For the last week, Holly, Ben, and I have been in Kigali, Rwanda visiting our friends from Food for the Hungry’s “Go-Ed” program, Becca and Jenny. We first met them and the rest of their group while white-water rafting in Jinja. Since then, they have separated to different locations in Ethiopia, Rwanda, and Uganda to carry out a practicum. Becca and Jenny are in Kigali, so we stayed with them in the FHI Guest House.
Monday
We woke up after only a few hours of sleep and arrived at the Jaguar bus station by 5:30AM for the 6AM bus to Kigali. After the bad experience to Tororo sitting in the back of the Parliament bus, Ben had signed us up for the first row, where we had plenty of leg room and the couldn’t feel the impact of Uganda’s bumpy roads. After about 4 hours into the journey, the landscape changed dramatically and the roadside erupted into lush green hills so steep the climb would be nearly vertical.
It took over 6 hours to reach the border, and everyone had to unload the bus to go through immigration. US citizens aren’t required to have a Rwandan visa, so it didn’t cost us anything to have our passports stamped. It was slightly overwhelming at the border because we had to literally walk across it and down the road from the Ugandan immigration building to the Rwandan immigration building. The whole way, people were trying to have us exchange money, but we decided to wait until we reached town. The bus picked us up on the other side, and it took us another 2 hours to reach Nyambugogo taxi park in Kigali.
Northern Rwanda’s hill are even taller than those on the Uganda side! I was awestruck at the ability of the people to utilize them and grow crops. The landscape is truly breathtaking, but everywhere in the countryside people walk around with machetes. I couldn’t help but think of the genocide 14 years ago and how the agricultural tool had been turned into a weapon of mass murder.
In Kigali, we followed Becca’s directions to a coffee shop in town, where we could wait for her to get off work. We caught a mini-bus taxi the short drive to Mumuji, the center of town. There we went into the Union Trade Center (UTC) and found Bourbon, a coffee shop that gives even Starbucks a run for their money. We were elated to order caramel drizzle frappaccinos and sandwiches. Becca met us around 5 and we headed to Kachiyru district to drop our packs at the FHI house.
That night we met her friend Sam and ate dinner at a trendy Italian restaurant called Papyrus. On the way, it stormed harder than it has the whole time we have been in Uganda. The lightning was intense and the downpour made it difficult to see. Because of the daily rain, Rwanda is significantly cooler than Kampala. It was such a refreshing change to not be hot and sweaty all day and night.
Tuesday
Becca and Jenny had to work from 7-5, so Ben, Holly, and I explored Kigali on our own. We went to the UTC and walked around as it began to rain. We decided to walk to the Mille Collines, the original hotel that the blockbuster film Hotel Rwanda is based on. It was surreal to be there and know that in 1994 hundreds of Tutsis were hidden there to escape the slaughter. I was surprised to find that there were no plaques or mention of the film or the event in the lobby of the hotel. I may have missed it, but I didn’t see anything referencing the hotel’s story.
By then, the rain had lightened, so we walked about 20 minutes to the craft market in Kigali called Caplaki. There we found many similar things as the National Theater in Kampala, but for much higher prices. We did give in and purchase souvenirs. I bought a few masks.
That night, Sabine, the cook, prepared dinner for us, so we all ate at FHI. After, we went into town and got dessert at Bourbon. Kigali is a sleepy town compared to Kampala, so by 9:30, almost everything downtown was locked up and the streets were nearly deserted. We found a small bar off the main road and hung out there for about an hour watching American music videos.
Wednesday
We borrowed Sam’s Rwanda tourist guidebook and decided to go to Nyamata and Ntarama genocide memorial sites because they are off of the same road about 30km south of Kigali. We went back to Nyambugogo taxi park (which is a breeze compared to Kampala’s Old City taxi park) to catch a mini-bus out of the city. For only 600 francs (about $1.20), we were on our way. In the van I met a man named Alfonse who is from Nyamata and offered to take us to the site. We walked a ways off of the main road and past primary schools before reaching the former Catholic church. I don’t think any of us were prepared to enter the grounds because everything was so cheery along the way.
“Iyo uza kwumenya nanjye ukamenya ntuba waranyishe,” reads a purple banner at the entrance. When you know me and you know yourself, it doesn’t kill me. After the genocide in 1994, the bodies were left in the church for two years without being touched. Once they were finally moved, the bones of 10,000 people were inside.
