My husband was murdered …

Angie Elliott-Koéné

Angie Elliott-Koéné is a former Peace Corps volunteer who served for three years in Mali .This is where she met and married her husband, Armand Koéné. She has served as a full-time minister for the Community of Christ for the last seven years, and currently has responsibilities in South America. She is fluent in French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Bambara. She was asked to share her story during the 2006 Peace Colloquy, held at the Temple in Independence, Missouri. The colloquy focused on restorative justice—real justice, which puts victims first. Angie’s story tells of her struggle in dealing with the murder of her husband as she searches for healing. She shared it in the morning "Thought for the Day" on Saturday, October 28.

My husband, Armand Koéné, was murdered on May 10, 2002, by Andrew Kaczynski. They were both twenty-seven years old. My husband was shot five times—two times in the back, and the last shot, to his head at point-blank range. I suspect that most survivors in such cases spend a lot of time dissecting details, trying to understand the reasons and to know exactly what happened. That has certainly been my experience, but there really aren’t any clear answers. Armand was unarmed; he did not attack Andrew Kaczynski…no plausible explanation was ever offered. Andrew Kaczynski was charged with first-degree murder. He was convicted of voluntary manslaughter.

Those are the "facts" of the situation, but they really say so little. At some level, it would be easy to pretend that since he is in prison, I can just forget about him, throw away the key, as it were. But I can’t, because his choices that night in May 2002 changed me, changed my life, and brought us into relationship with each other. I am connected to him—a man I don’t know, have never even "met" except in the courtroom. It is hard for me to even say his name. He was always "Kaczynski." I have had to work to say "Andrew Kaczynski." And to call him simply "Andrew" seems unbearably intimate, but right.

When I share my story with people, they often have two comments. They offer their sympathy and condolences, which makes me uncomfortable even as I recognize and appreciate their kindness. And they comment on how calm I am, because the emotions and grief that I have worked through are no longer fresh and near the surface. Because of my faith beliefs, I have always known that at some point, I would like to be reconciled with Andrew. I knew that even during the trial, though I didn’t know when or how it could happen. And I have a convenient "blessing" in the fact that Andrew will be eligible for parole in November 2009.

That fact doesn’t allow me to forget him, because it means that in 2009, I will have to make a choice: whether to stand and persuade a parole board to keep him incarcerated, or to speak for his release. And I have no idea what I will say, no idea how to be responsible in that situation—responsible to myself, responsible to Andrew, and especially, responsible to Armand’s parents, who have had no voice in this process. What is just for them?

And so, this summer, I began to take steps to process my feelings and my desire to initiate contact with Andrew. As I talked with Sandee Gamet, our conflict resolution specialist at Community of Christ, exploring my reasons for wanting to contact him, I encountered emotion s that are still fresh, still unresolved. They have been difficult to name, but as I struggled again last night, I realized that they all center around one issue: alienation. It is the problem of alienation that I continue to experience, which raises painful memories when Sean O’Brien talks about the revictimization of victims in the courtroom experience. It is the pain of alienation that comes from wanting to reach out to Andrew’s parents, who are also victims, but being unable to because it would be unwise.

Andrew’s choices destroyed two lives that night. He destroyed Armand’s life and his own. Armand’ s life is no longer in our hands—it is gone. But there is still a possibility for Andrew. It is this possibility that draws me forward. I have come to cherish the truths contained in the idea of "redemption." Redemption means "bought back," or "purchased from slavery." For me, it means bringing new life where there has been only death and destruction. I have seen God redeem my life, bringing hope and joy out of the ashes and pain.

Andrew’s incarceration does not make everything right. That is impossible. But if he were to choose that redemption—to allow new life to emerge from the destruction of his actions—that would be a beautiful thing. I want to extend that grace and compassion to him—not because he deserves it; not because what he did is OK. But because that is the person I am. It is who I want to be. I don’ t want to be a victim who hates, who holds on to their anger, no matter what others expect. Andrew took some choices away from me, but he cannot take away my compassion.

I know that he may not accept it, and I may get hurt again in the process of trying to reach out to him. But even if I am, I will know that I have been faithful to the truths I know, to the God I follow, and it brings beauty even to Armand’s death.