

I was quickly scrolling through my feed and my groggy eyes couldn’t really tell what it was—it looked like an old ceramic statue discovered beneath the rubble, but was it? I quickly scrolled back up and skimmed the blurb to realize that this was a couple fatally caught in the aftermath of the garment factory collapse in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Indeed, they were humans—not ceramic statues.

I rolled over in bed to try to erase this disturbing image out of my mind. I spent all week in frustration—reading articles about the injustices that take place regularly in the garment industry, companies that are and are not doing due diligence to protect their employees overseas and stories from factory workers who are being exploited, abused, raped, threatened, coerced, imprisoned, killed.

We’ve heard these stories over and over again, I know.

Related: Kony 2012 and the Golden Rule: How Do ‘We’ Tell ‘Their’ Story? by Kent Annan

I shut my eyes tightly—reminiscing on the people I know in this field of work: my Kenyan tailors who make all my khanga pencil skirts, the Chinese young woman who made my favorite tailored blazer, my friend, just a little younger than me, who sews for labels such as Gap at a wage too low even for living standards in India…

I drifted back to sleep…

Now, I have another bad habit:

I search for bargains—I’m Chinese. I appreciate a good sense of style, especially at a low cost, and I’ve been pretty good over the years by preferring second-hand stores over H&M. But every now and then, H&M’s blaring $5 and $10 red tags are too enticing to resist. The bargain wins again and again and…my morals are compromised.

I don’t mean to sound conceited, but it seems like I get a lot of compliments for my sense of style (thanks to my auntie who cuts my hair and to my mom who taught me how to always act, look and dress professionally). I believe that our sense of style helps us to confidently represent our inner image—our dignity. If complimented on a dress, I’d usually blush and say something like, “I got it for $10 at Zara!” True story. It’s arrogant, I know. It’s pathetic to realize that I take more pride in the fact that the dress was cheap on my end than if it were manufactured with dignity on the makers end.

“The clothing we wear reflects the choices we make: thousands of economic votes that have the power to shift the clothing industry, ”

 

– Zane Wilemon, executive director of CTC International and eco-clothing-brand L.I.F.E. Line

Since our style is a huge component to our identity, I would prefer that my identity reflects my values, rather than my arrogant bad habits. If too quickly I fall asleep and forget about the millions of workers who aren’t being paid fair wages, if I allow ease and comfortability to dictate my decisions,  if I favor ignorance over compassion—my identity gets wrapped up in something other than what I am striving to represent. I should not let someone else’s poverty validate my own sense of “dignity” for the sake of being in-style.

I suppose this is why Forever 21 makes me hyperventilate while Salvation Army Thrift Stores make me smile thinking about friends who have benefited from working at the store during their recovery process in rehab.

When I finally got out of bed that morning, the haunting image popped up again in my news feed. This time, I read through the story from the perspective of the photographer.

This image, while deeply disturbing, is also hauntingly beautiful. An embrace in death, its tenderness rises above the rubble to touch us where we are most vulnerable. By making it personal, it refuses to let go. This is a photograph that will torment us in our dreams. Quietly it tells us. Never again.”

 

– Shahidul Alam, Bangladeshi photographer, writer and founder of Pathshala, the South Asian Institute of Photography

Working in the international development space as a photographer, filmmaker, advocate and friend, I can relate to Shahidul. Seeing this image is hard, I know. It’s vulnerable. It’s personal. And as I may try to roll over and fall back asleep, it refuses to let go.

Also by Nikole: Threads of Hope

We all have these bad habits that are inhibiting us to achieve greater things, overcome the impossible and actually act on our so-called “passion for justice.” We have these bad habits of saying that we want to fight against sex trafficking while buying into marketing campaigns that portray women as disposable objects. We have these bad habits of sulking in arrogance, frustrated with the way things are while simultaneously frustrated with our lack of empathy. We have these bad habits of making decisions based on self-accessibility rather than paving the way for others to accessibly realize their dignity and worth. We have these bad habits of shutting our sleepy-eyes, allowing ignorance to prevail while the blood stains of oppression are clearly evident.

Here’s a bad habit I want to break: falling asleep again and again in the midst of oppression, discrimination and injustice for the sake of personal comfort.

This image is changing me.

And as I am called to be an image-bearer of God, my image needs to be a reflection of His love for humanity.

Unless I do extensive research on the ethics of a brand, knowing first-hand where the clothes are made, I am committing to only buying second-hand clothing to reduce waste in a consumerist world that often tramples over the dignity of the poor. I know that this doesn’t necessarily solve the issue of unfair wages because some of the people working in these dingy factories are actually getting some sort of wage. I know that some companies like H&M and Forever 21 have a statement of corporate responsibility. I know that Gap has this program called P.A.C.E focused on “advancing women to advance the world.” I know that companies are trying to be more diligent in raising their factory’s standards overseas. I know that my actions against consumerism may not have a huge effect in the regulation of the fashion industry. I know that rebelling against the give-me-more mentality may not decrease the massive demand that pressures companies to pressure their employees. But I do know that I would rather have my values, my image and my identity reflect what I know for certain is giving life.

—
Nikole Lim is the founder and CEO of Freely in Hope. She speaks on stories of women’s empowerment in Africa, the role of filmmaking and photography in advocacy and the transformational art of storytelling. Nikole resides near San Francisco and works with inner–city youth.

