Every other word in our discussions has been genocide. We say it so much, but only in our academic language. So distant. So cold. So emotionless. Far removed. Only in reference to historical events or hypothetical situations. Completely desensitized to its reality and deep meaning.
The class has been informative, no doubt. I've learned so much about the history of various genocides, as well as the social psychological theories that attempt to explain how they came about. But the class has more importantly been incredibly frustrating for this reason...
The students in my class do not let themselves see or feel genocide for what it really is. They do not drop their academic language in exchange for real discussions. The class stays guarded. Hard. Removed. Numb to the experience of victims. Of survivors. Blind to the way they continue to feel the effects of their experience. Completely detached from even their existence. Their stories.
We spit out the term genocide as if we have some authority on the topic. As if we have some right to talk about it. Some expertise that qualifies us to define it. Describe it. Explain it. To us, genocide is an academic term. A subject of interest. A research topic.
I did not understand my deep frustrations with this class to be this until today.
Until I came to Rwanda. During the month of the 18 year anniversary of their genocide.
Until I saw purple and white banners displayed across Kigali that said:
Learning from our history to build a brighter future.
With the number 18 and the word genocide in the corner. Everywhere in the city, I saw these banners. And today, I learned that the purple is for mourning. The white for hope.
Here, genocide is not a word. It is not an academic term. And it is not a research topic.
Here, genocide is real, lived experience. It is a part of Rwanda's very real and tragic past. One which they mourn as a country every year.
And it is a part of their hope for a better future. For peace. Prosperity. Community. Forgiveness and reconciliation.
Here, people remember it every day. Because they lived it. Survived it. and many of their family and friends did not.
They have memories. Some that they cherish of those they lost. And some by which they are haunted of the terror they were forced to suffer. Or forced to commit.
They have stories. Real, deep, vivid, emotional stories. Stories that were once reality for them.
On the way to a genocide memorial in Ntarana this afternoon, our taxi driver, Jean Pierre, said to us:
"You are going to see our bad story."
We told him yes. That we wanted to see and to hear Rwanda's bad story. And that we were so sorry about that story.
Our bad story...
Our bad story...
Our bad story...
The words have been repeating over and over again since the moment they left Jean Pierre's mouth. His words were so odd to hear at first, but then so obviously purposefully chosen. That is how he sees it...the genocide.
It is a story. A real, lived, still very much felt and deeply remembered story.
It is a bad story. Such a simple adjective. But how else could one describe such a story. One that has a personal and distinct meaning for everyone who survived it. Everyone who lives in Rwanda today. There are unique stories for sure. But it is a shared, bad story.
As we talked with him and as we watched people mourn, remember, and hope...It became evident that there are deep wounds lingering here. Wounds that have been reopened due to the anniversary of the genocide. Wounds that perhaps had experienced healing. But were brought back to the surface, open once again due to the current focus on remembering.
I will never know what the Rwandan people felt or experienced during their genocide. During their bad story. Nor will I know how they feel about it today. I did not live it. I did not survive it. I know nothing about the reality of experiencing it.
But today, I visited a genocide memorial. And I felt a little closer to feeling. And to knowing. Rather than discussing at a distance. Throwing around a term and attempting to define it. Though I will always be very far away from ever really knowing.
The memorial is made up of a former Catholic Church, a few surrounding buildings and a garden.
5,000 people sought refuge at that church 18 years ago this April. And 5,000 people thought there they would be safe. there in God's holy house. They thought they would be protected. They thought they would survive. They thought they would return home once again and resume normal life. But there, in and around that church, 5,000 people were killed.
The former church contains old pews. But that is the only resemblance of a church or anything holy that the eye can see. There is a shelf full of skulls. Piles and piles of skulls. Whose empty eye sockets stared right at me and told me their bad story. Showed me their fate. Looked at me and asked me to feel. To see. And to know their reality. To walk where they once walked. And try to imagine. Even though I will never know. I felt them calling me to no longer be numb. Cold. Reserved. Desensitized. But to open my eyes and my heart to really seeing and feeling the experience of genocide as best as I possibly can.
There were bones. Piles and piles of bones. Old clothing hung from the windows. Pots and pans were stacked on a shelf. As well as deteriorating mattresses and shoes. They had brought all of their belongings. Assuming the church would prove to be a safe shelter. So that after the violence, they could return home. With all of their things.
These clothes, pots and pans, mattresses, shoes, and other belongings were real. Tangible. All having once belonged to Rwandans. Who fled here for safety. Thought they would survive. And were killed.
Another building held a coffin and shelves. Shelves stacked with books. Old, withered, and torn. Books that the children brought with them to study diligently. So that when the violence had ended and they returned home, they would not be behind in their schoolwork. That is a testament to how faithful they were that they would survive. That they would be safe here.
And then there was the Sunday school building. This one was the heaviest of all. There, all the children were killed. Against the brownish-orange brick wall. Which is now stained dark red from their blood. The air in this building was thick. It was as if you could feel their presence. Their innocence. Their helplessness. Trapped where they thought they were safe. Watching each other being killed one by one. It was dark. And yet light shined through the open window onto the darkness. Onto the flowers and notes left from mourning visitors. Onto a big white piece of paper hanging on the wall. With hand written notes from child survivors. Expressing their sorrow and love for those children who died in that small sunday school building 18 years ago.
Written by 100 child survivors who came to visit the memorial. Only three of the messages were in English:
"Your death has left a great gap in our life. For we shall never forget you."
"I'll never forget you. Always in my mind and in my prayers. I love you."
"It is so terrible what happened to you, and I know you all will be missed by many even though this was very tragic I know you are now happy and in a better place."
They remember. They cannot. They will not. Ever. Forget.
We know not what genocide is.
We have no authority on it.
No expertise.
Because we have not lived it.
Survived it.
Felt it.
Breathed it.
Mourned it.
And lived every day after in its memory.
We cannot speak as if we know.
For we know not.
But we can listen.
We can listen to their stories.
We can open our eyes to see.
We can visit memorials.
And we can try to imagine.
We can open up our hearts.
And we can try to feel.
But we will never know.
We can only learn.
As Rwanda currently displays on purple and white banners, we can learn from our history to build a brighter future.
Today, I learned that I do not know what genocide is.
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