Dust to dust....

In the first week of my stay in Rwanda, I visited 3 important sites: the Gisozi Genocide Memorial in Kigali, and 2 churches outside Kigali where massacres took place during the genocide: Ntarama and Nyamata.
Gisozi feels very much like a glossy modern Western-style monument, and actually it is, having been sponsored by the William Jefferson Clinton Foundation and the Belgian Government (I literally *gagged* when I saw that--talk about guilt $$). The interior musuem is small, and the core is crammed full of pictures, explanative texts, a chronology of the genocide, and interactive displays (including video interviews with genocide survivors), and artefacts from the genocide (yes I'm taking about machetes, clubs, torn bloodied clothing, burned ID cards, and bones). After being thoroughly horrified by that, you go upstairs for "Genocide 101," a 20th century history of genocide (Armenia, the Holocaust, Cambodia, Yugoslavia) which concludes, as always, with the slogan "Never Again."
Saved for last, the most tragic area was the Children's Hall, where blown up pictures of smiling kids where superimposed with the date and means by which they were killed (i.e Sarah, age 3, killed April 13 1994, hacked to death with machetes; Denis, age 10 months, killed April 20 1994, thrown against a wall)... My stomach heaved and my throat was clenched as I blinked back tears and walked out of the final hall and into the garden.
The beautifully landscaped hillside gardens are meant for remembrance and contemplation... and I just sat there, stunned and numb, unable to even formulate clear thoughts. As you walk out of the gardens, you pass the core of Gisozi: the 11 large crypts, mass graves where 256,000 people are interred.
In silence, we left Gisozi and drove out of the city towards the churches. Ntarama was our first stop, a Catholic Church where thousands sought refuge, and were slaughtered, during the genocide. Over 5,000 people where killed there after a siege on the church by the Interhamwe militia. Most of the remains of the bodies were left as they fell--left in situ almost as a "dark warning for future generations." Only the skulls have been neatly aligned on wooden shelves at the back of the Church so that the dead could be counted. As I walked in, I immediately took a step back as the strong musty smell of death and decay filled my nostils. All my senses were totally overwhelmed and I had to step outside. I sat on the steps on the Church- steps that people walked on everyday for years to come and worship with their family and community, steps that people walked over seeking refuge- and I started to cry. I couldn't decide whether or not I was strong enough to go fully inside and see for myself, but I realized that part of me needed to see, needed to witness, and needed to pay my respects.
Bones, decaying clothes, plastic rosaries, and children's school books lie scattered between the pews. A dusty light filters through the bullet holes and grenade blasts that have not been plastered over. Flies and mosquitos hover in the air around you and bats nap in the rafters. Only a token metal roof covers the Church and surrounding buildings so that during the rainy season, water doesn't leak in through shrapnel holes in the roof. Walking along the pews, trying not to step on bones, I realized that the thick layer of grimey dust on the floor was human remains, slowly crumbling back to ashes and dust.
Feeling intensely hurt and sick from the sights and smells, I left the Church to walk around the grounds. A small monument was erected on the property, just a garden patch and a long and low concrete wall where the names of the deceased are etched for eternity.

At Nyamata, the 2nd Church we visited, the remains were removed from the Church interor. Over 10,000 people were killed there, and their remains were placed in long white tile underground crypts. Where whole bodies where identifiable, they were placed in coffins. Others were dismembered and scattered--either by the militiamen or by the scavenging dogs and rats that picked at the bodies for months after the massacre-- and the remains are lined up on huge metal shelves in the crypts. I couldn't manage to walk down into the crypts, and just stood at the top of the steps, peering down...
My heart and soul ached as I left the Church, and I was silent again on the drive back to Kigali. One magnificiant ability we as humans are endowed with is our capacity for imagination... Unfortunately, we cannot control our imagination, and with images of death fresh in my mind's eye, I saw the roads littered with bodies as we drove through the countryside. Every puddle on the roadside became a pool of blood, every farmer cutting back overgrowth with a machete became a militiaman, every child's laugh became a scream of terror...

I felt totally overwhelmed, insignificant, helpless, powerless, and useless... and to some extent I suppose that I still do. What can one individual do in the face of genocide? Yes, there were many many heros whose individual contributions helped save countless lives during the genocide. But overall, one million Tutsis and moderate Hutus were still slaughtered as the world stood by and watched. We're happy to come in and help clean up the mess after the fact, and we give lots of "never again" speeches and apologize and regret our inaction... But Rwanda is not a unique case study, just scan your eyes a little higher on that map of Africa, and you'll come across the Sudan. God forbid that we actually get our hands dirty and try to stop the ultimate crimes against humanity while they are happening. Instead, we argue over definitions, issues of sovereignty and money as innocent human beings die. Again. And again. And again.