Share This
-
Tag Archives: Genocide
SILENT HEROS
We spend our days here in Rwanda in personal and emotional volley between the horror of the genocide and the astonishing cultural healing and social/infrastructural impetus that has since catapulted Rwanda into the 21st century through great ingenuity and courage.
From the moment of the initial onslaught of attacks following the downing of President Habyarimana’s aircraft by rockets, Col. Bagasora, who opposed the Arusha peace Accords, promised an “apocalypse” in Rwanda. He had begun his work with the murder of the president. Within a matter of hours, road blocks were set up across Rwanda, and the killing began. State radio spewed demands that Tutsi “cockroaches” must be exterminated, along with any Hutu directly assisting them. Rwanda citizens followed orders and took to the streets in a mass murderous chapter that will be burned forever in Rwandan history.
Within four months, one million women, men and children were slaughtered while the international community turned our back. The U.N. sent in rescue to the embassy diplomats and official personnel, passing thousands of imperiled citizens on the road as they made their way up the hill to evacuation and safety. Most of those they left behind died a cruel death. David, age 10, uttered as his last words, “UNAMIR will come for us.” Little did he know that the diplomats were long clear of the country. Moments after uttering those words to him mum, David was tortured to death by the genocidinaires.
Issa and Dora, founders of Memos Project, with Rescuer & Rescued in between
But even amidst this tragedy, we hear stories that lift our hopes in humankind. We met Josephine, a Hutu woman who spoke with quiet voice but great conviction during her telling. Bursts of chuckles interspersed her narrative as she chronicled the clever but astonishing risks in her adventure to save Tutsi neighbors and strangers who showed up at her door as news of slaughter of Tutsi’s spread and the smell of fire filled the air.
Among them, two small boys emerged from the bush, clearly having wandered for days, hungry almost to starvation, bewildered and frightened. They had not seen their parents since the arrival of the murderers and had no idea of their fate. Josephine took in the boys, fed them, and provided a hiding place while she determined a way to give them safe passage out of the country.
Josephine’s husband became increasingly distraught at the danger of hiding Tutsis, insisting that she not try to help, as not only would the children certainly be killed, but indeed, Josephine’s entire family would perish as well, including their own two small sons. Defying him, she responded, “People are being killed every day and sent her sons in the dark of night to search for a boat in the water near their home that might provide passage to safety for the small ones. Their neighbor’s boat was at the shore, but was chained in place. And the oars were missing.
Josephine walked for hours to her father’s house hoping to find another boat. When she found that all boats were already been taken, she gathered two large poles and camoflauged them with leaves of sweet potato plants in case she were accosted by inquiring government officials at check points. She would claim she was simply carrying roots to be transplanted in her yard. Those poles would hopefully become oars in the escape of her Tutsi guests.
As darkness closed in, Josephine grabbed a chain cutter from the family tool chest and took her small sons to the lake where the precious boat was moored. She instructed one to swim and splash in order to create distraction as the other sawed at the chain. When one tired, they changed places and for hours worked to free the boat. Finally, success!
Josephine’s small guests stole away in the night with ample food to reach safety, but with great danger ahead of them to avoid the killing masses, some of whom patrolled the river.
Sitting before us beside Josephine on this day was one of those little boys, now a university student studying accounting. He tends Josephine and assists her as she enters elderhood. He hopes to give her a cow one day, the ultimate Rwandan symbol of gratitude and friendship.
Samia, activist from Sudan and Sheikha, activist from Nepal, take a stand with Josephine and 'child' she rescued, now grown
Memos: Learning from History (http://memosrwanda.wordpress.com/) chronicles the stories of the silent heroes. While many claimed only to be following orders from the government, Memos highlights the personal responsibility that was claimed by some as they refused to turn their backs on the value of human life. Memos work continues today, as more and more silent heroes are found quietly living their lives without recognition or fanfare.
I post this on February 1, National Hero’s Day in Rwanda. These silent examples teach us that in every horror there is hope — from the Underground Railroad during the U.S. slave owning era, through the Holocaust when Italian and Swiss villagers hid Jews, to Rwanda’s genocide. Human suffering is met with human courage. Hope is born.
