Papi & Sarita - you were right. I was wrong on that one.
And I've grown enough since this summer to realize that.
What I'm referencing is an intense and heated debate I had with my father and older sister while in Slovakia in July - what started the whole thing?
I said I thought Austria has a rude culture and they disagreed. They didn't disagree that Austrians might be aloof or standofish, but as my father pointed out "most people aren't sure what to do in social situations more than they have a problem with you."
And he's right. I honestly believed what I was saying then but I don't anymore - building off of what my wise father and sister were trying to have me realize is the following:
human beings are much more characterized by their need to fit in with their peers and the insecurities that might come along with that than any inherent ill will towards others or malice that may lie in their bones.
It probably seems like an absurdly counter-intuitive conclusion to reach after one of the most inexplicable days of my life today as I visited the two most haunting places I've ever seen.
But that's where I am right now in my head and heart.
On the ride first to Gikongoro, we passed scores of "genocidaires," which are people who were convicted of helping to carry out the genocide in 1994. How do I know they were "genocidaires"?
Part of their sentence is that they must be outfitted entirely in bright pink so that everyone around them will know that they took part in the massacre.
As the vehicle slowly weaved through a crowd of these identified "genocidaires" I was struck by two things:
1. how young they were - all seemingly in their late 20s or early 30s at most - which would mean that they were in their early to mid-teens when they joined the interahamwe and participated in the Genocide in 1994
2. how normal they looked - I searched their eyes for the answers to the impossible questions that inevitably arise in this country, but I found nothing - no hate, no evil, no anger - none of the easy ways out that might have settled some of what's in my gut at this moment.
Most of the guys just looked very focused on their tasks - carrying bricks or cutting grass, helping to load a truck. Or, as I saw with a group of five, they just looked like a bunch of guys trying to fit in with the guys - could have been my crew in high school. And a lot of them just looked bored or lost in thought - sort of like everyone in the court room at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda that I spoke about when I was in Arusha.
What I struggle with is what that left me with:
the need to fit.
Which is not an adquate explanation, by any means, for the massacre of one million people, including babies and mothers, in just over 3 months.
Everything that has been coarsing through me since I've been here has only gotten more jumbled and complicated and unclear as I've gone along. A few things I'm sure of:
1. I don't believe that I'm above what took place here - either killer, victim, bystander - I know what I'd like to do if I had been there but I have never stared into the face of 1994's shadow, outside of these memorials. And a lot of people who stood by and watched genocides take place were the same people who said "Never Again." There is a danger in assuming you are above things other human beings do. And there is an even bigger danger in assuming that you are not complicit in faraway world events that you "had nothing to do with."
2. The Germans initially, but more so the Belgians, and most of all, the French enabled, assisted, facilitated, and allowed the worst atrocities this world may have ever seen to occur - with the bloody glove of Colonialism blazing a trail forward.
Beyond those two things, I don't have much else.
A lot of today I thought about the interview I saw of this journalist with Jeffrey Dahmer - a serial killer from Wisconsin who killed and then cannabilized his victims - and how the whole time watching the show I thought, "He seems like just a shy, sensitive, kind of awkward dude...I'd probably be friends with that guy in school."
Of course, Dahmer was clinically insane but I remember feeling perplexed that, outside of him talking about the murders he committed, I couldn't see the monster in there. Seeing the "genocidaires" today was a similar experience - they reminded me of guys I knew. They reminded me of guys I love and care about. They reminded me of fathers of friends and coaches I've had and older brothers I've hung out with.
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Once again, both of the places I visited today were too much to try to capture in some sort of coherent and well-organized text - so I'm going to just give some impressions and thoughts on each...
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MURAMBI GENOCIDE MEMORIAL
After about a 3 hour drive from Kigali we arrived at the Murambi Genocide Memorial in Ginkogoro (which has been renamed since the Genocide like most places in the country).
Murambi was a technical college still in construction in April of 1994. As the Genocide commenced, local politicians urged everyone in surrounding areas to take refuge in its buildings for protection. However, their actual intent was the exact opposite - as the director of the memorial explained to me, "They said it would be for protection but really is to kill them easy," as he let out a painful, ironic chuckle.
The college is on this stunning hill surrounded by the most beautiful scenery you've ever seen. It looks straight out of "The Sound of Music," the same sprawling nature views you might see in Austria or Switzerland. The whole time I thought:
this road to hell is beautiful.
As the dirctor showed me to the buildings he began opening doors one-by-one. Onto the 3rd or 4th door before I had even looked into the first. What I found was inexplicable -- rooms full of bodies preserved with lime -
families sprawled out on tables with clothing still on them
hair still visible on a woman's head, her blouse splattered red with her arms petrified over her face
a baby in a soccer shirt with his thumb at his mouth, his skull shattered open, raw
siblings embracing each other
The director opened about 11 doors and then walked away and handed the keys off to his assistant who kept opening more doors. I told her it was enough. It felt like they opened 100 doors. I could smell the death in each room, feeling it creep into my mouth and burn my taste buds, as the creaking doors seemed to endlessly open and shut.
I was the only person at the entire memorial. Not one person came the entire time. The director hitched a ride with us as we left and they closed the front doors.
The only people there were the three of us and about 7 people with machetes
between the buildings - trimming the grass.
The director walked me out to the mass grave where most of the 50,000 people who were killed at Murambi are buried. A sign pointed out where French "peace keepers" with Operation Turquiose planted the French flag after they discovered the massacred hill full of bodies.
All I heard was the wind and a woman singing, the words echoing out of one of the buildings, as she cleaned the floor of a bathroom - my eyes seeing red as she pushed the soapy water with her mop.
Just in front of three signs that all identified the mass grave we were standing on top of was a final sign that read:
"Here is where French soldiers played volley" (after discovering the freshly dug, partially covered mass graves of 50,000 Rwandans who huddled together, waiting to be saved)
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NYAMATA CHURCH
A stone's throw from where 2,000 people were hacked to death with machetes as they prayed to God and sought refuge in Nyamata church is a massive elementary school.
I can't explain how haunting it is to hear kids laughing and squeeling in the background as you stand in a church with the clothes of 2,000 people who were massacred stacked onto the pews. There are still blood stains on the walls. Behind in the church is a mass grave with steps leading down into it, with skulls and bones piled floor to ceiling. The tomb is so packed I couldn't turn around without my shoulders clipping the shelves.
As I walked out of the site, I heard thunder in the distance, one loud crash, and then a light rain that fell literally until the moment we crossed out of Nyamata's town limits.
The enduring image I will never shake is the following, as I took one last glance before walking out of the church and all the pieces slid together in my mind:
On top of the alter -
overlooking the towering piles of stacked clothes of 2,000 people who sought refuge in what they thought was a place of God and were hacked to death, just above a basement filled with hip bones and red-tinted skulls and just beneath a baby-blue trim Virgin Mary statue frozen in silent prayer -
a blunted machete and a blood-stained Identity Card lying side-by-side.
