Daabu is a tiny village in a remote part of eastern Sierra Leone. It was a rebel stronghold during the country’s 11-year civil war, and it had been the site of many atrocities. Seven years later, it still bore physical and psychic scars. Its vibrant community center had been burned down during the war, and the charred remains were a visual reminder of the paralysis of division and disconnection that now characterized the community. Its ruins, with weeds growing in the cracks, literally and metaphorically dominated the center of the village, a gaping wound. Left alone and untended.

Until now.

A lone drummer began a soft but insistent beat, the sound of calling people to gather. Other musicians joined in, and steadily people arrived, gathering in an open dirt clearing next to the burnt out building. Children danced, carefully avoiding the massive pyramid of dried branches and gathered wood that sat in the middle of the clearing. The spontaneous drumming and dancing turned more purposeful, both calling and celebrating — celebrating everyone’s presence and their shared purpose. People sat on rocks, chairs, benches — anything they could find. As darkness settled in, village leaders reached torches into the tower of wood until it burst into flames. As the fire settled into a steady burn, the crowd also settled into its own alert, alive, almost quiet circle.

It was March of 2009, just over a year into the Fambul Tok (‘family talk’) post-war reconciliation program and four months into Daabu’s planning process, and its residents joined people from neighboring villages for their fambul tok reconciliation bonfire. Chief Maada Alpha Ndolleh sat among the crowd. Originally from Daabu village, he was the town chief of Kailahun Town, the capital of the district, and the chairman of the Fambul Tok district committee. In that role, Chief Ndolleh moved from village to village with the Fambul Tok staff, opening honest conversations about the war and laying the groundwork for reconciliation. Tonight, he got the evening starting. Walking to the middle of the circle, next to the bonfire, he welcomed the crowd. He reminded them why they were gathered, and how they could finally talk about what had happened in this place during the war. He urged people not to be afraid to speak, emphasizing that those who confessed would not be prosecuted, nor would there be any shame for sharing how you had been hurt. “If something is disturbing you, you have to speak it out,” he said passionately. “And when you speak it out, you’ll be relieved. You can once again talk with your brothers and sisters.”

Hardly able to wait for the introductions to finish, a young man jumped up and walked purposefully into the center of the circle, near the fire. He faced his community with eagerness and resolve. His name was Michael Momoh, and he described the day the rebels first came into Daabu, capturing him and ordering him to find them food. As they roamed the area, they found a family working on their farm. The family fled, all escaping except their seven-year-old girl, who was captured. The rebels ordered Michael to tie her up and beat her, which, in shock himself, he did. He beat her so badly, she later died.

“I need peace, and I want my conscience to be clear,” he said with intention and intensity. “I am confessing so that they forgive me. It was not my wish; I was under duress. I did not do it out of my own wish.”

“Is the mother of the child here?” the elder facilitating the ceremony asked, with hardly a minute to process what Michael had just confessed. Mariama Jumu came forward, acknowledging that it was her daughter whom Michael had killed that day. Michael approached her and leaned over in a deep bow, a cultural symbol of repentance and submission. With the whole community watching, he begged Mariama to forgive him for what he had done. She touched his bowed head, a symbol of her acceptance of his apology, and said, “Yes.” They embraced and danced together as their neighbors watched and clapped, then everyone joined in the dancing and singing.

It was a stunning moment on many levels. That a perpetrator had jumped forward to initiate the truth-telling and apology. That Mariama was so quick to accept his apology and express her forgiveness. That right away they could embrace and dance together, embodying their commitment to a new future — side by side, ready to go forward together.

People testified in a constant stream that night, sharing stories of their experiences during the war. They were propelled by eagerness to move forward, by the desire to reconcile, to talk about what happened with their community. By the will to acknowledge, apologize, and forgive…together.

The next day, I discovered that Michael and Mariama lived literally next door to each other in this tiny village. And they told us that they had never spoken of what had happened. Not to each other, and not to anyone else. Prior to the ceremony, Mariama had avoided Michael completely. If he was part of an activity, she wouldn’t join. If there was a meeting he was attending, she wouldn’t go. As neighbors in the intimate circle of thatched-roof mud houses that make up the village of Daabu, they lived in isolation, from each other and from the community itself. And they were not the only ones. This pattern repeated itself across the village, and in other villages across the country. This is the invisible nature of a broken community. In a community whose web of connection has been broken, it’s almost impossible for anyone, much less for the community as a whole, to go forward, to develop.

The day after the bonfire, we interviewed Mariama about her daughter and what happened during the war in general. Mariama spoke of the sadness she carried about her child’s death, but she nonetheless reiterated her forgiveness in a very straightforward way: Because Michael had confessed, she forgave him. She felt that forgiveness was important, in her words, “for unity and progress. For us to live together. For our community to forge ahead in terms of development. If we are not together, for us to work, it would be very difficult.”

“Did someone tell you to think this way?” my colleague asked Mariama. “Or do you actually feel this inside your heart?”

Mariama looked slightly annoyed when the question was translated for her. But she nodded calmly and quietly straightened and settled back on her bench. “Well, we are able to think for ourselves on these things,” she said bluntly. “Once we’ve come together, we are going to continue.”

Michael and Mariama interact regularly now; Michael calls Mariama “Ma,” and she refers to him as a son. He carries water for her, helps with her farming, and does other household chores when she needs help, wanting to make up as much as he can for the absence of the child who would have grown to support her mother and the family. They also work side by side on community initiatives, alongside others in Daabu who had been avoiding each other at all costs.

Their story also exemplifies the way the community itself holds a healing presence and power for reconciliation. Michael didn’t approach Mariama in the privacy of her home. Living next door to her, he no doubt would have had ample opportunity. Rather, he opened up to tell his story in front of his whole community, and even several neighboring villages. In Sierra Leonean culture, the presence of the community is crucial to the forgiveness process. Acknowledgment of, and an apology for, a wrong must happen in front of the community before forgiveness can be considered. Why? What Sierra Leoneans describe as the “naming and shaming” that occurs in this context is felt to be fitting punishment, even more severe than being sent to jail in most instances. Given the central value the culture places on connection of the individual to and through community, and especially contributing to that community, this makes sense. As Fambul Tok national staff member Tamba Kamanda noted, “Without your community, you are nothing.”

And with your community, you can heal even some of the most painful wounds.

What was the “aha moment” or series of events that made you decide to bring your message to the greater world? Can you share a story about that?

I’ve been committed to bringing my story to the world from the beginning — it’s just I didn’t really know I could, or exactly how to do that. I had been so focused on the work of making space for others’ leadership, and on telling/sharing others’ stories as they step into their leadership — that I found it really hard to allow myself to believe that my story was as worthy of writing and sharing. I needed help to do that — and didn’t really know how to ask for/receive it — until after I had created my Wisdom Circle. Nearly a decade ago, facing a time of near complete burnout and having no clarity on the way forward, I gathered a trusted cohort of friends and colleagues for a week on the peaceful shores of Long Lake, Maine. They gathered to support me in my leadership, in my growth as a person, and in discerning the way forward for Catalyst for Peace and my work in Sierra Leone. This group, which I came to call my Wisdom Circle, helped me reclaim what was mine to do, and demolish my strong internal barriers to receiving the same kind of support I had so freely and easily offered to others.

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For more inspiration in real time, join an Awakin Call converation this weekend with community catalyst and peacebuilder Libby Hoffman: Details + RSVP here.