 My name is Butolezwe and Zimbabwe is my home country. My journey so far has taken me to Central East Africa and this is where my story begins. I start in the back of a minibus heading towards the southwest corner of Rwanda. Winding through the thick bush of the Nungwa forest, I come to a clearing. From my taxi, I can see neat tea plantations giving way to Rwanda's rolling hills. This is my stop, the roadside town of Mushaka in Zaharha sector. Well-dressed men and women walk between the shops, houses and a central hospital. The ebb and order has a rural undertone. In the open grass in front of the church, children are playing. The father of two of these children sits in front of me. He has a warm smile and wears a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. I'm called Ngilene Filippi. I'm 30 years old and I was born here in Zaharha. A few hours later, I meet his wife Matilde. Matilde has taken leave from her government job and is at home looking after the children. Her bangles chime as she gestures with her well-manicured hands. We came from the same area. We met in Iwata at the university. We went to the same church and later we got married. A few kilometers up the road is the son of Matilde's father's cousin. Matilde's second cousin, Telespo, is a slimly built man. He shows me around his property. As you see the banana plantations, the other land where I cultivate is a bit far. These are livestock that provide me with the manure where I get fertilizers from my garden. While Telespo's farming seldom allows him to cross paths with his relatives, he sometimes visits their home. Matilde can remember how things have always been for the families. The relationship was good and whenever there was something nice to be shared like meat, then the families would share it. But events directly before and during 1994 changed everything. On the 6th of April 1994, the Rwandan president's plane was shot down. This was the pretext for the beginning of a planned state-sponsored genocide and one of the worst atrocities of the 20th century. Radical Hutu militia, known as the Inter-Rahamu, turned on Tutsi civilians and anyone considered sympathetic towards them. Neighbors turned against neighbors. Brothers turned against brothers. Tutsi, like Matilde and Philippe, were in severe danger. As a young girl, Matilde remembers how desperate she was to find somewhere safe to hide. They had me at the home of Tesfals' brother. It was Tutsi that were hunted. They were Hutu, so they were able to give us refugee. Telespo was her relative. An issue was there so we would plan in the evenings. We would listen to what the Inter-Rahamu were saying so I could hear their plans. We decided to take the risk. Over the next three months, few were spared the bloodshed. Telespo, a Hutu, was given the news that his brother had been stabbed to death. Only on that day, I participated in the killings. When we were told he was cut, we were told it was Tutsi who cut him. That's how we went and joined in the killing. The aftermath of the genocide in Rwanda left deep feelings of anger and revenge and little space for forgiveness. 1,100 kilometers away, another community is trying to work through its own experiences of bloodshed. My journey to better understand forgiveness takes me from the mountains of southern Rwanda across the border and into the wide open land of Uganda. From Kampala, I head further north on the Red Post Pass. After hours of a bumpy road, I cross the white waters of the Nile. The smell of the clean river air fills the bus and I know we are nearly there. Finally, I arrive at the busy town of Gulu. Motorcycles, locally known as Boda Boda's, speed past. The red dust of northern Uganda covers everything. There's a distinct air of growth and excitement in this town. The first person I meet is Konsey, a 22-year-old girl spotting a crew cut and a plain white t-shirt. Her eyes smile as she talks about her dreams. I like doing business. I was engaged in a pork selling business and I feel like if it were my own, it would be a good idea. The next person I come across is Robert. He has a calming presence about him, smiles and makes conversation easily. It's the rainy season in Uganda and as the clouds burst, we dive into an old restaurant to talk. At the age of 30, Robert has just become a proud father. My wife had premature delivery at only seven months and the baby weighed barely one kilogram and had to be put on oxygen. By God's grace, the child survived and I named her Luba Lakida Blessing, meaning God is very merciful, yeah. Everything seems possible now, but it hasn't always been this way. The Lord's Resistance Army, the LRA, is a rebel group that has operated in northern Uganda since 1986 and now continues to terrorize communities across Central Africa. One of the LRA's strategies for recruiting combatants is to abduct children and turn them into soldiers. In 18 years, between 1987 and 2005, an estimated 30,000 children were captured. Robert was 17 and Quincy was 12. It was four in the morning when the rebels came. There were three people sleeping in our house. The rebels took me and I had to join the crown of villages they had adopted. They took us into the bush where they put us all together. There were about 41 of us. From there, the rebels released us and told us to go back home. But then the rebels sent one of their soldiers to come and take me back. That's how I remained in the bush. When they arrested me and took me back, I really felt bad. I thought, why only me God? Why? The reason that Concey was kept behind was that the rebel officers needed these young girls as their wives. They believed that the older women were infected with HIV. So the likes of Concey were seen as young and of course very healthy. After a week in the bush with the rebels, they thought I would escape. And so they decided to take me back home. There are basically two reasons why the generals take people back to their homes to kill someone very close to them. One is to make you