I have been neglecting the blog for about a week now. Each time I tried to bring myself to write, the content seemed so trivial in comparison to my experience last week at Murambi - a genocide memorial where 45, 000 people were said to have been killed. However, I have also not been able to bring myself to write about Murambi as it was truly horrifying and deeply disturbed my soul.
I have struggled as to whether or not I would write about Murambi; however, having decided that this would be my last genocide memorial visit in Rwanda, I have chosen to write a personal account of the visit…mostly because I want to be able to remember my impressions and reflections many years from now. I will attempt to articulate my memories of the site in a way that brings dignity to the dead yet, reiterates the horror of what happened here – a difficult feat given the reality of genocide.
Murambi was a polytechnic school located in the town of Gikongoro. Claudine, Joel and I hired a driver to take us to the village as it is 28 km away from Butare. I felt awkward as we drove through the town, it being obvious to the local villagers who stared at the car of Muzungo’s, that we were going to gawk at their tragic history.
We were greeted by a man who bore the scar of genocide, not only in the bullet wound on his forehead, but in his eyes, his heart, his soul. He was one of four survivors at Murambi.
One of four survivors out of 45, 000.
After the President was killed in the plane accident, the radio told the local Tutsi to seek refuge at the polytechnic school – that they would be safe at the school. The school’s Rector was a moderate Hutu who had, for years, spoken out against ethnic cleansing in Rwanda. He was married to a Tutsi and had two young children who also sought refuge in the school’s walls. However, as the Rector provided protection for the Tutsi, he was also providing a service for the Hutu powers – collecting the Tutsi in one area so that the killing could be more efficient. After some time in the school, the soldiers came and continued their methodical killing within the walls of the school. The Rector’s wife and children were killed. The Rector was shortly thereafter whisked away to safety in the former Zaire by the French military for “protection”.
We were brought by our guide, to the rows of classrooms that overlook the breathtaking valleys of Gikongoro. He very deliberately opened the first door and I took a deep breath before entering, trying to mentally prepare myself. I couldn’t have…nothing could have prepared me.
Many of the bodies were exhumed shortly after the genocide and they now reside in the classrooms of Murambi. Most of the bodies are covered in limestone and lay quietly beside each other; row upon row, classroom upon classroom, as a clear reminder to the quote that appears at the top of my blog….”never again”.
These bodies are frozen in time, personalizing their final moments of genocide. The men, women, children, and babies – although silent –echo the horror of their final moments. Women lay in positions that suggest a dehumanizing death, fathers still clutch babies in their arms, hands were pulled up to the face for protection, skulls were crushed by machetes, limbs broken and missing, and jaws lay open as they express the final moments of torture. The smell of death hung in the air and handprints in blood and gunpowder stained the walls.
I cried. Not at the site. I couldn’t bring myself to shed a tear in the presence of our guide. What right did I have to express pain when he had suffered so much? His watery eyes made it evading that he continued to suffer each time he unlocked one of those classroom doors for the foreigners to gaze upon his family, friends, and People.
Afterwards I cried deeply…unable to find any comfort. In the evening I came across a group of University students in prayer (incidentally they had been at the memorial that day for a field trip). As I walked past the group of ten students who bowed their heads and shared their grief, I wanted to join them. I wanted to experience the feelings of forgiveness and solace they received in their relationship with God.
I cannot imagine the pain this country has endured and the amount of forgiveness it has bestowed. I only hope that the display of the individual victims of genocide at Murambi can provide some type of comfort to those who survived and provide lessons to those who did not experience.
I have decided this will be my last memorial visitation as I realize I will never understand what happened and how this country has moved forward. I have grieved for those lost and now I need to celebrate with those who survived or returned to rebuild Rwanda.
I have struggled as to whether or not I would write about Murambi; however, having decided that this would be my last genocide memorial visit in Rwanda, I have chosen to write a personal account of the visit…mostly because I want to be able to remember my impressions and reflections many years from now. I will attempt to articulate my memories of the site in a way that brings dignity to the dead yet, reiterates the horror of what happened here – a difficult feat given the reality of genocide.
Murambi was a polytechnic school located in the town of Gikongoro. Claudine, Joel and I hired a driver to take us to the village as it is 28 km away from Butare. I felt awkward as we drove through the town, it being obvious to the local villagers who stared at the car of Muzungo’s, that we were going to gawk at their tragic history.
We were greeted by a man who bore the scar of genocide, not only in the bullet wound on his forehead, but in his eyes, his heart, his soul. He was one of four survivors at Murambi.
One of four survivors out of 45, 000.
After the President was killed in the plane accident, the radio told the local Tutsi to seek refuge at the polytechnic school – that they would be safe at the school. The school’s Rector was a moderate Hutu who had, for years, spoken out against ethnic cleansing in Rwanda. He was married to a Tutsi and had two young children who also sought refuge in the school’s walls. However, as the Rector provided protection for the Tutsi, he was also providing a service for the Hutu powers – collecting the Tutsi in one area so that the killing could be more efficient. After some time in the school, the soldiers came and continued their methodical killing within the walls of the school. The Rector’s wife and children were killed. The Rector was shortly thereafter whisked away to safety in the former Zaire by the French military for “protection”.
We were brought by our guide, to the rows of classrooms that overlook the breathtaking valleys of Gikongoro. He very deliberately opened the first door and I took a deep breath before entering, trying to mentally prepare myself. I couldn’t have…nothing could have prepared me.
Many of the bodies were exhumed shortly after the genocide and they now reside in the classrooms of Murambi. Most of the bodies are covered in limestone and lay quietly beside each other; row upon row, classroom upon classroom, as a clear reminder to the quote that appears at the top of my blog….”never again”.
These bodies are frozen in time, personalizing their final moments of genocide. The men, women, children, and babies – although silent –echo the horror of their final moments. Women lay in positions that suggest a dehumanizing death, fathers still clutch babies in their arms, hands were pulled up to the face for protection, skulls were crushed by machetes, limbs broken and missing, and jaws lay open as they express the final moments of torture. The smell of death hung in the air and handprints in blood and gunpowder stained the walls.
I cried. Not at the site. I couldn’t bring myself to shed a tear in the presence of our guide. What right did I have to express pain when he had suffered so much? His watery eyes made it evading that he continued to suffer each time he unlocked one of those classroom doors for the foreigners to gaze upon his family, friends, and People.
Afterwards I cried deeply…unable to find any comfort. In the evening I came across a group of University students in prayer (incidentally they had been at the memorial that day for a field trip). As I walked past the group of ten students who bowed their heads and shared their grief, I wanted to join them. I wanted to experience the feelings of forgiveness and solace they received in their relationship with God.
I cannot imagine the pain this country has endured and the amount of forgiveness it has bestowed. I only hope that the display of the individual victims of genocide at Murambi can provide some type of comfort to those who survived and provide lessons to those who did not experience.
I have decided this will be my last memorial visitation as I realize I will never understand what happened and how this country has moved forward. I have grieved for those lost and now I need to celebrate with those who survived or returned to rebuild Rwanda.
2 comments:
My words seem a cheap and ineffective way to express the profound sadness I feel for such a beautiful country with such a tragic history. My only wish is that the healing comes quickly and in such a way that prevents similar events from reoccurring.
In addition, can’t help but admire your guts for walking in there and opening yourself up to that place. You definitely walk the talk. Much more than most I know.
I can't even begin to imagine what you saw in Murambi, let alone what happened there.
I don't know how a group of people heal after this kind of tragedy, but I like how you ended your post; that you will choose to celebrate life with the people who survived.
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