War Stories that Feed The Spirit

Sophie Magdalena Scholl was beheaded by Nazis in 1943 after getting caught distributing anti-fascist literature with her brother, Hans, at the University of Munich. The literature called for active opposition to Hitler. Hours earlier at her trial she said, “Somebody, after all, had to make a start. What we wrote and said is also believed by many others. They just don't dare express themselves as we did.”

As Immaculée Ilibagiza stood in the prison warden’s office in Kibuye, Rwanda while the warden shouted above a crouched and sobbing prisoner demanding he explain to Immaculée why he had macheted to death her mother and brother during the Rwandan genocide of 1994, Immaculée reached out and lightly touched the killer's hands and quietly said, “I forgive you.” When the warden angrily demanded to know why Immaculée forgave the killer, Immaculée answered him with the truth. “Forgiveness is all I have to offer.”

I am drawn to the courage of these women. Their spirits feed my spirit. They connect me to something deep within me that is beyond fear and larger than a life experienced by just the five senses.

I only know of military war through mass and independent media and talks I’ve attended by survivors. The details are horrifying. From most, but not all of these stories, it is easy for me to conclude that the human race is monstrous.

I have had to struggle to find the other wartime stories that feed my spirit and give me hope. Finding those stories is a responsibility I take seriously.

That is how I came to know Sophie and Immaculée. They chose a different path under the most incredible circumstances.

A reference to Sophie Scholl on last night’s episode of Bill Moyers Journal motivated me to spend most of today researching her on the Internet. I watched a movie about her life, Sophie Scholl: The Final Days, as well as the interviews provided on the DVD with her sister, Elisabeth Hartnagel, and Willi Mohr, son of the inspector who interrogated Sophie after her arrest. The film draws on interviews with survivors and German transcripts released in 1990.

Sophie and Hans were members of the White Rose, a non-violent resistance movement motivated by their Christian beliefs and formed during the Third Reich. When first arrested, Sophie denied any involvement in the distribution of the anti-Hitler literature. After the police inspector presented mounting evidence against her, she confessed. Yet she refused to see herself as a criminal. She didn’t beg for her life, turn others in or take an opportunity given to her that might have spared her life. Instead, this 21-year-old German woman argued her beliefs with conviction and against the actions of the Nazi regime. Her strength, integrity, courage and obedience to her principles in the face of fear and execution had to have come from her relationship with God. She was seen praying often during the four days between her capture and execution.

I read Immaculée’s book, “Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust,” last year. How could this Tutsi woman forgive the Hutus responsible for her family’s deaths and nearly one million others in less than three months? What gave her the strength?

She herself was hunted and nearly killed several times. A Hutu pastor hid Immaculée and seven other women in his bathroom for 90 days. While in the bathroom and not knowing whether her family was dead or alive, Immaculée heard an infant crying. The infant wailed all night and by morning was dead. She prayed to God to receive the infant’s soul and then asked God, “How can I forgive people who would do such a thing to an infant? “ Immaculée writes that God’s response to her was, “You are all my children…and the baby is with Me now.” When Immaculée begins to see the killers as children, her process of forgiveness begins. She wanted to forgive and she asked God for help in doing so.

I went to Los Angeles last November to hear Immaculée speak. I had imagined a crowd of thousands coming to the arena of the Civic Center to hear her. We were a gathering of 200 in a room on the second floor. I was struck by how down-to-earth Immaculée was. She was tender and soft-spoken. She cried and said her tears were tears of gratitude. I believe her. As part of her program, she had played for the audience the song, “Amazing Grace.” She also shared the stage with a songwriter friend who lost a child in a car accident. This friend invited audience members on-stage to join her for a light-hearted sing-along with hand movements. She had to coax Immaculée to join her on stage. And then others joined them including two men with turbans, a Catholic nun, and a comedian while the rest of the audience, me included, did the hand movements from our seats.

I didn’t fully appreciate until recently, Immaculée’s ability to revisit the genocide and her personal loss so soon after it happened and turn her experiences into a book. I am interviewing WWII veterans from the U.S. for a work project and many of them are still reluctant to talk about what they saw, especially those who experienced combat.

The killers of the Rwandan holocaust are now starting to be released from prison. I hope Immaculée’s message of forgiveness reaches them and the families of their victims.

Sophie Scholl gave her life for resisting the Nazi war machine and faced her death with courage and dignity. Immaculée Illibagiza gave forgiveness to the Hutus who hunted her, drove her from her homeland and murdered her mother, father, brother and friends.

I am certain there are women, men and children just like Sophie Scholl and Immaculée Ilibagiza right now in Sudan, Iraq, Palestine and Israel whose names I have yet to learn.

I can honor the spirit that operates in them and Immaculée, and operated in Sophie, by calling forth that same spirit in me and asking it to guide me to accept the big and small challenges of my everyday life with loving resolve, devotion, courage and forgiveness.

With gentleness I ask myself, “If they can/could do it, why can’t I? If I can’t do it, should I expect anyone else to? How can I?”

Let it begin with me.