Today I wandered to Des Mille Collines, known from Hotel Rwanda. Let me tell you – it is a fancy establishment. Two of my teammates and I had hung out in downtown Kigali for the afternoon and we decided to go see it. We went to the outdoor bar, sat down and got something to drink just so that we could sit there for a little while. Everyone around us was older; they sat at tables and talked in English and other unknown languages over coffee or beer. Automatically, I wonder what they’re doing in Rwanda and what stories they have to tell.
Like so often on the World Race, today we looked desperately out of place. There are many times when I have found myself in a really fancy, well-to-do, upscale place and felt inferior, or underdressed. I saw women in pinstriped trousers and heels. Some were wearing cocktail dresses. Men were dressed similarly; many were in suits.
In contrast to that, there I am in pants that cost me $3.00 in Kathmandu (which are baggy, green, and have a hole at my left knee), a band tee and my Vibram Fivefingers. Of course, my hair is also currently in a faux-hawk and I’m carrying a backpack. “Awesome.” I think, “I don’t stick out whatsoever.” I have gotten used to it though.
Food and drinks are both ridiculously expensive, especially for my newfound Race standards. The waiters are all in white dress shirts and black slacks, complete with ties. Looking around, the grounds are gorgeous. From where I’m sitting it seems impossible that eighteen years ago there was genocide here in Rwanda. When I was in kindergarten, people were being slaughtered in this country. For me, eighteen years is a long time – it’s almost my entire existence – but it’s hard to forget something like that.
Now, the grass is green and the lawn neatly trimmed. A beautifully clear pool is clean and blue. Within a few yards of the pool are hammocks, lawn chairs, tables with cloth umbrellas. Luxurious is the word that comes to my mind. To be honest it doesn’t compute with the picture that I have in my head of Africa. It seems out of place here, just like I do within it.
Yet, the truth is – I can’t but help imagining this place littered with dead bodies.
It would have been easy to see the horrors unfold from this spot on the hill. You would have heard the gunfire, the screams, the cries of desperation and hopelessness. You would have smelled the death in the valley. You would have seen the rebels coming.
I shake my head in astonishment when I think of throngs of people taking refuge here. It’s a hotel! It wasn’t built with defense in mind. All that separates the grounds from the outside is a fence. To say that it would have been terrifying is an understatement. Sitting there, trapped, defenseless, knowing that just beyond the chain link fence is an evil that threatens to humiliate and destroy you? How did anyone survive? It is a testament to human will, to be sure. I imagine the mental and emotional damage would be enough to debilitate any survivor.
The things that happened in 1994 will have repercussions for decades.
Like a ripple, this will affect generations to come.
It’s horrific to imagine. This is the stuff that nightmares are made of. If I’m completely honest, I have had more nightmares, each distinctly violent, in these past three weeks than I have all Race. Each morning I awake with the lingering of brutality in my mind.
As I walk around these streets, and as I look around this hotel, I wonder. I am living in Rwanda. My mind connects Rwanda to genocide without skipping a beat. But this is no longer just a story. It no longer is a lecture from my history class. It is reality.
I have walked the corridors of the memorial. I have read the accounts, seen the pictures, watched the video footage. I quietly stopped and stood nearby as a high school boy broke down sobbing. I watched him be consoled by teachers. I have an idea of what has happened to him, but no specifics.
How many of these people lost their entire families? Their spouses, parents or children? How many of them barely escaped death or watched as others were chopped to bits by machetes? Which ones have tales to tell of betrayal and desperation? Were any of these people the perpetrators themselves? Did their hands wield the weapons that took innocent lives?
History tells a wretched tale, one that often features blood. The wars, the battles, the genocides, the oppression, the prejudice. I could give you a long list and I could easily not hit all of the times we have decided to be deranged. Inhumane. I honestly don’t have language that is strong enough. That’s vile enough. My studies of history these past few years have only scraped the surface of human atrocities and I’ve heard enough to make my head spin.
Mass graves at Kigali Memorial
How do people deal with such horrors, such tragedies? At some point it must just become so overwhelming that you have to ignore it because if you give into it you will never be able to function again. Life can never be “normal” again after something like that, no matter how much you might want it to be.
It’s not the end of the story though.
God is not done with Rwanda.
It’s a dreadful story, and a harsh reality but it isn’t the last say.
Check out my next blog to hear about the Hope of Rwanda.
