This is another post that is not for young ones.
The guide left us there. As we walked through the maze of stone walls and rough cement or brick floors there were pictures showing the history of Rwanda from the early days before it was a colony throughout its history. Photos of leaders, ordinary people, military. Pictures showing the persecution of the Tutsis. The text was in Kinyrwanda, French and English. It was detailed, honest, brutal. The farther we went the quieter everyone became. We cried softly as we saw the horror of everyday people, simple good people, killed by their neighbors, coerced by their government, betrayed by their friends, their religious leaders. There were videos of survivors telling stories of what happened to their families. To horrific to write now. Rape, physical torture, families made to watch their loved ones brutalized, killed. We cried. Occasionally we stopped to reflect, to talk softly, to pray, to cry.
The Kigali Genocide Memorial
The map of Africa at the memorial that shows Rwanda
Sunday 6/30/07 11:50 PM
Tim (Immaculee’s friend and agent) talked us into going swimming after dinner. Hilarious. He is such a salesman. The water was cold and we laughed until our faces hurt. Everyone came back, at least part way, from an emotionally wrenching day. I didn’t know what to expect from theGenocide Memorial. Thousands of innocent Rwandans in a mass grave. I took some pictures, just a little video but nothing will be able to describe the power, the sadness. Most of the visitors were Europeans, a few Rwandans, a few Americans besides us. One of the drivers was there in the room with the photographs staring at a picture of his own family.
Outside, large cement slabs – maybe ten yards by twenty yards, covering hundreds (thousands) of bodies each. A large black wall, not marble or obsidian, concrete. Black, stark, simple. Hundreds of names on small plaques were attached to the wall. So many of the ones buried there remain unidentified. A perpetual flame. Simple. There are several mass graves across Rwanda. Official graves. They are still finding bodies. There were some flowers. The black painted wall. A perpetual flame. Many names.
Inside a man told us in a very quiet voice a little about the genocide. He must have said the same things many times. He was reverent. When we entered the memorial we saw an enlarged photo of an unnamed Rwandan child.
A boy. Maybe ten years old. It was ripped and scratched. Stained with blood. He was just a child. It was found in the pocket of an unidentified victim. His eyes were looking into the lens of the camera. Into our eyes. Just a child.
Tim (Immaculee’s friend and agent) talked us into going swimming after dinner. Hilarious. He is such a salesman. The water was cold and we laughed until our faces hurt. Everyone came back, at least part way, from an emotionally wrenching day. I didn’t know what to expect from theGenocide Memorial. Thousands of innocent Rwandans in a mass grave. I took some pictures, just a little video but nothing will be able to describe the power, the sadness. Most of the visitors were Europeans, a few Rwandans, a few Americans besides us. One of the drivers was there in the room with the photographs staring at a picture of his own family.
Outside, large cement slabs – maybe ten yards by twenty yards, covering hundreds (thousands) of bodies each. A large black wall, not marble or obsidian, concrete. Black, stark, simple. Hundreds of names on small plaques were attached to the wall. So many of the ones buried there remain unidentified. A perpetual flame. Simple. There are several mass graves across Rwanda. Official graves. They are still finding bodies. There were some flowers. The black painted wall. A perpetual flame. Many names.
Inside a man told us in a very quiet voice a little about the genocide. He must have said the same things many times. He was reverent. When we entered the memorial we saw an enlarged photo of an unnamed Rwandan child.
A boy. Maybe ten years old. It was ripped and scratched. Stained with blood. He was just a child. It was found in the pocket of an unidentified victim. His eyes were looking into the lens of the camera. Into our eyes. Just a child.The guide left us there. As we walked through the maze of stone walls and rough cement or brick floors there were pictures showing the history of Rwanda from the early days before it was a colony throughout its history. Photos of leaders, ordinary people, military. Pictures showing the persecution of the Tutsis. The text was in Kinyrwanda, French and English. It was detailed, honest, brutal. The farther we went the quieter everyone became. We cried softly as we saw the horror of everyday people, simple good people, killed by their neighbors, coerced by their government, betrayed by their friends, their religious leaders. There were videos of survivors telling stories of what happened to their families. To horrific to write now. Rape, physical torture, families made to watch their loved ones brutalized, killed. We cried. Occasionally we stopped to reflect, to talk softly, to pray, to cry.
