To Pay My Respects

  Kigali, Rwanda
Saturday, July 26, 2008

July 25 -26, 2008

Those who know me are well aware of my passion for human rights and in particular my strong, borderline obsessive, interest in the Rwandan genocide. For reasons some fail to comprehend, traveling to Rwanda has been something that has been very important to me for a long time, and I was disappointed when I was unable to attach a trip to Rwanda at the beginning of my African travels. After meeting several people, including  Sarah and Jo, rave about Rwanda, I knew I had to take advantage of this opportunity.  Although Gorilla Trekking is the most popular and touristy reason to venture to Rwanda, I needed to come pay my respects to the one million people murdered while the world watched silently.  I wanted to apologize for my countries' inaction and apathy. And I wanted to see if I could finally wrap my head around something I have been trying to comprehend for years. 
 
Actually traveling to Rwanda was quite an endeavor, but perhaps that further illustrates the strength of my desire to go. Although Kigali is only 330 miles from Mwanza, round-trip plane tickets cost over $500 and required an overnight stay in Nairobi. Almost everyone we met opted for the much more adventurous ground transportation costing less than $70 round-trip. Knowing this would be a lengthy and largely uncomfortable journey, once the decision was made nothing would stand in my way of going. I also reminded myself that nothing I could endure on this trip could compare to the suffering of the Rwandan people in 1994.
 
Michelle and I awoke at 3:30 am on Friday, July 25 as we needed to be at the bus station at 4:30 am.  We waited outside with our Maasai guards for the taxi driver we had previously arranged. I became more nervous as the clock ticked past 4:00 am.  Michelle and I felt guilty being away from the orphanage for long, and Michelle was leaving Mwanza the following Friday. We needed to make this bus, so we could be back on Monday night or Tuesday morning. Luckily the driver arrived and we made it well before the bus departed (thirty minutes later than the ticket stated). Neither Michelle nor I had high expectations for the bus itself. We were not frightened by it, nor were we impressed.  Only two buses got to Benako (nearest bus to the Rwandan border each week), so this would be our ride.  It was very basic; the seats were poorly cushioned and quickly filled with passengers.  Many people may have come to Mwanza to buy goods as the aisles and overhead bins were filled with shopping bags and boxes. Thankfully, unlike in the movies, there was no livestock on board yet the passengers themselves were quite loud even at such an early hour. 
 
We drove for about thirty minutes when the bus pulled up at a ferry terminal.  We all unloaded and lined up to buy ferry tickets.  The bus was also charged for the ride, but each passenger had to pay about 25 cents for the thirty-minute trip. I had to question the logic and efficiency for all of us to individually pay this fee instead of tacking it on to our bus ticket price. However, I was grateful for the ferry ride knowing it would be a nice break from the bus, and I got to watch the sun rise above on of the southern coves of Lake Victoria.
 
Sarah had warned us that most of the road was dirt and would be extremely bumpy. In fact she told us, "my ass was off the seat most of the time."  Although the ride was often jolting, I was prepared for much worse and was amused when a local man apologized after one particularly rough patch of road.  Perhaps the most bothersome part of the experience was the continually stopping and loading of additional passengers. Soon the aisles filled with people and their belongings. As there was no additional storage room, one man had no choice but to set his backpack against my head.  Many of the seated Tanzanians were no more pleased with this and an argument developed when one young man tried to perch himself on top of the seat backs and almost on top of one man.  This man became so aggravated that he flagged down some police along the side of the road and after some time and some heated discussions succeeding in having some of the extra passengers kicked off the bus. 
 
I had tried to limit my water intake and had taken advantage of the ferry "toilet" but by one pm my bladder was pushing its limits. We stopped for gas and several people disembarked, scattering around the few trees to relieve themselves.  Jo had informed me this would be "the bathroom" and had specifically advised me to wear a long skirt for this purpose.  I was still hesitant but the need to go was actually becoming visible as my stomach bulged. I told Michelle, whose bladder is much larger than mine, how to say "Stop" in Swahili as I was also nervous to get left behind.  I darted my way through the maze of bags and boxes in the aisle.  I ran and crouched behind a gas tank as the other passengers yelled and pointed at the "Mzungu". Although it was perfectly natural for them to pee on the side of the road, it was utterly entertaining that I was exercising this option. As badly I had to go, stage fright kicked in as I realized this was a spectator sport, but finally managed to complete the task.  I dashed back to the bus, one more milestone behind me.
 
Almost nine hours and one tire change later, the bus ride ended, twenty kilometers from the Rwandan border. We hired a taxi, which climbed up and down the increasingly hilly landscape as we neared the border.  I tried to process that I was almost to Rwanda, but honestly couldn't believe it.  We rounded another large curve, and the driver pointed out the Rwandan countryside.  He let Michelle and I out in front of the roadblock, and we had our passports stamped as we made our exit from Tanzania.  We descended down a long hill making our way to the actual boundary between the countries. A couple of trucks waited by the immigration office and a few other people were also walking in between the two countries.  I commented that it was my most relaxing border-crossing experience.  As we approached the bottom of the hill and turned to the left, we could hear the roar of Rusumu Falls, the official border between Tanzania and Rwanda. We paused to view the waterfall and acknowledge that we were now entering Rwanda.  With another stamp in our passports, we boarded a minibus for Kigali. 

