This post contains student writing.

Warning: this post contains writing about genocide which some may find graphic.

In the first week and a half of our stay in Rwanda, we spoke in whispers about the genocide, talking about the definition of genocide and the history of how the International Genocide Convention began, never addressing the 1994 Rwandan genocide specifically. However, this past Saturday, July 7th, we visited the Genocide Memorial in Ntarama. Our guide gave us the history and events leading up to 1994, and how tension began to increase between the Tutsis and Hutus. The most crucial fact the guide mentioned was that Hutu or Tutsi, lighter skin, darker skin, wider nose, narrower nose, Rwandans killed Rwandans- family killed family. From a teacher to a business man, the most prestigious doctor, to the poorest farmer, if someone was a Tutsi or associated in any way to a Tutsi “cockroach,” they were murdered for being so.

So, how can such a horrific, chaotic and tragic massacre be properly remembered, the victims honored, the history preserved? By leaving everything as it was.

Today the view from the church was peaceful: the original church stood on a beautiful plot of land overlooking the mountains and houses–smoke peeking out from the roofs in preparation for lunch. However, the many gaping holes from grenades spoke of the holy building’s story 24 years ago, and the 5,000 people who died on the, (approximately), 2 acres of land. Entering the church, some of the recovered cracked, punctured, split in half, bullet-holed, and smashed-in skulls of victims sat displayed in glass cases. Fewer cases contained stacks of bones from peoples limbs, and an occasional pelvis or spine. I pictured the people crammed in the Church, trying to stay quiet, hoping no one could hear or see them within its walls. Then I thought of the grenades hitting the building. Then I felt panic, shock, denial, hopelessness; all feelings I am positive they felt, including more –  feelings I hope I will never feel.

Clothing was hung on rungs on each side of the Church, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, infant sized to adult; every piece of dirt, blood, hair, grass still clinging to the fabric. Someone wore that shirt. Those were someone’s pants. We continued to the head of the Church, where I imagine the alter must have been. The alter has been replaced with a display of the weapons used to murder innocent people: machetes, clubs, spiked clubs, long knives, short knives, grenades, rocks. Behind the weapons are peoples’ shoes – babies, children, adults. Then kitchen supplies – sippy cups for children, pots, pans, silverware. Someone’s mouth touched that cup. That was someone’s beans and rice dinner plate- It is all still there, nothing washed away, the memory never fading. Money, notes, journals, school supplies, pencils, bags, bibles, and books.

We finally left the church.  I expected that would be the worst of it, but I hadn’t been to the kitchen yet, or the Sunday School, or the Mass Graves. One wall of the kitchen had been knocked down, and the roof – never replaced- was burnt from the fire which consumed everyone hiding in the kitchen. If you stood close enough to the walls, I noticed you could still smell the char. Then we entered the Sunday School. Banners are hung on the walls so that visitors can write messages and prayers for the innocent children who died brutally in what was always a safe place, until evil took over. On one wall, a 5ft by 3ft stain of blood remains–the aftermath of childrens’ bodies being thrown against the wall. I saw myself and my baby sisters packed in the Sunday School with other children. I felt the horror, the raw feeling of a desperately screaming voice- I felt silence and my own cold tears down my face.

We proceeded to the Mass Graves, our last destination. Only a fraction of the unidentified bodies lay respectfully and anonymously buried below ground, never to be identified. No one will ever know if that casket has a relative, a friend, a teacher, or the Priest of the Church. I was, and continue to be, so overwhelmed by this memorial, however, most disturbingly, the memorial does an excellent job emphasizing the loss- not in death- but in bodies. 5,000 people died at this location, however, they have maybe 300-500 skulls and caskets combined. So many more people died there, but worse, nearly 1 million more died everywhere else. The Ntarama Genocide Memorial beautifully honors the victims of Rwanda’s 1994 Genocide, but also preserves the truth of the terror and destruction of lives and safe places for people. I saw and felt the death which lurks  on the property. Truly, I left speechless.

Rwanda had a genocide–yes. However, this genocide does not define their country, their culture, their people. Out of death, and division, Rwanda has chosen forgiveness to move on and receive closure after countless losses. Rwandans are proud people: proud of where they came from, where they are now and the possibility of continuous success in the future. Rwanda wants their story to be told. They want the world to talk about genocide, the causes, the effects, the outcomes. It is our duty to remember the past, preserve unification, and prevent genocide in the future.

-Madeline