Immaculee
Being there withImmaculeebrought it to another level. Getting to know her and seeing her memories flash back was… I’m blocking here… incredible, unbelievably sad. It touched my soul in a way I didn’t know was possible, as nothing else could. Her anger and sadness were palpable. At the end of the self-tour were other rooms. One was very dark. For a while I was in there alone. The only sound was a silken voiced woman reading the names of those killed. There are well over a million names. I could hear my own breathing, feel my heart pounding. My sinuses were clogged from crying. My hea
d was throbbing and I was numb. 
One case held long bones from legs. Femurs. Stacks and rows of femurs. There were cases of skulls. Some little, some really tiny. Some with machete marks. Some cracked open as if hit with a heavy club. One case in this darkened room held what must have been found on the bodies of the victims. Photos, pocket knives, a simple wedding band, hair clips, an earring. Just the stuff of a human life. The musical names were being read one after another. It would take thousands of hours just to read them all. Darkness. Bones. Pocket stuff. Names. Tears.
d was throbbing and I was numb. 
One case held long bones from legs. Femurs. Stacks and rows of femurs. There were cases of skulls. Some little, some really tiny. Some with machete marks. Some cracked open as if hit with a heavy club. One case in this darkened room held what must have been found on the bodies of the victims. Photos, pocket knives, a simple wedding band, hair clips, an earring. Just the stuff of a human life. The musical names were being read one after another. It would take thousands of hours just to read them all. Darkness. Bones. Pocket stuff. Names. Tears.
Photographs
The next area was a small amphitheater. Survivors told their stories on large TV screens. Tiny alcoves with soft benches lay around the outside of the room. Cables with rings and clips held thousands of photographs. Tens of thousands? Some were blurry, taken with inexpensive cameras. Wedding pictures. Blank stares. Joyous expressions. Some were looking past the camera at the photographer with so much love in their eyes. Old men in their very best clothes. Young ones playing with simple toys. Messy hair. Patched pants. Blank stares. Some of the photographs were copies. Some were the actual photographs with the owners’ handwriting on the back. Som
eone’s birthday. Someone’s new coat. Someone at age four. 
I wanted to see every face. My eyes were so blurred with a veil of tears that I could barely see at all. I sat alone in one of the corners. Alone with images of people just like Imaculee and just like Asha and just like Ali and Saniyo and Isha [our Somali Bantu friends] and just like the Jews and the Gypsies and the American Indians and like the women in Afghanistan under the Taliban and like the victims of genocide in Darfur, and those in refugee camps all over… And I was overwhelmed, Heidi. For a while I couldn’t breath. That was the room that affected me the most. Until I went upstairs. I thought I was overloaded then I walked up the stairs to a simple area devoted to the children.
eone’s birthday. Someone’s new coat. Someone at age four. 
I wanted to see every face. My eyes were so blurred with a veil of tears that I could barely see at all. I sat alone in one of the corners. Alone with images of people just like Imaculee and just like Asha and just like Ali and Saniyo and Isha [our Somali Bantu friends] and just like the Jews and the Gypsies and the American Indians and like the women in Afghanistan under the Taliban and like the victims of genocide in Darfur, and those in refugee camps all over… And I was overwhelmed, Heidi. For a while I couldn’t breath. That was the room that affected me the most. Until I went upstairs. I thought I was overloaded then I walked up the stairs to a simple area devoted to the children.
The Children
There were large portraits of beautiful children (I know I’ve overused the word beautiful) from about two to ten years old. Simple statements in three languages were under their sweet faces… Favorite Animal: My cat, Favorite Food: Rice, Favorite Toy: The doll my sister and I share, Last Words: Why would you do that? You are my friend… All of these stories so terribly cut short. For the perpetrators these images must be ghosts.