Rusumu Falls

As we waited about an hour for the minibus to depart, I realized for the first time since arriving in Africa that I was in a vehicle that was much cleaner than myself. Looking around at the surrounding shops, it appeared that Rwanda was nicer and cleaner than Tanzania.  As the three-hour drive to Kigali began, I was pleased to discover very smooth, paved roads increasing the comfort level. I was enthralled by the scenery and kept my eyes glued to the window. I have always read that Rwanda is a beautiful country, and it looked just as it was described.  Rwanda is known as the " land of thousand hills" and steep, narrow hills and round, shorter knolls surrounded the road and continued into the distance. Quickly the dryer, more western Tanzania-like landscape was replaced by deep hues of green as banana and other trees stretched from the land.  High hills would occasionally open up to large river valleys and terraced fields.  I was stunned at the beauty yet more puzzled as to happen much ugliness could happen in such a gorgeous place.
 
We reached the outskirts of Kigali at 5:30 pm (6:30 pm Tanzanian time). I was not quite prepared for the size or modernity of Kigali. I had not seen traffic lights, traffic, streetlights, interesting post-modern architecture, and landscaped sidewalks in six weeks.    If it were not for the vast number of Rwandans walking around, I might have easily forgotten I was in Africa. Michelle and I checked into our hotel, ate our first meal of the day, took a much-deserved hot shower, and collapsed exhaustedly into bed.
 
On Saturday morning, Michelle and I discovered a glitch in our plans.  Apparently the last Saturday of every month is designated community service time. All the businesses (except hotels) are closed and everyone should be involved in cleaning, beautifying or improving their neighborhood. In addition to the physical benefits, community day is about strengthening social relationships and uniting the people.  Although I greatly admire this strategy, it was a bit frustrating to come here for two days and find we were unable to do the things we had planned.  Originally, we wanted to spend Saturday morning on a Kigali City Tour and visit the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center followed by a trip south to two of the many churches where large massacres had occurred.  However, we ventured out into the city, the streets were eerily quiet and largely devoid of cars. It appeared that no buses and taxis were running either. We walked to the tourism office, just in case they were open, but unfortunately they were not.  The Hotel des Mille Collines (Hotel Rwanda) was located down the street, so we decided to check that out.  A security guard operated a horizontal pole-type gate, and he waved to us as we entered the hotel compound. However, I quickly realized that in reality there was more an illusion of security than a strong physical barrier. The hotel sits on the intersection of two streets and most of the perimeter is lined with landscape.  Perhaps a shorter metal fence exists within the shrubbery, but I was amazed that was all that separated over a thousand people from being killed by the Interahamwe.
 
As the Mille Collines is also one of the nicest hotels in town, a few taxi drivers gathered in the front, presumably to cater to the tourists.  We hired one to drive us the 30km to Nyamata and Ntarama. On the way, the driver was routinely stopped by police inquiring as to why he was not involved in community projects, but luckily was allowed to pass.  During the drive, we could see all the people working. Some were roofing schools and other buildings, while many busily landscaped.  I have to admit the sight of men swinging machetes unnerved me, even if using them only as a gardening tool.  We pulled off the main road at a sign for Nyamata, and the tears began to fall from my eyes even before we pulled up to the Catholic Church.

Nyamata Church

 
We were warmly greeted by a young, soft-spoken Rwandan man whose name I greatly regret not remembering at the time of introduction. He asked where we were visiting from and then apologized that his English was limited.  He quietly led us to the entrance of the church and showed us where the Interahamwe had thrown a grenade ripping a hole into the church door. Ten thousand Tutsis and moderate Hutus had sought refuge in this church before being murdered by the Hutu extremist group.  I tried to wrap my head around this number. Although it was a decent size church, I could not fathom that meeting people fitting inside, let along what ensued when the Interahamwe entered.  The victims' clothes have been left as a memorial and as a way to quantify the dead.  There were so many clothes piled in rows and large heaps on the floor. I sucked in my breath and looked up.  The ceiling was ridden with holes, and our guide explained they were caused by grenades. First, grenades were thrown in and when the smoke cleared, the Interahamwe came in finishing off the survivors with machetes, clubs, and guns. Even the Statue of the Virgin Mary had been shot as she had a nose like a Tutsi.
 
Avoiding stepping on the clothes, we followed our guide to the front of the church. A stone bench ran along the wall with a hole at one end.  Our guide explained that when the grenades were first thrown in, he put his head in this hole. It had never occurred to me that our guide was a survivor from this massacre.  I was absolutely speechless.  I was already extremely emotional and choked up.  This news only increased my temptation to cry, but I had no right to shed tears in front of someone that witnessed this and lost his entire family.  He further explained that he covered himself in blood and laid still when the Interahamwe came inside. He remained hidden among the dead for four days before crawling outside and hiding with the animals. He was nine years old.  I was intrigued to hear the entire story, but he commented that it was very long and difficult to explain in English. I also did not feel it would be respectful to push for him to share. I blinked back the tears as he motioned for us to come to the back of the church.

