Reflections on A Genocide

Walking down the streets of Kigali the absence of smog, traffic, garbage, panhandlers, roadside peddlers and touts is striking. The buildings are beautiful and new. Plastic bags are nowhere to be found. People are friendly. You feel safe. Corruption hasn’t emptied the coffers. Development has taken off. You don’t feel like you are in the middle of an African capital city. You don’t feel like you are in Africa. (Almost.) Even the open air markets seem orderly.  Perhaps a bit too orderly. Perhaps a bit too controlled. But quiet, beautiful, and safe nonetheless.

It’s hard to imagine that a genocide of over a million people occurred in this tiny country less than two decades ago. It’s hard to imagine, but it’s impossible to forget. Most of the adults here lived through it. Looking at men and women my age, I can’t help but wonder what they experienced 18 years ago. But I don’t dare bring it up. It seems too sensitive, too close, too painful to bring up with a stranger on a taxi ride or on the side of the street. It’s not just the normal political banter that you can toss back and forth. It’s too deep, too raw, too personal.

So I went to the Rwandan Genocide Memorial in Kigali. And there you are confronted with the horrific history of this place. The ethnic divisions established by the Belgium colonial rule, the subsequent decades of violence and discrimination, the systematic brainwashing and careful planning of an annihilation of a people, the blatant lack of a response by the international community, and the loss of over a million innocent lives. I walk through the memorial, reading every word, looking at every picture, taking in a deep breath over the rows of mass graves. I hold it together. Until I reach the final exhibit.

The children. Pictures of children, under which is written their names, their ages, their favorite foods, their favorite games, and then how they were killed. How they were murdered. An 8 year old boy beaten to death by a club. A 4 year old boy machetted to death. A 7 year old girl stabbed in the eyes and the head. A 9 month old girl burned in her mother’s arm in a church. He liked to play soccer. Her favorite food was chocolate. How did this happen?

How can we do this to each other? How are we capable of such violence? This is not a single, isolated event. It has happened over and over again. What makes people turn on their friends, their loved ones, and treat them with such brutality?

It’s strange being in Rwanda, asking these questions, especially on this particular day. Today is March 4^th, 2013. Today is election day in Kenya. Five years ago Kenya’s elections turned violent, with over 1,000 people killed. As one tribe turned against the other, as the roadblocks were put up, as the machetes were wielded, as the churches were burned, as neighbor killed neighbor and husband killed wife, it looked like Kenya was on the brink of becoming the next Rwanda. The violence was brought under control, but the issues were not resolved. And now Kenya is preparing for round two. Most Kenyans are proudly voting and desperately praying for peace. But their idealism is gone. Workers migrated back to their home region to vote, criss-crossing the country. Mamas stocked up on food, water, and phone credit in anticipation of a potential shut-down. Businesses ran down their stocks in case of widespread (or targeted) theft. Everyone hopes, but no one believes. Because they know it can happen… again.

How does this happen? How do we stop it? What makes us capable of such violence? What makes up capable of love and compassion? And what makes one person risk their life to save a fellow human being while another person joins the violence? And if placed in that situation, who would you be? Who are you now?

I left Kenya during the elections. I have that option. I can’t vote. I can leave. Is that right? Can I say this isn’t my fight? Can I say that I’m more likely to be a burden than a help if things get bad? That’s certainly how I felt the last time I was in Kenya during the election violence. Do I believe that? Yes, I do. But there is still a fluttering of guilt, a feeling that I abandoned my fellow humans… a reminder that the world fled Rwanda.