Once you walk into this humble Catholic church, your eyes are quickly drawn to the blood-soaked alter at the front. As you gaze around, you see the bullet holes in the ceiling, in the plaster of the walls. On top of the alter is a plastic box filled with rosaries of the victims and a rosary given by the Pope after the genocide. Also, there lays a rusty machete symbolizing the brutality.
What I believe to have once been the baptistery, now houses a giant class case filled with shelves of skulls. Underneath, is casket with the body of a 20 year old woman killed nearby. She was raped repeatedly and then had a rod impaled in her body from bottom to top. Next to the entrance is a room, once perhaps an office, classroom, or storage closet, now filled from floor to ceiling with a mound of personal belongings of those killed. These include clothing, mattresses, and water thermoses.
Around the back, the community has built two underground tombs that visitors are able to enter. The first one holds shelves stacked with 100 caskets. Each casket holds 10 bodies, and they are grouped by family. The second tomb, utterly disturbing, have shelves packed with bones. They are grouped by bone types, with shelves of skulls or limbs the most predominant. As I walked down into this tomb, I felt suffocated. I didn’t want to stay down there and didn’t know what to do. I looked at Holly, and both of us had tears welling into our eyes. Both of fought tears though for fear of disrespecting the tour guide.
Our tour guide spoke broken English, so I am afraid we only heard basics about the horrors that took place in this church. She was 10 years old at the time of the genocide and was in a nearby area. When I asked her how she survived, she said she hid underneath a body.
There are over 40,000 Rwandans who have been laid to rest at this small church. Many of the bodies have been recovered from the countryside over the last 14 years. They are in mass tombs and an overwhelming majority of the bodies are anonymous.
Inside the chapel, a statue of the Virgin Mary still sits untouched on a shelf looking down on the scene below. I think we were all in shock after leaving Nyamata. I personally did not want to go to the second site. I felt like I had had all I could handle for one day. But we were already there, and I knew I would regret it later if I did not go to Ntarama. I kept quiet on the mini-bus to the next town, counting on Ben and Holly to lead the way. I remember Holly saying on the mini-bus how those people had fled to the church seeking protection. She trailed off her sentence from there, presumably unable to fathom what had happened in that place of worship.
Once at Ntarama, we hired bicycle taxis to take us to the memorial site. Along the way, the newness of a bicycle taxi gave me the break from the reality of the visit, and we laughed and smiled as we took pictures.
Ntarama was also a countryside Catholic church before the genocide. Today, it has been transformed into a memorial site much like Nyamata. There is beautiful landscaping with purple flowers and plants, as purple is the color of mourning. I also noticed a lot of purple at Nyamata in the tombs.
As our guide, also a 24-year-old female, walked us to the chapel, she said that 5,000 people had been killed in Ntarama church. Before even entering the building, I saw the shelves of skulls and bones just inside the doorway. As we passed through the doorway, she pointed to one skull in the front with an arrow still piercing through. She wriggled it and continued walking and talking. I noticed that many of these skulls were fractured severely, more so than the ones at Nyamata. I inferred that machetes were used more in Ntarma. Inside the chapel, hundreds of articles of clothing drape over the rafters and windowsills. At the front where the alter formerly was, are mounds of personal belongings organized into categories. There is a pile of shoes reminiscent of the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC with shoes of men, women, children, and infants. There is another pile of thermoses and Nido cans. Nido is a baby formula common in Africa. Rosaries and ink pens hang from a string. Above is a pile of mattresses. To the left is a trunk full of school books and notebooks.
I was shocked to learn that this site had only been cleared last year. So for 13 years, the victims bodies and belongings laid inside where they fell. I tried to inquire who had cleared the church, and without any details, I was told that it was the community and the government. Unfortunately, many Rwandans only speak French and their local tongue, so it is difficult to communicate in English.
Behind the main building are two smaller building. The first we entered was the Sunday school room, where there is a giant black bloodstain on the back wall. The second building used to be a storage room, and when Tutsis attempted to hide in it to avoid the massacre, the soldiers burned them alive. The tour guide led us inside as she was telling us this story, and I looked to the ground as I walked on what I thought were sticks. She then said that you could still see the bones of the victims. She pointed out a clump of hair next to Holly, and as I looked to my feet, I saw a jawbone with a row of teeth. We all realized that the “sticks” we thought we were walking on and past were actually ribs and other remains of the victims burned in this building. I quickly left, unsure of how to cope with reality that I just walked on top of bones of genocide victims.
