It is Sunday and so much has happened since I touched down in Rwanda on Wednesday evening. It is no wonder that my mind is swimming against the current of images that flood every waking moment and allow no room for dreamless sleep. Sleep itself has been an elusive companion. Every day has offered a new spiritual revelation, and I am quite surprised to learn this. I do not consider myself especially “spiritual” or “religious,” but people, events, and vistas have touched me deeply.
I had been quite eager to revisit the genocide memorials at Nyamata and Ntarama. I was at each in 2009 and found them quite moving, deeply touching, and unforgettable in the sense that seeing the relics and reliving what happened there in 1994 helped me to intellectually grasp the scope of the genocide against the Tutsis. I was seeking to regain that feeling of spiritual or psychic connection with both victims and survivors, but came away quite troubled.
For those who do not know about these memorials, here is a brief explanation.
Nyamata is a Catholic church where 10,000 people gathered on April 10, 1994 thinking they would be safe from the Interahamwe. They were all murdered. Their clothing and personal belongings remain, as well as skulls, bones and some of the machetes and weapons that killed them. A rosary that was presented to the congregation by Pope John Paul II is on the bloodstained altar cloth. An underground crypt that holds the bones of 41,000 victims of Nyamata and the surrounding area is accessible to visitors who can handle the claustrophobic environment. Yes, you can smell the bones. Over 20 years later, bones and bodies are still being found and are piled in the church for possible identification and eventual burial in the crypt.
5,000 people died at Ntarama for the same reason as Nyamata. They sought sanctuary in a church. The clothing of the victims hangs from the rafters, but seems to have disintegrated since the last time I was there. Personal effects, including school notebooks and ID cards and diaries are decaying as time and climate take their toll. A large metal rack of shelves along the back wall of the church holds thousands of bones, sorted by kind: skulls on one, femurs on another, pelvises on yet another. A separate building with a grenade-damaged wall is the repository for newly discovered bones that are covered by a blue plastic tarp.
As I write this, I am impressed by how words fail to describe what one witnesses at these two memorials. It is distressing that the government of Rwanda no longer allows personal photography. It leaves me wondering how we can continue to bear witness. I am not happy to look at bones and prefer to focus my camera lens on the mounds of clothing that are being quickly devoured by time because of the bodily fluids that have saturated the fabrics. But we cannot even takes photos of the clothing anymore.
I am not sure what the answer is, but my fear is that in this age of genocide denial that “proof” will no longer be available to people who cannot make the arduous journey to Rwanda.
There might be an answer in the Church of St. Jean in Karongi (Kibuye).
11,400 people died here during the Tutsi genocide of 1994. A drunken mob threw grenades through the windows and took only three hours to kill everyone inside and on the grounds. But this is a place of hope, perched high on a hill above Lake Kivu.
It is open and unguarded to the public, unlike Nyamata and Ntarama. It does not openly display the horrifying remnants of bones and clothing, but there is a row of skulls in a window behind an outdoor memorial garden. In a strange twist in this era of genocide denial by some, I was thinking it important that there be no restrictions on witnessing. I am beginning to rethink my attitude. Perhaps words can be more graphic than gruesome relics. We writers just have to work harder at it, and at 10 pm at night with three days of no sleep is no time to try. The hope that is palpable at the Church of St. Jean can offer an alternative to rumination on death.
Then, there is the story of the apparition of the Virgin Mary at Kibeho to three young girls beginning in 1981. It is suggested that the Virgin predicted the genocide; but that fact did not alter the reality that Kibeho did not escape the horror. We did not have time to visit the apparition site, but after everything else I have experienced, including being given blessings for travel during chance meetings with elder women, I wish I had planned in advance.
There was a definite sense of pull at the road junction for the holy site, which has been recognized by the Papal Nuncio.
I have been feeling these “pulls” on several occasions, the most recent was this morning when I heard singing coming from the valley below my lodge. As I entered the churchyard to satisfy my sudden and uncharacteristic urge to attend church, a young child, maybe three at most, clung to my legs. I reached down to touch his head and whispered a “hello” to him in incomprehensible English. He persisted in extending our contact, followed me into the church, and climbed into my lap. Holding two of my fingers in his tiny fist, he leaned back into my chest and fell asleep. The sense of peace and contentment that flowed through me is indescribable. Along with that sense of pure love, the memories of the genocide memorials flowed through conscious thought, but drifted away. For one brief moment I sensed the horrors experienced my hundreds of thousands of children just like him in the terrible days of 1994. What soothed me was the unconditional love flowing from the sleeping toddler in my lap.
Closing my eyes I remembered the old woman who greeted me on the road the day before with a blessing from God for the traveller. It seems that on each and every day of this visit to Rwanda, I have had a spiritual awakening. I have no idea where this is coming from, or what it means, but I hope I can incorporate this empathy into my work.
I don’t know where it will lead, but I cannot deny the “pull.”
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