Do You Know What Death Smells Like?

I do.


This is my best attempt at putting into words something you have to experience for yourself to truly understand.  I contemplated not even writing a post about this, because after visiting Murambi Genocide Memorial, I knew I wouldn't have been able to understand it if someone had tried to explain it to me.  But then it occurred to me that if I didn't write about it, I would not only be doing a disservice to anyone who reads this, but also to myself, this experience, and to all the souls who rest at Murambi.  And so it goes...

This is the most emotional, necessary, and important thing I have ever done in my life and that I will ever write about in this blog.  I've included a few pictures, none of them my own, that are harsh -- but in my opinion they are necessary.  All I can ask is that you please try to understand.



This is the truth of genocide,
and its the reason I had to come here.

Murambi, in Butare district in southwest Rwanda, is the site of the massacre of over 40,000 Rwandans.  (Can you visualize 40,000 of anything?)  It was a technical school on a hilltop where Tutsis were told to go for safety...  the last thing they found there.  The Interahamwe Militia, who perpetrated the genocide, cut off the water and food supply to weaken their victims.  They eventually attacked from all sides, killing with grenades and guns, but primarily with machetes.  Their victims didn't stand a chance, and very few survived.

This is the extent of the narrative of Murambi.  Its that simple, and that tragic.



We went to Murambi on a rainy Tuesday, and mist hung in the air.  The first thing I noticed?  How absolutely, undeniably, shockingly beautiful it was.  They say Rwanda is the land of a thousand hills, and this place is no exception.  It's surrounded by vast greenness, and on this dark day of rain and thunder, mist rose from the earth as birds flew high overhead.  Has natural beauty ever made you cry?  Maybe it would if, right in the middle of all that wonder, was the final resting place of forty thousand lives cut short.

We were all briefed on what we would find here.  A year after the genocide, the few survivors returned to dig up the mass graves of their loved ones.

They decided, of their own accord and with their own meager funding, to turn Murambi into a memorial.  But this is not your typical museum, even by Rwandan standards.

The dead have been removed from their graves, preserved in lime, and placed in the rooms where they were killed, lain snugly together on wooden platforms.

We knew we didn't have to go into the 28 different rooms, filled with a total of 800 corpses.

But we did.

Once the first room was opened, I realized what Stefanie (our Academic Director) meant when she said that the smell would be the thing we would always remember.
Do you know what death smells like?
I truly hope that you don't...
... and I'll never be able to explain it to you.
I'll never forget the hour I spent breathing it in and trying to understand why.


When I walked into the rooms, I walked right up to the corpses, an inch away from them.
I could have touched them if I wanted to.

There are no plaques to read, no informational pamphlets of facts and figures, no audioguide to spit information into your ear.  It is simply an emotional experience, a plain and simple truth you have to feel.

There were children clutched in their mother's arms.
There were heads with hair still attached, blowing ever so slightly in the breeze that wafted through the iron-barred windows.
There were corpses still wearing their clothes, ill-fitting after decomposition.


You could see the expressions on their faces: some horrified, some peaceful.

You could see the contortions of their muscles, their bodies positioned as they had died: some in defensive stances, knees bent and hands outstretched to deflect the blows of the machete...
 and some, the children, curled up in positions not unlike how I sleep every night.

The hardest thing for me to reconcile was how beautiful and peaceful this place seemed with the inhumanity and terror that occurred here.
As I walked I could hear birds singing and children playing.
When I stepped far enough away from the buildings, the only smell that hung in the air was the rain.
I tried so hard to imagine what it must have been like for those who perished here, praying for salvation but knowing all they awaited was death.


For a long time I've doubted the existence of God, but I've always had faith in humanity.  After this experience, however, all I felt was a growing feeling of fury towards mankind.  How could we have let this happen?  After the Holocaust and declaring "Never Again," the world stood by and watched as over a million innocent people were brutally slaughtered.  And yet we did nothing to stop it.  And now, today, after witnessing this and countless other genocides in our recent history, there are people being killed in genocides AS WE SPEAK.

WHY?

We joked that the next G20 summit should be held at Murambi.  Then we all paused a beat and realized it was probably the best solution we could ever come up with for the complete apathy of our society.

You cannot visit Murambi and not leave a changed person.  It simply isn't possible.
It isn't possible to leave without a new perspective, a shaken faith in your spiritual beliefs, a soul numb with the realization that we, as humans, are capable of such horrific crimes, and lungs full of air that only smells of loss and sadness.



I don't know if I've done justice to this experience with these words... I doubt I have.  But that's only because it was such a visceral, emotional, and personal experience, and I honestly think its impossible to understand unless you've been there yourself.

That said, I wish every single human being could share in this experience.

I had the heartbreaking realization at Murambi that I don't have the power to make the world give a damn.  If compassion for injustice and for human life isn't already inside of you, it might never be.  Maybe that's why so many people couldn't understand why it is I needed to come to this place.
So that begs the question: what is it that really matters in this world?
Is it power, wealth, and influence?
Or is it something more... compassion, tolerance, and forgiveness?