Throughout the whole experience, I tried to ask questions and keep the woman talking. We were the only ones there in both sites, so we had her undivided attention. Unfortunately, the language barrier made conversation difficult. I found though that asking questions was my way of putting a wall up between my emotions and the horrific scene I was standing in. This past summer, Erin and I realized that taking photographs at the IDP camps was a way to shelter ourselves from the trauma of what we were witnessing. Asking questions at the genocide memorial sites was my way of limiting reflection while there and putting myself in the role of an observer or a researcher and less in the footsteps of the genocide victims.
That night, we arrived back at the FHI house to meet Becca and join an American man named Jock (whom we met at Bourbon the first day) and his friends at a Mexican restaurant in town. Becca and Jenny haven’t visited the genocide memorial sites because they are waiting for the rest of the group to arrive next week. They will then take classes and tour them together. Because of their lack of knowledge on the sites, we didn’t spend much time talking about our day.
Thursday
We woke up and went to Kimironko market to buy more crafts. I bought fabric for skirts to be made by Filder and Nancy in Gulu and baskets. After spending hours there, we went to Gisozi to visit the genocide memorial center in Kigali. It is a beautiful white building surrounded my terraced gardens. In the gardens are mass graves containing the bodies of 250,000 victims from the 1994 genocide. We arrived too late to enter the museum and have an official tour, but we strolled the grounds for over an hour.
Every Thursday and Saturday at 6PM, the memorial center hosts an event called “One Life in a Million.” The advertisement which we saw at the Mille Collines Hotel says, “Come and listen to a survivor sharing their experience of life before, during & after the genocide.” After the testimony, they screen one of two films on the genocide, Shooting Dogs or Sometimes in April. It is sponsored in part by Aegis, a UK-based organization whose name means “protection.” They work to prevent genocide.
The survivor who spoke on Thursday night waited in a separate room before being introduced. We walked in and began telling his story without offering his name or asking our names or background (there was only one woman besides Holly, Ben, and I). He stood at a podium and proceeded to give us details of his experiences. At the end, he quickly walked out and never came back. He didn’t allow for any questions. Perhaps, by keeping the audience separate, it helped reduce the reflection and pain of his past. I found it interesting how he could tell his story but could not take the further step of discussion.
Shooting Dogs was a very powerful movie that highlighted the neglect of the international community in intervening in the genocide. It’s plot focused specifically on a UN peacekeeping force headquartered at a Catholic school. The school’s priest, a Western man, also allowed thousands of Tutsis to seek refuge their. After the eventual pull-out of the UN forces, Hutus invaded the school and slaughtered more than 2500 men, women, and children. The story’s main character was a young British man in Rwanda to teach at the school. The film followed his frustrations and helplessness in stopping the violence and assisting his Tutsi friends and students. I found the movie particularly difficult to watch because I not only mourned for the Rwandan victims but for the young man. I imagine if I were in his position I would have similar feelings of helplessness and despair.
Friday
On Friday we went to town and spent the day relaxing. We of course went to Bourbon and enjoyed smoothies and cheeseburgers. Bourbon was a little bit of home, although it was quite pricey, and it comforted us while in Rwanda. We tried to not feel too guilty because we knew that once we returned to Kampala there would be not more lattes or cheeseburgers.
Friday night I stayed in with Becca and Jenny while Ben and Holly took our guard to a nightclub called Cadillac. Becca, Jenny, and I watched the movie Lord of War, and I was upset to watch yet another movie with little hope. The plot follows a small arms smuggler and all of his clients around the world. Much of his deals are in Africa.
Saturday
We decided to pay a few extra shillings and take the executive bus home to Kampala. We left at 9AM, but didn’t arrive in Kampala until after 7PM. This bus stopped quite often and made much worse time than the one to Rwanda. But we were glad to be back to Uganda despite the bad roads, constant harassment (mzungu! Mzungu!), and the snake-like taxi drivers (who charge us twice because we are white). We have made so many friends here and we missed our place in Kisaasi. We only have 2 weeks here until we move to Gulu.
Sunday
We cleaned the house like crazy in anticipation of Erin’s arrival Sunday evening. Vincent brought over an extra mattress and mosquito net for her so she would be comfortable.
That evening Sarah from NUGEN took us to the airport, so we were able to discuss with her the counseling programs NUGEN will be enacting this year. I think we will be traveling North to Lira and Apac early next week for encouragement programs. Dr. Hackett and Patricia arrive March 14th.
Monday
Today is my birthday! Holly serenaded me with a lovely rendition of “Feliz Cumpleanos” before I even rolled out of bed.
