Sunday, July 3rd, marked the opening of our final full week in the program, and therefore, our final week in Rwanda. Having a few days off that Friday and Saturday had allowed us a chance to unwind and rest up, which helped prepare us for a pretty rough day that Sunday.
We went to Nyamata Memorial Center in Nyamata, a town that is around 20 miles outside of Kigali. It took us about 30 minutes to drive there. However, Jesse said that even as recently as the early 2000s, the roads to Nyamata were in poor enough condition that it would take two hours to reach the town from Kigali. As we rode the bus from Rwanda’s hilly, sloping capital city to the flatter, more rural marshland surrounding Nyamata, Jesse explained that even this change in scenery and geography is part of Nyamata’s history. Decades before the genocide in 1994, large numbers of Tutsis in Rwanda—but especially from the northern region of the country—were forced to live in this swampy, malaria-infested region; several hours but mere miles away from other people, communities, resources, etc. As I sat in this crowded, sweaty bus next to my friends, with my anti-malarial pills bouncing in my purse, it occurred to me how truly oppressive isolation from a community — and isolation from health — could be to a person. Once again, I can’t truly understand how such isolation would feel, and my easy access to both family and friends and healthcare have always been things that I have taken for granted. If the previous government that carried out the genocide really, truly believe the Tutsi were cockroaches, were less-human than themselves, then I think forcefully sending Tutsis into isolation such as this would be the first step in making outsiders, and the residents of Nyamata themselves feel as though they are somehow less-human as well.
Isolation can be a very powerful tool for oppression. Being able to drive to Nyamata from Kigali in 30 minutes made me feel as though real, tangible change has occurred in Rwanda since 1994.
The memorial’s appearance was unassuming and neat; it is a bright red brick building with green grass and colorful gardens on the surrounding land. Purple and white banners — colors associated with the ’94 genocide — hung around the building, but even these banners seemed to only add to the decorative aesthetic of the memorial, rather than evoke a somber mood.
However, the mood of our group quickly changed to somber upon entering the memorial. We were greeted by a guide who was tall, dressed professionally, and spoke in a quiet voice. I later read in my guidebook that she was one of two or three guides who worked there, who had all lost family at Nyamata church during the genocide. It made me wonder: how must she feel to work here? Can you imagine spending so much time at the site where some of your closest family and friends were murdered? Can you imagine reliving that time, that loss, that pain, every day of your life in such a physical way? I can’t.
Before we entered the church, our guide told us that 10,008 people crowded into the tiny space in April 1994 and were killed there by genocidaires. They came to this church because they believed they would be safe there. Now that the site has been converted into a memorial, over 40,000 victims are buried there, many of whom were killed in the marshy areas where they hid to protect themselves during the genocide. I only have one picture of Nyamata Memorial, because we were asked to only take pictures of the front entrance, out of respect for those who are buried there. I will just have to tell you about the rest of the visit.
Our view of Nyamata Memorial Site upon arriving.
We walked into the church, and it was impossible to envision 10,000 terrified people crammed into this space that maybe held several hundred comfortably. Sunlight shone into the worship space from holes in the walls and roof—caused by the blasts of bullets and grenades that were fired and launched upon the church. The simple wooden pews that stretched across the building were entirely covered by mounds of dusty, shredded clothing. This was the clothing of those who died there. It was impossible to discern one article of clothing from another, yet its presence almost gave life to the space, yet at the time it was a very tangible reminder of the enormous amount of human life that had been taken. The guide stopped us at the altar, where light pink blood stains marked the cloth that covered it. She then directed our gaze toward the ceiling, where black stains showed the time that had passed between our presence there and the genocide. Not just stains though, not just signs of age, she said; it was bloodstains, spattered across the ceiling with such regularity that I felt physically sick once these dark discolorations were identified for me.
The guide’s descriptions of what happened at this church made me realize something about the nature of the genocide, and about the trauma and pain that is a permanent effect of such atrocities. We use neutral words to describe what happened: killed, died, lost, victims. But the words our guide used didn’t leave open a peaceful interpretation of the events that happened; she used words like murdered, raped, mutilated, hacked, smashed, chased, tortured, and it made me realize that loved ones weren’t simply lost; they died horrible, slow, humiliating deaths—deaths that their survivors know were not peaceful, neutral, or inoffensive. How is it possible to move on when you understand the sort of violence and terror the genocide inflicted on your family?
Our guide invited us to go into the catacombs that are at Nyamata Memorial site. She told us that the holes and gashes in the skulls we would see were inflicted by machetes. We saw skulls, hip bones, thigh bones, various bones of victims killed in the church. These bones, once part of living, feeling human beings, seem so intimate — as though you shouldn’t be looking at them. And really, I know I shouldn’t be looking at them, because they should still be attached and part of living, feeling human beings.
On our way outside of the church, the guide pointed out the wall at the very back of the church, where babies were smashed against and killed. I will say that the visit was overwhelming and difficult, but these words are simplifiers; simplifiers that I use now that I am back in the States and because it is difficult to describe or even really understand how you feel when you see a wall used specifically to kill babies.
***
The next day, Monday, July 4th, was spent celebrating in both the United States and Rwanda. While I imagined my family barbequing and watching fireworks back home, my delegation went to the National Stadium to celebrate Liberation Day! It marks the anniversary of July 4th, 1994, when now-president Paul Kagame brought troops of the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) into Rwanda and effectively stopped the genocide. Though I couldn’t understand a lot of what was said (speeches were in Kinyarwanda), we were able to see traditional dance, the police and military march, and even President Paul Kagame himself! It was a great chance to see patriotism that wasn’t just American; people are really proud to call themselves Rwandese. And why shouldn’t they be?
Traditional dancers strutting their stuff on Liberation Day!
The marching band plays, while some of Rwanda's military marches.
The much-adored President Paul Kagame himself!
