BEFORE READING THIS BLOG, I WANT TO WARN YOU THAT THERE ARE SOME GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS.


I cheated. Three days ago, a few of us went to the most infamous memorial in Rwanda. I haven't written about it yet because I couldn't bare thinking about it again, seeing it again. I've cheated myself out of growth, and out of understanding.

The memorial at Murambi is an hour outside of Butare. It used to be a secondary school, and the compound sits atop one of the tallest hills in the area. The village spreads around the base. During the genocide, the community was lead to believe the school would be a safe refuge. Including the students already there, 50,000 people gathered there for safety. All but six were murdered.

The school is surrounded by a circle of hills. Green, lush hills. The sun pierced through the clouds the day we visited, creating a heavenly glow upon the scenery. How could such an ugly thing happen in such a beautiful place? Once through the gates, the gatekeeper greeted us and started to take us straight to the school. Laura, who was there last year, demanded that he stop and get the guide first, "I want you guys to have an introduction before he unlocks those doors." I knew that skeletons lay within the rooms, but no introduction could've prepared me for what I would see. It didn't help that all our guide said to us was the death toll and a list of what weapons that were used to inflict the deaths. When he listed guns as one weapon used, he pointed his long, skinny finger to his forehead where there was a dent the size of a small bullet. This man lost his entire family at Murambi.

We were standing on the outside of a barrack-type building, and without saying another word, our guide unlocked and shoved open the first door. He turned his back to us before we had a chance to look inside and he marched down the barrack, slamming open each door. How angry he is.

Before the first door had fully swung open, the stench of death rushed up my nostrils. I cannot describe it. I gagged and held my breath as I entered. These are not skeletons. They are bodies still intact and preserved with lime. Tufts of hair are still attached to the bodies head, facial expressions can still be discerned. In all directions of the small room, skeletons are stretched out. Men, and women, children and babies. Their arms reach out as if grasping for something, or someone. Their bodies are contorted. Some skulls were smashed, some men had been dismembered before killed. Every face was twisted in agony. What did these hills echo that day? How many screams were repeated over and over, thrown back and forth between the mountains, until they faded into the sky?

I didn't walk into another room after that first one. I only peered in, attracted to the horror, just like a car accident. You hate to look, but even more, you hate that you can't stop yourself. Room after room of dead human beings. Rooms completely full of adults, rooms full of students, rooms full of the small and fragile bodies of infants. The stink of death followed and clung to me.

The hardest thing I saw was a women lying on her back with a small child laid across her chest. What evil. What sadness. What loss. Not just in the number of human beings killed, but in the amount of humanity that was lost that day, among both the victims, and perpetrators. At least half of the population took part in the 1994 genocide - that's over 4 million people. I wonder how many it took to slaughter 50,000. I wonder how many hearts turned cold and minds turned dark in this single town. And now, today, people still live there. People who witnessed the atrocities, as well as those that carried it out.

After I had escaped the tombs I ran to the edge of the hill. I looked down at the sea of children returning from school, the men harvesting, and the smoke rising from cooking stoves. "I can't think. I can't think." My mind was numb. How am I to comprehend such visions? So I closed my eyes and just listened to the echoes of today. Birds, women's song, and children's playful screams floated up to me. How does life go on here, with this awful reminder of pain looming above them? I never cease to be amazed at the strength of these people...but is it genuine? Are people really forgiving their neighbors? Or is hatred still brewing under the surface, in the privacy of homes?

I heard one true account of a young man whose entire family was killed during the genocide. When the man that killed them was released from prison, he sought he young man out in order to gain his forgiveness. After much heartache the young man forgave. But still, the perpetrator was not satisfied. "If you really forgive me, then take my only daughter as a wife - as a sign of your forgiveness." The young man did. And although it is tense in their home during the days of memorial, the couple is still happily married. There are many similar stories to this one, but then there is also the graffiti etched into the walls of school bathrooms that says, "We will kill you again." Which am I supposed to believe? This country is full of contradictions. I had one young man tell me that there really is a difference between Hutu and Tutsi. In fact, he went so far as to say, "All Hutus are dirty." The very next day another young man (who was also a Tutsi) told me in sincerity, that there is no difference, and that he would marry a Hutu woman. "If I won't marry a Hutu, then who will?"