Photo Credit: Reuters

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LUSAKA

She reminded me so much of myself when I was 14 years old: the attitude, rolling of the eyes and smart remarks. When we met in Zambia last year, I saw something in her—that behind the attitude was a quiet insecurity. There was something about her that seemed to scream out in silence and the attitude was only a facade to mask the pain. I remember one night, we were walking home from dinner at a neighbor’s house. She held my hand and leaned in close.

She whispered, “My stomach is in pain.”

“Was it something you ate?” I asked.

“No, it hurts like this every day…since I was 13—a really sharp pain as if someone is stabbing me.”

“Have you ever gone to the clinic to get it checked?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Forget about it.”

I stopped behind the rest of the group and looked at her in the eye.  Her eyes diverted from mine.

“Really, what’s going on?”

With a sigh to muster up her courage, she began:

“OK, I’ll tell you my story—but I hope you will understand.”

On her way home from school one day, she was attacked by three men who had knives. They approached her saying, “If you don’t come with us, we’re going to slaughter you.” They took her to a nearby bush; one man raped her. They attempted to gang rape her, but she found a piece of metal on the floor, hit them off and fled. She told me the experience was unbearably traumatic and she couldn’t tell anyone what had happened because of the stigma of rape in Zambia. She feared not only the perpetrators but rejection from her community as well. Feeling overwhelmed with a burden, she could not share, she overdosed on medication. When that didn’t have an effect, she went to the kitchen and took a knife to her wrist.

She showed me the scar that ran deep.

Deep like her desire to feel whole again.

Jean’s hope was to go to school in a secure environment away from slum life which was a daily reminder of what happened on her way to school that morning. She doesn’t want any other girl to go through the sexual abuse and psychological torment she was forced to confront alone. This is her dream: that she would become a voice for other survivors of rape and that her story would become a thread of hope for others.

Overwhelmed with her story, I just hid in the bathroom that night and cried out to God. Because I identified with Jean so much, I realized how her story could have happened to me, my little sister or my best friend. I questioned God’s sovereignty and I wondered how many others girls in this world are going through unexplainable pain alone.

KOLKATA

Where beautiful young women roam the smoky streets with piercing eyes and painted lips amidst poverty unlike anything I’ve seen before, was a peaceful oasis—a small business full of women humming, singing and conversing with laughter. The sound of freedom.

I was in Kolkata, India, a few weeks ago visiting with Word Made Flesh programs in the red-light areas. In 2006, Word Made Flesh started Sari Bari, which offers freedom to women who are trapped in the sex trade and opportunities for women vulnerable to being trafficked. They employ hundreds of women seeking to renew their lives by creating handcrafted products.

I interviewed several women who are a part of Sari Bari. Their faces were beaming with pride as they spoke of their hopes, dreams and aspirations. The women in Sari Bari have a renewed sense of dignity because they are taught skills enabling them to work in a holistic environment to earn an income to care for their families. They have found community with each other and relationship with Christ.

I met a young woman there who was about the same age as me. She served me tea, and I noticed that her arm was slashed from her forearm down to her wrist. Her self-inflicted wounds were evidence of the emotional scars induced by abuse, torment and life in the red-light district. Like Jean, she is deeply searching for wholeness which is why she finds refuge at Sari Bari.

Each day, the women come together to sew straight lines culminating into a quilt. The strands of thread, strips of recycled saris and multicolor patches are woven together to portray vivid stories of hope. Their stories of a once broken life are put together through threads resembling their lives made whole again. These are the threads that this young woman lays down—praying that her hope will pull her out of the affliction she faces.

While leaving the safe haven, I was both broken by this young woman’s story and encouraged by the other women whose spirits echo God’s heart. I wondered how many other young women are yearning to be free from captivity.

NEW YORK

At the U.N.’s Commission on the Status of Women, I learned about various initiatives that empower rural women through the eradication of hunger and poverty. I spent some time with a friend who works in anti-trafficking efforts internationally. We were relating about the hardships surrounding the work we do. We sometimes find ourselves fighting for causes that are seemingly endless. We feel like we’re barely making a dent to combat injustice in our world, thus forming a prison of disempowerment within our minds. We unknowingly drift away from the mission that God called us to because of frustration, discouragement or opposition. But every time we find ourselves drifting farther away, God seems to pull us back up again with a thread of grace. He then reveals stories and relationships that pull together all of the dangling strands to form a union—a chord which uplifts our spirits.

As a woman, I can identify with Jean and the young woman in Kolkata. I identify with their fears, thoughts of inadequacy and loss of self-worth. I identify with their dreams to achieve greatness, their aspirations to help others and their desires to be made whole. I identify with their feelings of being bombarded with issues that seem to overwhelm, but still filled with hope to persevere and be victorious.

Jean later told me: “After I cut myself and I saw the blood, I remembered that that was the blood of Christ. Because He died for me, I need to live for Him and to live for others. I am a survivor of rape, but God has given me more strength than I had.”

Stories like these weave together the threads of hope that I hold on to.

While the incomprehensible stories of pain, captivity and oppression may be devastating, let’s remember the stories of Jean and other women in the red-light district who are striving to live with hope.

Instead of wondering why injustice exists, let’s learn to overcome our fears with an unstoppable passion driving us to advocate on behalf of women who have experienced trauma in their lives.

Let’s cling to the intertwined threads forming a chord of justice, equality and freedom for our little sisters and best friends around the world.

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Nikole Lim is the founder and CEO of Freely in Hope. She speaks on stories of women’s empowerment in Africa, the role of filmmaking and photography in advocacy and the transformational art of storytelling. Nikole resides near San Francisco and works with inner–city youth.

This post originally appeared on Reject Apathy