Page 1 Page 2 Page 3 Page 4 Page 5 Page 6 Page 7 Page 8 Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Page 41 Page 42 Page 43 Page 44 Page 45 Page 46 Page 47 Page 48 Page 49 Page 50 Page 51 Page 52 Page 53 Page 54 Page 55 Page 56 Page 57 Page 58 Page 59 Page 60 Page 61 Page 62 Page 63 Page 64 Page 65 Page 66 Page 67 Page 68 Page 69 Page 70 Page 71 Page 72 Page 73 Page 74 Page 75 Page 76 Page 77 Page 78 Page 79 Page 80 Page 81 Page 82 Page 83 Page 8436 Plough Quarterly • Spring 2016 After 1994, you started visiting former neighbors regardless of their ethnic classification. How did that come about? When I came back to my village after the genocide, some residents welcomed me, but most kept a distance. Of course, I was deeply wounded inside. I had no hope and didn’t care about keeping up friendships. I would just attend church and then come straight home. Before the genocide, though, I had been visiting poor and sick people on behalf of my church, bringing them food and encourage- ment. After I came back to my village, I gradually began doing this again. My visits seemed like a miracle to my neighbors because they saw that I made the first move. They felt guilty and thought I would never come; even if they were not actively involved, they were Hutu and I was a survivor. They would ask, “How is it that you can come to see us?” You started a nonprofit organization, Iriba Shalom International, to help genocide survi- vors. What inspired this decision? During the genocide I made a vow that if I survived, I would use my life to tell people that God exists and to encourage them to believe in him. A few years after the genocide, I gave up my job at CIMERWA and started working for a Christian organization called Solace Ministries, because I realized there were many widows and orphans who needed help. We would visit them or gather them together to hear their stories, and we’d look for ways to help them heal and get back to normal life. One of the places I visited was Mukoma, a village in the same county as Bugarama, the town where I survived. I went there because my mother-in-law, Consoletia, lives there. While I was in Mukoma, some widows came to see me and told me their stories. On April 14, 1994, a group of murderers who had already killed these women’s husbands and older sons forced them to bring their baby boys as well. The women had to lay their babies on a big log, where the killers cut off each baby’s head with a machete. These women’s plight touched me very deeply. Mukoma hadn’t received any help because it was so remote; our organization usually only worked in cities or larger towns. But when I heard their story, I realized that it was connected to my own. After the birth of my third son on April 17, 1994, I had been taken to CIMERWA’s small clinic. Shortly after I arrived, a man had walked in bragging, “Do you know what we did in Mukoma? We killed all their boys!” Now I suddenly realized that this murderer had first been in Mukoma and then had come to the clinic intending to do the same to us. He raised his sword, ready to kill my sons and me, but he did not. This miracle was one of the reasons I founded Iriba Shalom, which is based in Mukoma. One of Iriba Shalom’s programs aims to connect survivors with sponsors in Western countries. It’s helpful for survivors to know that there are people in the wider world who care about them and their stories. Iriba Shalom is also in the process of building a community center in Mukoma to provide a safe location for trauma counseling, fellowship, medical assis- tance, and practical help related to finances and the daily challenges of widows’ lives. The militia member raised his sword, ready to kill my sons and me, but he did not.