14 Years

So we are back from our week and a half vacation and there is so very much to update you all about. I spent my Independence Day in a small village IDP camp and spent that weekend going to Acholi masses, dancing with the local women, singing with children, and eating lots and lots of food. My time in Pajule was some of the best I have spent since I have been in Uganda. I want to write much about it but I want to do it justice and right now the events of my Rwandan vacation are at the forefront of my mind. So I shall start there and tell some stories from Rwanda.


While I was in Rwanda, the main thing I wanted to do was visit some of the memorial sites from the country’s 1994 genocide. Perhaps this sounds morbid, and not too exciting a way to spend a vacation from my humanitarian work in Uganda. I will admit though, the genocide is one of the few things that I know about Rwanda, and its story intrigues me greatly. Most of what I knew came from scattered reading and a compelling movie starring Don Cheadle, so coming to the country was a chance to understand better just what happened.

When we arrived in the capital city of Kigali, one of the first places we went was the Kigali Memorial Center. The building is situated on the top of a big hill, with an amazing view of the city below. Part museum, part memorial site, the center is dedicated to telling the story of the 1994 genocide and remembering its victims. The inside begins with an incredible exhibit explaining Rwanda before the genocide, telling the story of colonization and racial division between the Hutu and the Tutsis created by the European powers as a means of social classification. It explains the events leading up to the genocide including the killing of the Hutu president, which brought the country into great upheaval and chaos.

The exhibit continues with Rwanda during the genocide. It gives the history of what happened, personal accounts from survivors, photos and stories from the mass killing sites including a church where 10,000 were killed and a church/school where 20,000 were killed. They talked about the horrific ways in which people were killed, how rape was used as a weapon, and how so many children were left without parents. It was all so much to take in, so much to think about.

Through the hall, the story continued about the end of the genocide and told stories of the western world that did little to help the situation and in fact evacuated all aid workers, whose presence could have helped to end the war. Stories of survivors and those who helped them escaped were particularly compelling. One woman was known for her spirits and told would be killers to stay away from her home or the spirits would get them. They ran away in fear and she continued to hide a number of innocent Tutsis in her home.

The hall of information led to a big circular room. On the entire surrounding wall were pictures hung on wire with metal clips. Hundreds of pictures showed the faces of victims, all put there by surviving family. Seeing all of these faces made it all seem so real, this man stuffing his face with food or this woman with the hilarious hair. These are the people who were killed from no reason, thrown into latrines, shot and left for dead, raped by known HIV+ men. It is one thing to hear the stories but to see the faces just brought it all so close.

Just when I felt like I saw more than I could bear I walked into a quiet, empty room with class cases lining the wall. I walked up to get a closer look at the contents of the cases and was confronted with the skulls and bones of the unknown victims of the genocide. The fact that they were there nameless spoke loudly of the anonymous and indiscriminate way in which they were killed. Seeing those pictures and moving next to a pile of bones really hit me hard. In the last case I noticed some smaller skills. Though I am not sure, I thought they might be of children and the thought of it really brought me to an awful place.

When I left this room, I continued on to one that held the clothes worn by victims, including kid pajamas and a Superman sheet. A video played with survivors talking about their lives now. It was hard to think about these people, so affected by the genocide, so much taken away from them. And they must simply try to move on and live because they were the ones lucky enough to do so.

I finished on the main floor and went up to the extended exhibit upstairs. There I saw that which brought out a lot of the sadness I had tried to suppress downstairs. This wing of the exhibit was a special memorial for the children killed. Big posters with the most recent picture of the child told the “vital stats” of the children: name, age at time of death, favorite food, favorite drink, personality. I would read the first few stats chuckling about someone’s love of Lemon Citron or beans and rice or gregarious personality and then I would get to the last two lines. Last words: Mom, when do we run? Cause of death: Hacked by machete; Cause of death: Thrown against a wall; Cause of death: Shot in the back; Last words: The UNAIR will help us; Cause of death: Grenade explosion; Cause of death: Torture wounds.

In that room, I actually released some of the sadness I was holding onto since I entered the building. I shed a few tears but I think the biggest part of me didn’t feel I should. There was just so much there, so much sorrow that I tried not to think about it because if I did, it might just debilitate me. At the time of the genocide I was 7 years old. These children are me. These children are my brothers and my cousins. To think that as I was in my home protected, safe, and in the company of a loving family, Hubert sat scared unsure of whether he would live or die, hoping badly that someone would help him.

