Memorial Week

I didn’t do much interesting during our first break from school. Some people went on vacations to Zanzibar or Uganda, but I felt like saving my money for something I really wanted to do. During the break, though, I did follow a small group on a little trip to Kigali and up to the lake resort town, Gisenyi. It was nice to see some of the people, but in the end I felt like I had spent far too much money for how much I enjoyed my time. I think the group was too big, and I am too selfish for that kind of traveling. I just can’t enjoy following a pack of people to do things I am barely interested in. Maybe the lesson was worth the money I spent though. The highlight was stumbling upon a concert on the lake where Tom Close, one of Rwanda’s biggest stars, was performing (well, lip-syncing). Nobody else was that interested in the concert, so they stayed at the nearby bar. Luckily Luke was adventurous enough to venture with me into the crowd. It was definitely a highlight of the short trip.

I spent a lot of the break at site since it was memorial week. Every year, on April 7, Rwanda commences a three month memorial period to mark the anniversary of the 1994 genocide. It begins with a memorial week, which is full of ceremonies, meetings, quiet streets and heavy military presence. Just before the memorial period there were a couple of grenade attacks (supposedly to protest the Rwandan government and the 2010 election), but they generally stop during the memorial period, possibly due to heightened security. I remember that on the road from Gisenyi, which is on the border with Congo, we went through a big police checkpoint where they were searching people and their bags. Interestingly, when we arrived and everyone started to file out, for the inspection, we were told to get back in as soon as the soldiers saw us. The police in Rwanda almost seem to avoid giving foreigners a hard time. However it also made me suspicious that maybe they didn’t want foreigners to see what they were doing.

So anyway, the morning of the beginning of memorial week, I left the house and walked to the memorial site an hour away. I was dressed nice and a little nervous about what it would be like. There were surprisingly few people on the road, even though everyone I had talked to the day before said they were going. In fact, I think it is mandatory to attend. About twenty minutes into the walk, I acquired a walking friend. This is the kind of friend that sees you, catches up or slows down, matches your pace and ponders for a few hundred meters about how to begin a conversation. He started with casual conversation about where I was from and what I was doing in Rwanda. Within about ten minutes he started talking about how he was an orphan. I would not have thought he was old enough to be orphaned as a result of the genocide. I asked him how old he was , and he said 16. Too young. He kept telling me how he was poor and both his parents were dead. I asked when they died, and he said they were killed in the genocide. This became a very awkward situation. He began to ask me for money because he was a poor orphan. Whether he was an orphan or not, I could not know. However, given the fact that the genocide happened for three months nine years ago, it seemed obvious that his parents were not killed in the genocide. I felt very awkward because it seemed that he was trying to exploit the weight of this day to garner sympathy and monetary gain, potentially on false pretences. I had begun my day in a very somber and respectful mindset, but this boy was wearing on me. It put a sour taste in my mouth. People, especially children frequently ask me for money, candy, jobs, food, etc. Generally I don’t get bothered by it, but I also don’t give anything outright. This boy giving me a sob story about his poor situation was depressing whether it was true or not.  If he was telling the truth it was depressing for obvious reasons. If he was lying, it was depressing that someone would try to exploit the tragedy for their own gains. So many people in Rwanda, and in my community have very difficult lives, and I cannot possibly help people on an individual basis even if they are in need. I will say this, though. At the time of the interaction, I thought his story was impossible. However, I later found out that a friend of mine had lost is father to the genocide when he was a baby, in 1999, about five years after the genocide was officially over. At that time, my understanding was that the lingering ethnic violence had been isolated to the northeast of Rwanda and Eastern Congo, so I didn’t think it was possible for this boy to be telling me any truth.

I was hot and sweaty when I arrived at the memorial at 10 AM. I seemed to have timed it perfectly. Many people had attended the church service (which I had not known about) at the Catholic church next door to the memorial, and were making their way into the small area for the ceremony. I waited outside for a while, looking for someone I knew or getting a grasp on where I should go. I ran into a friend I play basketball with and we entered together. The memorial is a small building (many villages have them) with a grim statue in front of the upper half of a genocidaire, or one who committed genocide. The genocidaire was holding a bloody machete in one hand and a club with nails sticking out of it in the other, common tools used in the genocide. He wore a brimless hat, was painted with nearly black paint, and had a gaping mouth with big red lips and wide eyes that gave him a crazed look. By American standards, it seemed in the style of now-offensive 1920’s portrayals African Americans. But this statue was disturbing on a different level. Could you imagine putting a statue of a soldier from the 3^rd Reich outside of Auschwitz or Pol Pot outside the Tuol Sleng museum in Cambodia?

As my friend and I entered, one of the community/church leaders from my village saw me and guided me into the VIP section. Luckily my friend was able to ride my undeserved coat tails, although I was given a front row seat near some of my community’s most important figures, including the Major that lives next door to me. It’s a difficult decision to take a stand and sit with the people you know from your community or disrespecting people by not taking the honored seat offered to you.

Until this year the official color for the memorial was purple. This year, however, it was changed to gray. I heard that the gray was to represent death and ash, but also heard a suggestion that purple, in many societies, is a color associated with royalty. Somebody gave me a gray bandana to put around my neck. I was not wearing any gray, so I needed the bandana. Until this day I had thought that purple was the color. I didn’t have any purple clothes, or else I would have worn them, as is tradition at memorial ceremonies. The other change, which happened a couple years earlier, is the official name of the genocide. It is no longer just called genocide, but, “The Genocide of the Tutsis”. During the ceremony, every speaker referred to the even as “The Genocide of the Tutsis”. It is a semi-controversial move by the government, although few people dare to question it. I find it incredibly hypocritical for a government that wants to eliminate the culture of ethnic identity to emphasize the focus of this tragic event along these ethnic lines. Yes, the Tutsis were the primary targets and the vast majority of victims. However, many Hutu sympathizers were killed, innocent bystanders were killed opportunistically for monetary gain and many people from the Batwa extreme minority were killed. People have been jailed for questioning this change, so I should probably not say much more.