Child's Shirt at Nyamata

 
He pointed to the wall behind another massive pile of clothes.  We could see bloodstains and he described how the Interahamwe would grab babies by their ankles and repeatedly bash their heads against the brick wall.  Although I have read reports of this, it is quite different to see the actual bloodstains.  He then led us to a small room downstairs where a collection of skulls was displayed above a coffin.  The coffin contained the remains of a woman who had been stabbed with a sword that went through her and her baby on her back.  More coffins were located underground behind the church as well as a larger collection of skulls and bones.  Although ten thousand people were killed at Nyamata, forty-thousand victims from the surrounding  area were laid to rest here. He placed his hand on one of the coffins and told us his mother and sisters were inside. I wondered if I could repeatedly re-live this experience by taking visitors through this church. Our guide informed us that the government prohibited photographing the remains but encouraged us to take photos. He asked us to show them to people back home and educate them about what happened.  As I took photos, he asked me if I remembered when this happened. The genocide began the day before Kurt Cobain's killed himself, and I remember that and how it dominated the news.  I was seventeen and admittedly self-absorbed, but think I should have heard something about one million people being murdered in a hundred days.  I do not recall learning this happened until I was in my twenties.  I did not have the heart to tell him that this event passed by largely unnoticed in America.  Instead I told him the truth that I was angry and extremely sorry that my country did not help.
 
We walked back inside the church where Michelle and took more photos attempting to capture the enormity of what occurred. I silently apologized to the ghosts of Nyamata again choking back the tears. As we exited the church, I took the guide's hand. I had come here to apologize, but was not prepared to express this to a living victim. I promised to keep teaching my students about the genocide. Then I told him I was sorry and so sorry that my country failed him and his country, but as the words came out of my mouth I knew they were meaningless.  I realized the "right" words did not exist as the tears fell from my eyes.
 
We drove to Ntarama, also a Catholic church. This memorial sat on the side of hill and through the trees, I could see the surrounding hills and below a green valley dotted with flowers. Again, I tried to imagine how something so awful could happen in such a beautiful and peaceful place.  A Rwandan woman let us into the church, but told us very little. She did share that the police told people to come to the church for protection, but eluded the police lied to make the killings more efficient. In a very similar manner to Nyamata, five thousand people were slaughtered here after hiding for three days.
 

Ntarama Church

This church was about the third of the size of Nyamata and again I struggled to see five thousand people crammed inside. Unlike Nyamata, the victims' belongings were left and organized in the front of the church and their clothes hung from the rafters and walls. As the clothes were hung, the bloodstains were more visible on the cloth intensifying my sense of what happened.  Bones and skulls were also on display in the back of the church.  Some of the skulls were shattered or had large holes in them.  A large arrow still poked through one.  The skulls of children lined the front rows, and some were so tiny they could easily fit in my hand.  I thought of the little ones at the orphanage and had to walk away.  I headed back to the front to look at what was left behind.

Skull with arrow Ntarama Church

 
A large bag of beans sat next to hundreds of containers that once stored milk and porridge.  Shoes were piled on the one large shelf and again I found myself drawn to the smallest ones. I found a trunk of school notebooks to be the most haunting of the possessions.  Most were identical to the students at Hands of Mercy personalizing them.  In addition, I thought the children must have had a strong desire to learn as well as truly believing they would be safe as they continued their lessons in the church.  The sight of the books broke my heart.
 
Before leaving, I stood in the doorway for a while.  So many thoughts rushed through my head. I am not a religious person, and particularly do not like organized religion and the belief that one group is "right" and another is "wrong". However, I often wonder if there is a God, but one God for all regardless of faith.  Seeing what happened to in these churches, forced me to think, "Where was God?" These people believed that God would protect them. I do not believe that heaven could be enough of a reward given what they endured.   I no longer think I can ever believe that a God exists. And if there is a God, given what happened, I do not think that it is a God I would want to believe in.  Many life events can be justified as occurring for a reason. However, there is no reason that I could ever find acceptable for this.  Even if this prevented a similar event, I still do not think that would be satisfactory. However, the reality is that a similar event is taking place in Darfur now. And largely we watch silently again.
 
I walked out of the church feeling angry, tormented and deeply sad.  We signed the visitors' book and I could see that many people from Europe and the US visit this church. However, as we walked to the taxi, the neighborhood residents looked at us curiously. In my mind, I did not come here as a "tourist"; I came to pay my respects. I took photographs to share with my students as an educational tool. I hope that these photos will increase the likelihood that one day we will stop make the empty promise of "Never Again." But I could not help but wonder how the locals view us.  Are we merely tourists from the very countries that abandoned them who have now come to photograph the carnage as part of our vacation? Even though I truly believed I had a higher purpose for being there, I could not shake the guilt.