When I finished in this room, I walked down a long hallway filled with pictures just as the one I saw downstairs, this time the photos were of children. I left the building and headed outside to the memorial gardens and mass graves. When we passed, I saw this huge group of tourists, mzungus most of whom I thought were Americans. Seeing all of them there really made me think hard about why they were there, why I was there. I think that the whole time that I was there, I felt guilty being there, being a tourist to another person’s hell, death, misery. Who am I to see the skulls of those who died? Am I deriving some sick twisted pleasure in witnessing another person’s agony? I felt guilty, as though I should not be there, should not be taking a picture, should not be there. I don’t know why I felt this way, but it was strong and relentless. I struggled with myself, justifying that I needed to see it. I need to see what can happen when people ignore problems, seeing them as “tribal fighting” or “ethnic tensions”. I need to see it because I need to feel the reality of a situation I had only before read about or seen a movie version of. I had see it because it strengthened my resolve to help where others turn their backs, and to educate the youth in America to do the same. I had to see it because looking at the sorrow does not bring me sick pleasure but saddens me and inspires me to work to ensure it does not happen again.

When we left the Memorial Center, I was feeling very overwhelmed and introspective. I was shut down, didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to hear anyone share their thoughts or ask me mine. I was silent. Then as we were walking up to the hill to find a taxi, this little boy carrying a jerry can full of water was standing right next to me, looking at me with a smile on his face. We were walking pretty fast and he was keeping pace, his mother a few feet behind him. Unfortunately I did not know the greetings in the Rwandan language and so I could not even speak to him. I relied instead on faces. I smiled at him and made silly faces and waved at him and his mother all of which were reciprocated. We soon found a taxi, parting ways with the small boy but this moment shared with the child really meant a lot to me. After all of the sadness of the memorial, here was this little boy living life, happy, walking down the road amazed at the site of a mzungu. In that moment the hurt and the conflict I was feeling very much washed away and was replaced with joy, energy, and silliness.


As we made our way back to Kigali for lunch, I was confronted with one thought over and over again. 14 years. The genocide occurred in 1994, a mere 14 years ago. 14 years and the city was a wasteland. 14 years later and the city is gorgeous, nicely developed with paved roads and much business. It is pretty, modern, and peaceful. 14 years to forget the pain of the past. 14 years to rebuild.



My time in Kigali was not the only moment the genocide showed itself to me while I was in Rwanda. On a return bus ride from the Nyugwe Forest, I sat next to a kind man with his own story to share. The bus was not particularly crowded and I looked forward to a nap after a long hike in the hills. However, the roads were curvy and it was nearly impossible to fall asleep. To keep myself entertained for the remainder of the ride, I began chatting with the man sitting next to me. He worked in the prosecution office in the district of the park, though I was not sure if he was a lawyer or not. He told me that his family lives in Kigali so he was on his way for a visit. We made idle chitchat about the best national parks in Rwanda, but soon the conversation took a more serious turn.

I asked if he had ever traveled outside of Rwanda before and he, perhaps confused, asked if I meant during the genocide. I hadn’t meant that so we talked about general travels, but since he brought it up, I figured it was okay to inquire further. I asked if he had been in the country during the genocide and he said yes. I clumsily asked, “What was that like?” As though answering an overly curious child he said, “There is nothing I can say to you to express what it was like.” He went on to tell me that his family was over one hundred before the genocide and afterward they were only about twenty. His sisters and father were all killed. He told me the story of when his father was taken. He was 14 then and twice before the army had come to the house searching for them. Both times prior, they had hid behind something and were not found. This time though, his father was tired of hiding and would not any longer. When they came to the house, they took his father. He did not know what came of his dad until about a year later when they found his body where it had been left after he was killed. My new friend told me this story so openly and honestly and so very matter of fact. Though telling a tale wrought with grief, he did not cry. He was calm and stern. Again I was brought back to the thought of 14 years. 14 years a scared teenage sat trembling behind a cupboard while his father faced his destiny. 14 years later and that boy is a serious man of the law, prosecuting and working for justice.

My friend tells me that he wants to write a book about his experiences. I tell him that he really should, that many people would be interested in reading it. I ask him if he has thought about a title of the book yet. He tells me, “I have been thinking about it a little bit. I think I might call it, ‘My Life in a Genocide.’”