Unfortunately I was not able to understand most of the speeches, but I could feel the emotion. I could see it, for almost the first time since arriving in Rwanda. Periodically a random woman would stand up and run out of the ceremony with their face covered. Crying in public is generally frowned upon in this culture and it was the most emotion I had ever seen out of people in Rwanda. When one of these women would make their exit, they were usually accompanied by one or two friends or family members. Then a man would chase after them, with a bottle of water in hand. I had seen a single box of bottled water be carried in and wondered what it was for, since it was not enough for the VIP section, let alone the whole crowd. No, it was for the people that needed to cry.

The most emotional part of the day was when we entered the memorial building. I did not know what to expect the entire day, and entering the memorial was no different. I had passed the building and its morbid statue many times, but had never been inside. I was among the first group to enter. I was given a candle. The first room contained several glass cases filled with skulls and bones in stacks. We lit our candles and filed into the next room to pay our respects. In the center of the room was a raised platform that came up to our waists. At the top of the platform were glass windows so we could see what was in the ground below us. There were two coffins. They were so small. These basic wooden boxes held people people that couldn’t have been more than 8 years old. With our lit candles we circled the platform. I’ve always said that no matter how many books I read, no matter how much time I spend here, no matter how many memorial and massacre sites I pass, none of it seems real to me. Circling these tiny coffins, as unfairly heartstring-tugging as they were, started to make it just a tiny bit more real.

We circled back into the first room where I meditated on the bones and wasted life. We were not rushed, by any means. However, I didn’t want to leave so soon. I felt like I was really starting to have a stronger emotional connection to this country’s tragic recent history. I wanted to be in the presence of this pain for just a little longer. I needed to feel something. I wanted to understand a little more. I felt like standing there a little longer. Focusing would bring me a little closer to understanding the sadness I always see in one of my neighbors’ eyes, who suffered a big loss almost 20 years ago.

It’s impossible though. I sometimes get emotional when contemplating the genocide, but I don’t think any foreigner can truly understand what actually happened here so recently unless they were there.

After paying respects, the ceremony continued with speeches and songs. Occasionally someone, usually a middle-aged or elderly woman, would burst into tears and rush out of the ceremony with their face covered with cloth. Someone would chase after them with a bottle of the aforementioned water. I could not understand most of what the speakers were saying, but one phrase that always jumped out at me was “jenoside w’abatutsi”, or genocide of the Tutsis. This was the official name of the genocide. It had been changed to to include “of the Tutsis” a few years ago. This was at least a little bit controversial since Tutsis were not the only people killed in the genocide, although they were the vast majority of the victims. It also felt strange since this country has made such an effort to eliminate discussion of ethnicity since the genocide. People are no longer Hutu, Tutsi or Twa, but instead simply Rwandan. As foreigners, most of us take this pretty seriously and never come close to discussing the sensitive topic of ethnicity with people. So to hear this word “Tutsi” constantly during these speeches felt very strange.

When the ceremony wrapped up after a few hours we were in the heat of a sunny day. The promised April rainy season was not taking effect and nothing but sun was beating down on us. I sweated disgustingly through my long-sleeved dress shirt and slacks. Just as I started to make my way home, I ran into my friend Mwizerwa, the barber. He was heading my direction too, so he insisted we walk together. I kind of wanted to be alone, but didn’t really have a choice. Mwizerwa, as I’ve mentioned, is a fast walker. Exceptionally fast. People in Rwanda are not particularly slow walkers, but I still tend to go faster than them in my typical American rush. He grabbed my hand (like much of the world, male-male hand holding is normal) and we quickly moved ahead of the large pack of people leaving the ceremony. Within minutes we were hundreds of yards ahead of everyone else, cruising, with my slippery, sweaty hand gripped tightly by my barber. Of course I don’t feel any awkwardness about holding hands, but I do find it pretty uncomfortable, especially when it is hot and humid out. After thirty minutes of power-walking I was dripping with sweat, and far beyond pitting out. I had to simply let go of Mwizerwa’s hand and tell him to slow down. It had taken me an hour to reach the ceremony, but we returned in 40 minutes.

During the memorial week the village was pretty quiet during the day. There were daily meetings in the afternoon that lasted a few hours. Shops were closed and military was on patrol to ensure compliance. I was interested in going to the meetings, but did not go unless someone was going to invite me, and hopefully help explain what was going on. Somewhere in there I had my 27^th birthday, but no worries. I would celebrate after the memorial week.

At the other end of the week was the closing ceremony. It was much like the opening ceremony. Speeches, songs, a sketch, women running out with their faces covered. The next year will be the last annual memorial week. It will be the 20 year anniversary of the genocide and after that it will only be every five years.

It’s really hard to describe how the genocide affects me and my service. It is something that, I can honestly say, I think about every single day, but still feel no closer to understanding it. I know that workers at the factory by my house were killed. I know that people I know fled the country, and others had grown up outside the country and returned after the chaos. I know some stories of stories of people I know who lost family. In reality, though, I feel so distant from it all.