Share this:
From Genocide to Hope in Rwanda – A Visit to the Genocide Memorial
What we Learn: A Visit to the Rwanda Genocide Museum
Out of the Darkness, Light
As I emerged from the area of the museum that described the brutal killing and mutilation of bodies carrying souls, the lights went out. I stood at first in the dark and considered the ironic metaphor of such an occurrence at that particular moment, though a brief interruption of power is not so unusual here, and the generators kick in quickly and efficiently. But this — “The moment the lights went out” was a symbol for a country. A time when all was dark and seemingly hopeless. A solemn visceral reminder of what “dark” looks like.
I sat down on a small stool in the anti-room where I had been walking, waiting for the light to reappear. Suddenly I realized that, indeed, there was light coming from somewhere. My eyes simply had to adjust and refocus. I turned and towering above me, standing like a beacon, stood a stunning stained glass window.
At the base of the mosaic were many skulls, tumbled together in chaos and the stark white of death. But upon looking closely, through red scythes, arose a solid staircase reaching upward. Held by swirls of activity on both sides, the stairway was strong and reached up and up, into an abstract sphere that appeared to be a globe at the top of the window. A better world, perhaps?
When the lights came back on, I found myself amidst a display room that spoke of those who helped potential victims escape from the bloody horror, exposing themselves to great harm, torture and sure death through their offering of aid and assistance. As I read each panel, I imagined a life. Moving along at a rhythm and then interrupted instantaneously and brutally. The word of an airplane down, roadblocks, and the unspeakable massacre, carried out in such haste that there was no time to find safety, or even to understand what was occurring.
I imagined two lives. One at risk of being snuffed out without mercy. Another with assurance that their cleverness and assistance could easily lead to punishment in the same cruel way — simply for offering assistance to another human being.
Taking a break, I walked among the mass graves and memorial garden. I saw the beginning of a series of plaques that will commemorate each victim by name. My mind and heart traveled to the Viet Nam Memorial with the same black surface on which the many who died were etched. But at the memorial in D.C. there were only names of Americans — not the hundreds of thousands whose lives were wasted in their own homeland, with no understanding of why. For what? And here, in Rwanda, for what? A politician’s ambition? Wasted lives, wasted human potential. Massive suffering — all in the name of power.
Following my walk through the memorial garden, I re-entered the museum to conclude my visit by walking through the memorial to the children who were lost.
Filette, age 2
My heart beat hard as I walked through and, breaking the rules, I took photos of the children, and sat to write their stories as chronicled under their image. Only a few were featured, although hundreds of thousands were killed in unspeakable ways. Enough to break one’s heart.
Fabrice, age 8, loved chocolate and swimming; bludgeoned with a club
Canelle, age 8, loved jogging with her father, also loved chocolate and milk. Her favorite song was “My Native Land Which God Chose for Me.” Hacked to death with a machete.
Ariane, age 4, loved cake and milk, singing and dancing. Stabbed in the eyes and head.
Ariane, age 4
David, age 10, loved futball and wanted to become a doctor. His last words were, “UNAMIR (U.N.) will come for us.” Tortured to death.
Umatoni (6) and Umawezi (7), grenade through into their shower where they were hiding.
Fillette, age 2. Loved rice and chips. Little body smashed against a wall.
At the entry had been a plaque:
“In memory of our beautiful and beloved children who should have been our future.”
***
Unable to yet join with my group, I made my way in silence to the coffee house and sat down to write. How are we to explain this world to our children, our grandchildren? How do we share that these things exist and that the world is not only full of joy and laughter, but pain and despair? When are they old enough to understand? Are we ever “old enough” to understand? I, for one, am not.
This is not just about Rwanda. Rwanda has healed in ways I will never understand. This is about what we as humans have the capacity to do to one another. Whether it be incinerating in a chamber, blowing limbs off by land mines, or sending drones into homes. This is about life and human decency.
Rwanda teaches me so much about forgiveness, about all that is best in the human condition. I will keep telling the story.
Inscription at the exit from the Genocide Memorial. One million people had died in a short few months.
Share this:
