Nyamata - The Church of Death
Since arriving in Rwanda, I have struggled to understand how a country so clean, so efficient, so well managed, so friendly, could have hosted the mass killing of over 1 million people not even 18 years ago.
Disclaimer: This was a very sobering experience and I did not spare the grim details in the following paragraphs.
The capital city Kigali, is home to the Kigali Memorial Museum along with a handful of other small memorials erected in honor of those innocent people who perished. I had the sobering experience of visiting both the museum and one of the smaller monuments - a church on the outskirts of Kigali.
Disclaimer: This was a very sobering experience and I did not spare the grim details in the following paragraphs.
The capital city Kigali, is home to the Kigali Memorial Museum along with a handful of other small memorials erected in honor of those innocent people who perished. I had the sobering experience of visiting both the museum and one of the smaller monuments - a church on the outskirts of Kigali.
Venturing 30 km’s out of the city to the small town of Nyamata, I couldn’t help but admire the countryside. Lush and verdant, the rolling hills spread in all directions with hundreds of small ranches and meticulously terraced farmlands speckling the vista. Once home to thousands of Tutsi farmers and cattle herders, the Catholic Church in town harbored a strong sense of community and fellowship between Tutsi and Hutu parishoners. Run by a vibrant Italian Catholic nun named Sister Tonia Locatelli, the church was more then just a place for prayer and thanks, it was a place for safety. As ethnic tensions flared in the years leading up to the genocide, Sister Locatelli protected thousands of Tutsi under the name of God and the defense of her churches brick walls and small, tin roof. |
It was this sense of safety, that drew thousands of Tutsi back to the Nyamata Church when the 100 days of Terror begain in 1994. Not even Sister Tonia and her walls of God, could stop the horror.
Before entering the Church, a female employee of the now, genocide memorial, greeted us with this backstory. She spoke slowly and without emotion. As if the story was something of the ice age, not within her young lifetime. Still trying to process all the grim information presented, she then invited us inside the church.
Swinging open the heavy rod iron gate, once barring all the poor Tutsi refugees within, we crossed from the gates of heaven to the gates of hell.
Met first by a stale, acrid smell, it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dim light before recognizing the material all over the floor. Clothing. Torn, soiled and bloodied, clothing of the deceased layered every surface. I didn’t even realize there were wooden pews beneath the garments until nearing the altar.
The woman continued with the history. Throwing small grenade into the church, the Interhamw militia and local Hutu gencodiaries, would blow up people for sport. Trying to inflict as much dismemberment and pain as possible before moving in with clubs, machetes and blunt farm tools to finish the deed. As for toddlers and small children weapons were not necessary. Hutu would simply throw their small bodies against walls and bash their heads into the bricks until they went limp.
During the chaos, the pews were riddled with body parts, the brick walls saturated in blood and the alter soaked in tears. This is why the memorial has been organized in the same fashion. The dirtied and discolored clothing lay on the pews where parishoners once sat and the altar still dressed the same holy cloth.
Walking around the church was sobering to say the absolute least. The chill that ran through my spine walking in only increased throughout. A cool breath of death from those who took their final breath’s within. Slowly nearing the altar, my eyes continued to register everything around but my brain failed to comprehend. Tears welling, I did the only thing I could. Pray. Pray for those poor souls whose lives ended here, in the bosom of God.
The woman then led us down a tiled staircase into the church basement where a large glass display case waited. Full of skulls, bones and stained I.D. cards (found on the bodies), the methods of death were discussed in detail. Three skulls portrayed these main methods of death; cranial crush by club, slice by machete and single hole from a bullet. A coffin draped in a holy white cloth and purple crucifix laid below the display case. The final resting place for a pregnant woman murdered by a machete through her reproductive organs.
Before entering the Church, a female employee of the now, genocide memorial, greeted us with this backstory. She spoke slowly and without emotion. As if the story was something of the ice age, not within her young lifetime. Still trying to process all the grim information presented, she then invited us inside the church.
Swinging open the heavy rod iron gate, once barring all the poor Tutsi refugees within, we crossed from the gates of heaven to the gates of hell.
Met first by a stale, acrid smell, it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the dim light before recognizing the material all over the floor. Clothing. Torn, soiled and bloodied, clothing of the deceased layered every surface. I didn’t even realize there were wooden pews beneath the garments until nearing the altar.
The woman continued with the history. Throwing small grenade into the church, the Interhamw militia and local Hutu gencodiaries, would blow up people for sport. Trying to inflict as much dismemberment and pain as possible before moving in with clubs, machetes and blunt farm tools to finish the deed. As for toddlers and small children weapons were not necessary. Hutu would simply throw their small bodies against walls and bash their heads into the bricks until they went limp.
During the chaos, the pews were riddled with body parts, the brick walls saturated in blood and the alter soaked in tears. This is why the memorial has been organized in the same fashion. The dirtied and discolored clothing lay on the pews where parishoners once sat and the altar still dressed the same holy cloth.