Who am I to believe - the yin or the yang? Whose opinion is actually in the majority of opinions? I don't know if it's possible to find out considering the government's current policy, which is you can identify as Hutu or Tutsi as long as it doesn't have a hateful intention. Well, saying "I'm Hutu" can be interpreted by the government any way they like. So, because of the fear of being thrown in jail, individuals keep their mouths shut until they're in the privacy of homes, or of bathroom stalls.

I don't know how I feel about this policy. Is it just suppressing heated emotions? Is it prolonging the inevitable? Or perhaps the idea that "we are all Rwandan" is government propaganda being shoved down the throats of the newest generation. Will this propaganda nurture a new and genuine sentiment? Or is such a sentiment only possible with open dialogue? How important is free speech? I realize I'm only adding to a very long list of questions, but that's because I don't know what's right. I don't know enough about Rwanda and its culture to aid its healing.

I was once told that the best solution for the Arab-Israeli conflict would be to completely separate the populations with a giant wall. Let a few generations live like that, and at some point, the Jews and Palestinians will wonder what's on the other side. Slowly the wall will come down. Like I've said before, genuine curiosity leads to genuine understanding. I'm not saying this solution should be applied to the Middle East, but I do see a parallel here in Rwanda. Preventing the open discussion of "ethnicity" and identity is like building a wall between the different "ethnicities" Eventually, future generation may yearn for understanding and begin to open avenues of communication. Who knows. It's just a theory.

I guess one of two things will happen. One, neglectedemotions and differences will build and build until they explode, leading to more mass violence. Or, two, the suppressed emotions will continue to be buried deeper and deeper, until it is forgotten that they ever existed. Either is possible. Both are pending on Rwanda's growth today considering Rwanda is the most densely populated country in Africa, and the poorest. Poverty and illiteracy (another big problem here) have always been manipulated to illicit support for tyrants and conflict.

Development is coming slowly to the area. There are 3 skyscrapers being built in Kigali's city center, and there is also a mall that has a coffee shop which makes Starbucks look shabby. Personally, I think the mall is disgusting. What a show of Western imperialism. But then again, who am I to judge another country's development? I fear that Rwanda will lose its culture in its quest for economic success, for the only way to measure economic success is (unfortunately) against the West. Sustainability is never enough, surplus means success.

After leaving the memorial I felt sick. People wanted to spend time there to process their reactions, but I wanted to get out immediately. What had I just seen? What was the point of seeing it? I did not gain anything from viewing that nightmare. I already knew the genocide happened, I believe the death toll. What am I to do when the baby and its mom return to haunt me? How has the Murambi Memorial made me a better person? A stronger human rights advocate? Horror for the sake of horror. This country has been desensitized.

The whole ride back to Butare, the smell of the dead stuck to me. Back at the guest house I rushed to the shower. What for? To purge myself? And then I wondered, why am I here? Why am I volunteering? Is it to purge myself of any guilt I feel? Why do I feel judged when the survivor of Murambi watches my reaction as I see his dead family? I stumbled upon my answer as I entered the rooms of the bodies. Underneath our defense mechanisms, our neuroses, and egos...underneath our skin color, we are the same. My skeleton will look just like that woman's when I'm finally laid to rest. We are all human beings. And if that is all I got out of that memorial, then what a beautiful revelation to leave with.

On a side note - I know my family is worried about me protecting my heart. Let me just say, that although parts of this trip have been painful, I have grown intellectually, morally, and spiritually while here. Don't worry, I'll be coming home in one piece.