very strong and of course to make you into a fighter. And the second is to make you never think of ever going back home again. I don't remember Concey's case exactly but I know that I was ordered to take her home. I just know that. On reaching home, the rebels picked my dad. My father handed him over to me and ordered me to kill him. Forgiveness seems so complex when people's identities are so tangled. Both Robert and Concey are former abductees and both have committed terrible crimes. They are both victims and perpetrators. They have suffered and caused enormous suffering. I find myself asking if forgiveness is really possible in situations like this. In the years after the Rwandan genocide, Mushaka was devastated. While survivors like Matilda and Philip tried to rebuild their lives, turns of thousands of genocide suspects were detained in overcrowded jails. The social fabric of Rwanda was torn apart. And the response by many people was to run away. Tell Us 4 was no exception. I fled the country with the others but I later came back and was in prison. Someone who worked closely with prisoners is Father Eric, an enthusiastic smiling man who is the priest of the Mushaka Catholic Diocese. He remembers the devastation and how impossible it felt to try to restore peace to the community. At first mention, the word forgiveness was quite difficult when the wounds of genocide were still raw. Because on the side of survivors, some didn't believe that forgiving someone who killed your family or has done wrong to you was possible. On the side of the perpetrators, they sought forgiveness so that they could get out of prison, but they didn't want to meet their own victims. Father Eric started visiting prisoners and encouraging them to converse their crimes, not only to the state but also to the family members of those they had killed. Tell Us 4 remembers when the priest visited his jail. We began trusting these processes when we began writing letters to the families of those who had lost people, informing them of where they could find the bodies of their people who were killed. For us, we don't view forgiveness as papers signed in prisons, saying that he or she is seeking forgiveness from the Ruanan families and the Ruanan government. Two people hold the key to the unity and reconciliation process. It's the victim and the perpetrator. One of the ways in which the Ruanan legal system dealt with the overwhelming number of prisoners accused of genocide was through the Gachacha community courts. This system meant that ordinary Ruanans could participate in finding justice and truth about genocide crimes. In Mushaka, the Gachacha court assembled in a communal area once a week. In 2007, Philip received an invitation to attend a hearing that would deal with the death of his father. On the same day, Tell Us 4 was due to address the court. On that day, I confessed to the killing of some other person. When we were moving to avenge my brother's death, four people died. I also confessed that on the way home, I killed a man. The owner said he killed an old man, then we found out it was my father, finding that the one who killed my father comes from the family that saved my wife. I was perplexed. It was as if the world had fallen down on me. I felt ashamed asking myself how are Matilda's parents going to see me. He left the chair that he was sitting on and came to sit near me. He said this is the family that saved my wife and now the family that killed my father. What can I do? I have forgiven him but let the state do its part. For me, it can come to my family with the fear to seek forgiveness from my family so that my family also knows about this. I asked Matilda how she felt about the situation and how she felt towards the man who had killed her father in law and helped save her life. Nothing special because it's good enough that Philip managed to find out who killed his father. Her response reminds me of how complex forgiveness really is especially as family members are often part of the process. Back in Gulu, Konsey tells me that if I really want to understand her process of forgiving then I need to meet her mother. So the plans are made. The sun rises to reveal a golden dustimony. We pack some supplies into the car and leave the business of the town behind us. We drive north towards the village of Omelkuri. The route home is so nice. I feel quite lonely with many just un-danced. With the car winded down and the warm sun on her arm she seems relaxed and excited to be on her way home. Look now, this is a place which was a stronghold of LRAs. Whoever was following this road would get ambushed. Taking up the hills and severely tortured. I stayed there for quite some time. This was the point where many of the people adapted where people I knew. Every day I see these mountains. It reminds me of the past. But I feel that it won't help me. In any case, I am now out of here. We get to the trading center of Omelkuri and head further still. The road turns to gravel and eventually we get out of the car and start walking. The grass is long and the bush is thick. But every now and then I see the top of a mud hut or a curious neighbor coming out to see who has arrived. Two little girls, consist daughters, come running towards us barefoot, beaming at their mother. As the excitement dies down, a tall, slender, stern-looking woman appears on the side of the compound. She balances a large yellow water container on her head. Konse's mother motions for us to sit in the shade of a large tree in the middle of the compound. I wonder what it was like for Konse and her mother when she finally returned home after being with the rebel forces for so many years. When I saw my mother, it was somehow hard to recognize her. She was behind my elder brother. And when she saw me, she came running, crying and picking me up in her arms like I was a little child. When Konse came back from the bush, the relatives convened and decided that as a young child, whatever she had done wrong was only