Walking around the church was sobering to say the absolute least. The chill that ran through my spine walking in only increased throughout. A cool breath of death from those who took their final breath’s within. Slowly nearing the altar, my eyes continued to register everything around but my brain failed to comprehend. Tears welling, I did the only thing I could. Pray. Pray for those poor souls whose lives ended here, in the bosom of God.
The woman then led us down a tiled staircase into the church basement where a large glass display case waited. Full of skulls, bones and stained I.D. cards (found on the bodies), the methods of death were discussed in detail. Three skulls portrayed these main methods of death; cranial crush by club, slice by machete and single hole from a bullet. A coffin draped in a holy white cloth and purple crucifix laid below the display case. The final resting place for a pregnant woman murdered by a machete through her reproductive organs.
Exiting the church, we had the opportunity to ask many questions. Our attendant, answering each one just as slow and methodical as before. Thanks to Claire, a travel buddy and fluent French Canadian, her every painful word was translated. She lost her entire family to the genocide. Her parents, sisters, aunts and uncles. She was 12. Hutu friends she had before the genocide, were now enemies. Neighbors she had lived alongside, did nothing to help her. She was alone. We did not want to press her as to how she survived (her empty eyes said enough) and instead we asked why and how she reopens the wound everyday. She has devoted her life to educating people about this difficult history so that it never happens again. |
Along with her moving story, she shared a story of a Hutu pastor who tried to hide his Tutsi wife from his community. Claiming to have already killed her. Hidden behind the church, in a small hole covered in banana leaves and dirt, he brought her food every morning and night. He did this until the last days of the genocide when the church gardener, also a Hutu, admitted what he had seen and the Hutu militia came for her. They told him to kill her and he refused. Saying kill him first. But instead they brutally murdered her in front of him and left the pastor alive, to always bare the wounds.
How, after so much hatred and brutality, could you ever forgive your fellow countrymen? Our attendant said when the genocide ended, it was as if life just went on. The killings stopped (for the most part) and the Hutu/Tutsi divide no longer mattered. Of course people were angry, sad and vengeful, but they somehow rose above the tragedy. I still cannot process such a forgiveness. Especially after what these families have been through, what these surviving children (now orphans) have seen, and the extreme guilt of those genocidiaries still living among the population.
Listening to her speak, I felt enraged. I wanted to rise up for her. Avenge her family, something. But her quite demeanor showed exhaustion and acceptance. No hope, just a somber mood that will always outline her life.
Before leaving the church, we had one more optional visit. To a mass crip. A rickety stair case led into the crip. Reaching a dusty wooden platform, two passages extended to the both the righ and the left. Directly in front were dozens of coffins again dressed in white cloths with purple crosses. The smell was overwhelming. The smell of bones and death. There was no glass display case here. A long, narrow aisle, flanked on both sides by shelves layered in skulls and bones. Fighting the tears and the emotion, I pressed further into the crip. The chilling feeling returned and I felt debilitated. Standing in the final resting place, praying for their souls and the souls of those at fault.
Thanking our attendant and signing the memorial guest book, I walked nobby kneed to the car. Birds sung, children laughed and the sweet smell of flowers filled my nose but nothing could soften my heart in those moments.
I returned to Kigali with a very different view on people. I can’t help but wonder if the person checking out my groceries was apart of the killings. Or if the women next to me on the bus lost any children to the atrocities. I look at every person with a profound sadness yet they return my gaze with a quiet hope. There are no answers to the questions. There are only solutions and that is what Rwanda is pursuing!
How, after so much hatred and brutality, could you ever forgive your fellow countrymen? Our attendant said when the genocide ended, it was as if life just went on. The killings stopped (for the most part) and the Hutu/Tutsi divide no longer mattered. Of course people were angry, sad and vengeful, but they somehow rose above the tragedy. I still cannot process such a forgiveness. Especially after what these families have been through, what these surviving children (now orphans) have seen, and the extreme guilt of those genocidiaries still living among the population.
Listening to her speak, I felt enraged. I wanted to rise up for her. Avenge her family, something. But her quite demeanor showed exhaustion and acceptance. No hope, just a somber mood that will always outline her life.
Before leaving the church, we had one more optional visit. To a mass crip. A rickety stair case led into the crip. Reaching a dusty wooden platform, two passages extended to the both the righ and the left. Directly in front were dozens of coffins again dressed in white cloths with purple crosses. The smell was overwhelming. The smell of bones and death. There was no glass display case here. A long, narrow aisle, flanked on both sides by shelves layered in skulls and bones. Fighting the tears and the emotion, I pressed further into the crip. The chilling feeling returned and I felt debilitated. Standing in the final resting place, praying for their souls and the souls of those at fault.
Thanking our attendant and signing the memorial guest book, I walked nobby kneed to the car. Birds sung, children laughed and the sweet smell of flowers filled my nose but nothing could soften my heart in those moments.
I returned to Kigali with a very different view on people. I can’t help but wonder if the person checking out my groceries was apart of the killings. Or if the women next to me on the bus lost any children to the atrocities. I look at every person with a profound sadness yet they return my gaze with a quiet hope. There are no answers to the questions. There are only solutions and that is what Rwanda is pursuing!