Rwandan Genocide Memorial

The memorial was not what I had been expecting. The city had whirled by me, a myriad of colors, horns, and jumbled advertisements. Then, it had given way slowly to a smoothly paved road. The saloon’s pop hits transitioned into quiet, punctuated by the brakes of our bus. The city began to lose its bustling urgency.

The Rwandan Genocide Memorial caught me off guard. But in truth, how can one really prepare for the experience? I focused on the manicured garden as a solemn security guard patted me down.
“Look, they provide tissues.” Madi said, pointing at the box on the otherwise empty table. “That should give you an idea of how this will go.” I didn’t doubt I needed one. As the short film introducing us to the memorial played, I put it to good use. The faces on the screen seemed tired as they spoke of their mothers, brothers, and children being slaughtered by machetes as they watched. Numbness had replaced terror and pain. That made me cry harder.

The expression “like pulling teeth” came to mind. I wound down dark halls, reading placards, nodding along as videos played, rehashing the terror. I breathed deep (through the nose, out the mouth, repeat), trying to commit details of dead bodies and mass graves to memory. I slipped on my brand-new anti-nausea acupressure wrist bands; the bad feelings had moved from a lump in my throat to a churning stomach.

“Like pulling teeth”. I understand why this memorial is crucial to the recovery of Rwanda from the tragedy. When a tooth is pulled, it hurts for a while. But it saves you from a lot more pain in the long run. The memorial wasn’t fun by any means. It was sad, and sickening. We saw the bones of dozens, their skulls shattered by clubs or drilled into by bullets. We saw huge pictures on empty walls of children. Under, in tiny letters, their favorite foods. Their best friend, their personality. Under all, the only common denominator, how they died. An 18 month old, shot in his mothers arms. A 2 year old, hit against a wall. The list grew, and I felt myself growing smaller.

The Rwandan Genocide Memorial is more than a recount of the horrors and crimes committed. It is a resting place for those who died. It is a space for memory, and to honor those who lost their life, and those who lost their loved ones. It is a place to learn, to feel the full impact of what the genocide truly was, so we never do it again.

The end of the memorial is a wall and a video of success stories. Those who grew, and healed from their trauma best they could. Those who moved on, forgave, and chose to do something meaningful to them with their life. I think this is a good marker of how you leave the memorial, or at least how I felt. I was tired, sick to my stomach, and ready to sit down. But more importantly, I could picture the photographs of those I saw on the walls. I could remember the stories of those who lost. And most arguably most importantly, I knew why this horror has happened. I knew what to look out for. And I knew that I, no matter how small, or poor, or insignificant I may feel or seem, I could make a crucial difference in the life of another.

Remember-Unite-Renew