After Murambi, we visited a women's cooperative in which women who have lost their families to the genocide live alongside women whose husbands are imprisoned as perpetrators.  When asked what message they wanted us to bring back to the west, one woman stood and left us with this:
"Tell them to love, only love, and this will never happen again."

And so this is the sentiment I leave with you: love.

Gisozi Genocide Memorial, Kigali

Disclaimer: the upcoming few posts, mostly centered around the genocide memorials we're visiting here in Rwanda, might be graphic at times.  Please be careful reading them if you are in any way opposed to viewing detailed descriptions of the 1994 Rwanda genocide.

That being said, if you are opposed... maybe you should read anyway.
This is the reality of what happened here.
Although its hard to read about... imagine living through it.
And yet life goes on...


What a fine way to kick off our stay in Kigali: a second-day slap in the face by genocide.

Gisozi Memorial is the main genocide memorial in Kigali, and is home to a museum that tells the story of the Rwanda Genocide of 1994 and genocides around the world.

Much more than simply a museum, it is also the site of mass graves of the victims of the genocide.  It is the final resting place of a quarter of a million Rwandans who lost their lives in and around Kigali in the 100 days of genocide beginning in April 1994.  (That's only a fraction of the estimated one million lives lost in the entire country.)

Upon arriving at Gisozi, we were encouraged to wander the grounds and museum alone and to reflect on the impact of the memorial.  I began outside, looking at the mass graves, the incomplete wall of names of victims (which will never be complete... in many instances entire families were killed together, and there is therefore no way to account for every life lost... there is no one left to remember them), and the gardens surrounding the building.  It was difficult to connect with the reality of how many souls rest in this place, because the mass graves essentially consist of enourmous slabs of concrete raised a foot or so from the ground.

It was impossible for me to imagine the grand scale of a quarter million people dead without cause.

The gardens, aptly named things such as "Garden of Reconciliation," had a much stronger impact.  The symbolism incorporated into the gardens - concentric circles of rosebushes, flowing water between the separated gardens, statues of elephants to represent the desire to never forget - all tugged at my heartstrings.  I sat in the gardens for a while, trying to grasp the chaos that descended upon Kigali during those 100 days.

The museum is divided into multiple sections: part is dedicated to the Rwandan genocide, part to genocides around the world, and part to the child victims of genocide.

There is an abundance of information, statistics, and detailed accounts of the genocide, as well as smaller sections about international intervention (or lack thereof...), heroes of genocide, and reconciliation programs today.

Not only is there detailed information and analysis, but also much more tangible artifacts:

• A heavy chain and padlock, which was used to bind a man and woman together as they were buried alive.
• A box full of machetes, clubs, axes, and shotguns, all weapons of mass murder.
• There is a room full of bones and skulls, and a few had visible bullet holes or cracks - likely from a machete.
• One was full of clothing... clothing people put on in the morning, not knowing it was to be the day they would die.
• One room was full of photographs of victims.  Often, these were the only photographs families had of their lost loved ones, and they chose to give them to the memorial to be remembered by all who visit.

The most difficult part of the memorial was the room for the child victims.  There were large photographs of the kids (most would be about my age now had they survived), again often the only ones their families had.  They were displayed above plaques that recounted information about them, often such things as their favorite games, favorite foods, their best friends, their personality traits...

their last words:
"Mom, where can I run to?"
"UNAMIR will come for us."

and how they were killed:

• stabbed in the eyes.
• repeatedly slammed against a wall.
• shot in the head.
• machete in his mother's arms.

This is the reality of genocide.  Gisozi was difficult, but it was by far the most tame of the places we'll visit.  Tomorrow we travel to Murambi, which is the site of the massacre of over 40,000 Rwandans.  The bodies, preserved in lime, have been left as they were when they were killed.  We are told the smell of death permeates Murambi.

And so this experience continues.

All I can say is that despite the horror Rwanda has seen... life goes on.  I suppose that's all we can learn from anything.  Despite the worst... life goes on.

The Epic Update: Final Days in Uganda and Arrival in Rwanda!

For the multitudes of family and friends back home that I haven't updated in a while, I've been in Kigali, Rwanda for three days now.

Leaving Gulu was bittersweet.  I developed such a strong connection to my family, but it was time to move on to new things.  The only consolation is that I'll be back there in less than four weeks for my ISP.  I can't wait to see my family and friends again and get back to the comfortable, homey atmosphere of Gulu.  I'm literally counting down the days.

Catchup on things we've done since leaving Gulu last week:

JINJA:
Jinja, on Lake Victoria, is home to the SOURCE OF THE NILE.

I exist in Africa!  standing in front of the source of the River Nile.