to save her own life. In any case, it wasn't our idea. As the saying goes, you can't pierce your own eyes out. They told her she was forgiven and in any case, the best she could do was to thank God for keeping her alive. When I had just returned home, things were very hard for me. Every time I went walking in the community, people would point fingers saying there goes the girl who killed her own father. It got so bad, my mother said that I should move to town and let her stay at home in the village. But once Konse had moved to Gulutang, she came across someone even more difficult to deal with than the village drunkards. The first time I met Robert, I wanted to do to him exactly what he had done to my father. All I wanted was to kill him. Robert tells me about the same incident. I saw Konse and I had to turn my eyes away. I don't know at that time if she saw me. The reason why I was really scared was because it was me who was given the order to take Konse back and to make her kill her own father. It was I who did it. I did that to her. When I got home, I told my mother that I had met the person who had made me kill my father. I told her to leave things at that. And if she ever met this man again, she should talk to him. It was at the rehabilitation center, if I can remember in Lira. When I saw her, I was overcome with fear. I could not look at her face. I turned my eyes away. The second time I saw her, I couldn't avoid her because it was like a one-on-one encounter. We both broke down and cried. The last time we met was in 2005 at the Amnesty Commission. I was with my mother and when we got there, I saw Robert and I said to her, there is the man I told you about the other day. She replied that she was not interested in seeing him because it would make her think of doing something bad to him. When I first saw this man, the air on the back of my neck stood. I said, God, you are almighty. Then I turned my face down. If I had had the ability to do harm to this man, I definitely would have. What made it so hard for me to forgive Robert was my father's death. I left home at an early age and it would have been nice to have him at home when I came back from captivity so that he would always be there for me when I needed him. I asked Consis mother and her brothers if they had ever received an apology from Robert for the things he had done. Robert lives very far away from here. It wouldn't be possible to come and ask for forgiveness for his actions. It is completely impossible because my boys have now become men. Robert has a different view of why he cannot ask for forgiveness. What I know is that no one can totally forgive you when you have instructed them to kill their own parents. No one can do that. No one can forgive you. Robert's statement hits me hard. It shows that some people feel that the crimes they have committed are beyond forgiveness. That pardon is impossible given the magnitude of what they have done. I am reminded of how interconnected the process of forgiving really is. The purpose of this journey was to find out how and why it happens. I realized that forgiveness takes personal initiative. It takes courage and it takes action. But it also needs an environment of support and it involves other people. Sometimes they support the process and sometimes they make it harder. Back in Mushaka after Telus 4 had confessed at the Gachacha court, he served the rest of his sentence. Once he was released, he prepared himself to apologize to Matilde and Philip in the presence of the whole family. I promised myself to do all that he said, to go tell his family that I committed the crime and bring the local bruise so that we could share again and talk over the issue. Philip tells me about the same incident. The first obstacle is your close relatives that may be a hindrance to your forgiveness. They are also your fellow victims who we always ask you. And forgiving, did you get back to your father? How have you benefited? Then even when you have decided to forgive, these people remain as tumbling blocks to the process. I was prepared to face all the risks. What was important was being crimsoned in front of God. What made me ashamed was finding out that he had married a relative of mine, but I was ready to seek forgiveness from whichever person I needed to. Now, when he decided to come to my home, it demonstrated it was true that he sought pardon. When I got there, I found visitors, a church pastor, a soldier. They were all friends and I told them my story and they seemed shocked. Telus 4 was doing what Father Eric believes is the most important aspect about forgiveness, bringing people into direct contact. But sometimes, meeting comes at a cost. I felt remorse and guilt after I found out that they had forgiven us and that was challenging. We all cried again and we needed our visit. Now again, we forgive each other because he now came to seek true forgiveness. I realized that forgiveness doesn't mean the anger or the hurt disappears. Sometimes, the motivation behind forgiveness is to find inner peace or to keep a relationship or to develop a nation. My journey took me into the lives of specific individuals, going through different processes in response to different conflicts. I wondered if their definition of forgiveness could help me understand their experiences. Telus 4. That's when I become human after getting forgiveness together with my own channel for giving myself. That's when I become a normal human being. Philip. Forgiveness is not to eliminate someone. Instead, it is assisting someone to become a human being again. Concy. Forgiveness, according to me, is pardoning whoever has wronged you. And Robert. To forgive is when the offended person totally pardons the offender and forgets everything. You made them kill. They should not think of paying back. Forgiveness never comes cheaply. It always involves harrowing choices. But for those who choose forgiveness, they do it to live more peacefully with themselves and with those around them.