I could feel the heat of the sun burning my skin (and part of me wanted it to hurt). I was standing in a striking garden heavy with the sweet scent of a multitude of flowers, and water features bubbling in the background. As I stood alongside one of twenty large concrete slabs that formed the centre of the garden it was hard to find the words to describe the emotions that I felt, and in many ways, rather than understanding, I was looking to forget.
I had just emerged from one of the buildings that serve to record the days of horror that have so recently scarred the people of Rwanda. There are rooms dedicated to recording the facts: the history of the country and the documented facts of the genocide. But then come rooms heavy with the real faces and stories of the people killed and it was here that I was overwhelmed with a feeling of total helplessness. I was struck again by the ability of humanity to be that cruel and that evil.
I left these darkened rooms of death looking, to my shame, for a reprieve only to walk into the ‘Room of the Innocent’. On small black metal pedestals were etched vital statistics and behind these pedestals, from ceiling to floor hung a photo of a child. These twelve stories were representative of the thousands that were killed in the declared agenda to target children and women so as to wipe out any further generations. One of these plaques read:
As I left the room a small plaque reminded me that “They could have been our national heroes”.
And so I found myself standing in the memorial garden, there were other ‘tourists’ who had made the same journey but there was no frivolity, there were tears, and a deep sense of, I don’t know what; is it shame? Beneath the concrete slabs I was standing next to are sealed the bodies of thousands of men, women and children.
As I stood lost in thought, wondering what to think, trying to put words to my journey a young woman came, placed a floral tribute on one of the concrete ‘caskets’ and paused with her head bowed. I don’t know, but from what I had seen I wondered if she was one of the children who watched her parents die, or was she one that ran fast enough? And then I wondered, who does she pray to? How could she believe in God?
If you knew me and
You really knew yourself,
You would not have killed me.
(Felicien Ntagengwa)
So this doesn’t finish with any positive words because I don’t have the words to explain how I feel. But tomorrow, I’ll be back amongst families that survived this or earlier (1959) genocides. And I can make a difference in their lives; I can be the hands of a movement that attempts to transform lives, and a God that cares. It is to my shame at times that these people remind me of that fact.
I had just emerged from one of the buildings that serve to record the days of horror that have so recently scarred the people of Rwanda. There are rooms dedicated to recording the facts: the history of the country and the documented facts of the genocide. But then come rooms heavy with the real faces and stories of the people killed and it was here that I was overwhelmed with a feeling of total helplessness. I was struck again by the ability of humanity to be that cruel and that evil.
I left these darkened rooms of death looking, to my shame, for a reprieve only to walk into the ‘Room of the Innocent’. On small black metal pedestals were etched vital statistics and behind these pedestals, from ceiling to floor hung a photo of a child. These twelve stories were representative of the thousands that were killed in the declared agenda to target children and women so as to wipe out any further generations. One of these plaques read:
“Name: Innocent, Age: 6, Favourite Drink: Fresh Milk, Best Friend: Older sister, Last Words: Mummy where do I run, Killed: Hacked to death by Machete in a church”.
As I left the room a small plaque reminded me that “They could have been our national heroes”.
And so I found myself standing in the memorial garden, there were other ‘tourists’ who had made the same journey but there was no frivolity, there were tears, and a deep sense of, I don’t know what; is it shame? Beneath the concrete slabs I was standing next to are sealed the bodies of thousands of men, women and children.
As I stood lost in thought, wondering what to think, trying to put words to my journey a young woman came, placed a floral tribute on one of the concrete ‘caskets’ and paused with her head bowed. I don’t know, but from what I had seen I wondered if she was one of the children who watched her parents die, or was she one that ran fast enough? And then I wondered, who does she pray to? How could she believe in God?
If you knew me and
You really knew yourself,
You would not have killed me.
(Felicien Ntagengwa)
So this doesn’t finish with any positive words because I don’t have the words to explain how I feel. But tomorrow, I’ll be back amongst families that survived this or earlier (1959) genocides. And I can make a difference in their lives; I can be the hands of a movement that attempts to transform lives, and a God that cares. It is to my shame at times that these people remind me of that fact.
