GASPARD’s MUSINGS

Though I was in Rwanda only for 2 ½ days in the latter part of 2011, the genocide of 1994 came up in our conversations ever so often. Several parts of the country were affected by the horrendous conflict between the Hutus and Tutsis that claimed thousands of lives in a period of 100 days. The rivalry and tension between the two tribes goes back to several decades and conflicts were heightened from the late fifties, well into the seventies and reached its peak in the mid-nineties. Since then, several attempts have been made by the government to try and bring about peace and calm. Truth and reconciliation commissions have been set up and cases of violence against the perpetrators are being investigated including by the UN. As a stark reminder of and possibly as a deterrant to future conflicts, genocide memorials have been set up, supported by the government in many parts of the country. A national memorial day is held on 7th April each year to remind people of the dark days, reflect and pray for long lasting peace.

During my visit, we visited a village which was set up for orphans in Ntamara town of Bugasera district, and another village for widows, both groups survivors and / or victims of the genocide. It was during this visit that we went to visit a genocide memorial in Ntamara.
Gaspard, a lanky young man probably in his late twenties met us at the gate. “Francais or Anglais”, he asked. “Anglais, silvou plait”, I requested, and he smiled. “I am your guide here and I will show you around”, he started. “First, we will visit the church, which was the scene of the attack. Many women and children had taken refuge here as they thought that they were safe in a place of worship. During the violence in 1959, 1970s, 1980s and in 1991, people had sought refuge in churches and had survived. Hence, the church was considered a safe haven. It is impossible to think of how people could kill other people in this place”, he said.

“It was April 15, 1994”, Gaspard continued. “Many people had assembled in this compound. They had heard of the attackers approaching and were terrified. They sought refuge here. Soon, the attackers reached the compound. Even though they knew that most of the people in the church were women and children, (as the men were out fighting or engaged in the conflict), they did not hesitate”. And then, he continued with the narration of the attack.

As he led us into the church, the first sight that greeted us was shelves against the wall full of skulls and bones of the victims, a chilling sight. As we turned to the left, we saw a rope slung from one wall across to the other wall strewn with clothes that had stains and dirt on it. “These are the clothes of the children and women who were killed”, he said. A little further ahead were some coffins adorned with flowers and small wreaths. “These are some of the victims whose bodies were recovered in recent times”. And then he pointed out to a shelf containing an assortment of items – jerry cans, bottles, flasks, utensils, bins, mattresses, boxes, things that people had brought with them when they came to hide in the church.

Gaspard then pointed out to a large window with a ventilation grill made of cement, which was partially open. “The attackers wanted to ensure that all those inside were killed. They thus broke this ventilation and threw hand grenades”. In a corner, we saw an assortment of gruesome weapons – swords, metal chisels,daggers, sickle, steel kama, knives, axes, hammer and machetes. “Weapons used by the attackers”, he said, expressionless. A strange smell permeated the room. It was difficult to say if it was the smell of dried blood and charred remains of bodies…..after all these years. Or was I imagining it ? Certainly made me very, very uncomfortable !

As we came out of the church, he took us to a small house outside. This is where children apparently came to study and learn from the religious text. A shelf in the wall had a collection of various kinds of books in a state of disarray, with dust accumulated. “These are the books of children who were studying here and were killed”, he explained.

We then went around the church. He showed us a house which had been partially destroyed, though the basic structure was still there. “Here there was a family living. Some other people had also gathered here. The attackers came and started attacking them. They were helpless. But to ensure that they were killed, the attackers took a mattress, set it on flames and threw it on the victims. Several charred bodies were discovered in this house”, he said.

He then took us to the last building which was also a prayer room, with rows of benches for people to sit and pray. This was the most gruesome sight of the massacre. “Look there”, he said. For the first time I noticed a change of tone in Gaspard’s voice. There seemed to be a wave of emotions coming up, probably affecting his narration, which up until now seemed to be expressionless. “Can you see the dark patch on the wall there”? Yes, we did. “This is the stain of blood and hair of babies whose heads were mercilessly bashed against the walls”, he send, sending a chill down my spine. HOW could anyone possibly do that ? “They picked the children, one at a time, by their feet and bashed their heads against the wall”, he said. It was too much. I could hear the screams and wails of the children as their short lives met with such a violent end. And I wondered what state their mothers may have been, for many of them were in that room, witness to this barbaric act of cruelty. He then pointed out to a long stick with a pointed end. “This is the stick that the attackers used on women”, he said. “They pushed the sharp end of the stick into the vagina of women, and then pulled it out, which meant that the women bled to death”, he said, sending yet another chill.

“Where were you when this genocide happened”, I asked Gaspard. He must have been in his mid-teens at the most when it happened. “I was in the same area and I witnessed many of these attackers. I managed to survive. I escaped to the swamps nearby and spend two weeks there. And then I realized that I was too isolated and did not get any information on what else was happening. I did not want to come back to the village, fearing an attack. So I went to the hills where I know there were people resisting these attacks. I joined them to fight with them, but also to know what was happening”, he said. “I am a survivor of the genocide”.

There was a silence after that. We looked at him. I saw a distant look in his eyes. Surely, his mind would have wandered to those horrific sights and those terrifying experiences. His eyes or his face did not give anything away. Perhaps, he was trying to forget it all. Perhaps he was living with it every single day. Perhaps he had been overwhelmed with a feeling of numbness, having been so close to the scene. Perhaps he still had a deep rooted fear of it happening again. Or perhaps, he thought that was his destiny !

There is a nice garden in the compound. Lovely plants and trees give an air of serenity and calm. There are twenty tiles, each with thirteen names of victims who had been identified. Apparently, there are still new discoveries of bodies, or the remains and attempts are made to identify them by name, so that their family members, if they survived could at least come here and pray for them.

Today, Rwanda is hailed as the Switzerland of Africa. It aims to be a leader in industrial and agriculture development, and IT. It has a charismatic, forceful President who is keen to put Rwanda firmly on the path of progress. Chinese investments are quite apparent. The roads are squeaky clean. Kigali is glistening and beautiful city. But a look beyond the gleaming new buildings will reveal remnants of the genocide period. It somehow still affects or is part of the daily lives of people who find it difficult, nay impossible to banish the thoughts away.

Nshuti, our Team Leader, had his own personal story to see. In the aftermath of the genocide, many people fled their homes and many houses were vacant. When people returned back, they started occupying the houses that were available. Nshuti, like most others, also went an occupied a house, only to find two dead bodies of victims in the house. “I took the bodies out, buried them, cleaned the house and started living there”, he said nonchalantly. He has, since then, moved out. But those memories still linger !