Yes, that's right.  I stood on a small island and watched deep blue water bubble up from an underground spring to flow over rapids and down waterfalls through Uganda, Sudan, and Egypt to the Mediterranean Sea.  (Some argue the source of the Nile is in Burundi... pish posh.)  Jinja was absolutely beautiful, and we also visited a series of waterfalls that will disappear at the end of this year when Uganda's newest dam is completed.

MBARARA:
Mbarara, in southern Uganda, is home to Nakivale Refugee Camp.  Although we didn't get to go to the camp due to a new rule that requires requesting permission from the Office of the Prime Minister, we talked with some of the Rwandan refugees who live in the camp.  Uganda hosts refugees from all over East Africa, but the ones we talked to were specifically from Rwanda.  They claim they fled Rwanda due to land conflicts and fear of violent retribution from victims of genocide, but it is also entirely possible that they were perpetrators in the 1994 genocide and fear prosecution by the Gacaca Courts.  I suppose we'll never really know.

We were also reunited with the other half of our group, who have been in Rwanda this past month, in Mbarara.  I think we scared them a bit with our tales from Gulu... we all realized that it was definitely better to go to Gulu first, get the "worst" of it over, and then really appreciate the cushy life of Kigali.  And by cushy I mean reliable electricity and the resources of a metropolis.  That being said... I can't wait to go back to my lovely little Gulu.

Doreen, one of the girls in my class and on the list of my top five favorite people in the entire world, is a native Ugandan and Rwandan.  Her family has a home in Mbarara, so Doreen, Rachel, and I skipped out on the hotel and stayed at her house for the two nights we were in Mbarara.  We were spoiled in her beautiful home, and I took my first hot shower in a real bathtub since I've arrived on this continent.  BEST. DAY. EVER.

family photo time!

And now, the biggie: ARRIVAL IN RWANDA!

The drive through southern Uganda and northern Rwanda was nothing if not spectacular.

Rwanda is the most densely populated country in sub-Saharan Africa, and therefore it is necessary for ALL land to be used in some way.  You'd be hard-pressed to find any land in Rwanda not being used for commercial, residential, or agricultural purposes.  The hills and mountains are terraced so that every inch can be farmed, and this makes for the most beautiful scenery I have ever seen.

Once we got into the city, we settled in to our new office (which is stellar) and began our Kinyarwanda language lessons.  Much more difficult than you would expect, especially after a month of learning Acholi and Luganda.  But I need to learn this language if I want to communicate with my homestay mother, Faith, who doesn't speak a word of English apart from "How are you?"

Kigali is so overwhelming, but much more manageable than Kampala.

Best thing about this city so far?  THEY HAVE TRAFFIC LAWS AND A HEALTHY RESPECT FOR PEDESTRIANS.  I cannot say as much for Uganda.

I Was Sent on a Mission...

...by the Senior 6 girls of Pope John Paul II College.  And it was this:

that I tell all the Ugandan men I meet that muzungu women only want men who remain faithful and honest to their partners.  WHAT?!

These girls (all around the ages of 18 or 19, about to finish the equivalent of high school) held the belief that because many Ugandan men want muzungu women, they will listen to us when we say that men should be faithful and not stray.  They felt the biggest problem they face is that the men they date go off into town and sleep with other women, then bring back HIV and give it to their unsuspecting girlfriends.

They put an enormous weight on my shoulders to carry this message outside the protective walls of their school, which apparently aren’t strong enough to protect them against foolish sexual decisions.

I felt like this was a direct link to the fact that so many western aid organizations come to Gulu, and muzungus are sometimes seen as the ones who can fix the problems of this place.  Thus is one of the major problems of western aid: creating a society dependent on NGOs and outside assistance to solve problems that only the people themselves can remedy, and contributing to the already apathetic attitude of the government.

You just wait, Independent Study... I'm coming for ya.

Spirit Animals

Yes, I’m a cliché.

No, I don’t hate it.

I went on safari.

Last Saturday, all 14 of us (plus Martin, our homestay coordinator… we love him) traveled to Murchison Falls National Park, a three-hour trip southwest of Gulutown.  We left before dawn (5:30 am to be exact) and arrived in the park just as it was getting light.

I lucked out getting in the van I did, as ours had a sunroof that we spent the majority of the time standing out of.  No joke, all I needed was The Lion King soundtrack playing and I was the title character in a coming-of-age made-for-TV movie.

ELEPHANTS.

GIRAFFES.

HIPPOS.

COBBS.

AWESOME.

We also took a boat ride about 16 km down the River Nile.

beware crocodiles.

We were cliché yet again, and took the obligatory “Nile on the Nile.”

I said that if I left Africa without seeing an elephant and a giraffe, the whole trip would have been a fail…

AFRICA = SUCCESS.

Now I guess I need new goals.  Probably they should concern learning.

The Slave Trade

Two weeks ago (yes, I know I've been slacking on posting), we went on excursion to Baker’s Fort in Patiko.

Sir Samuel Baker was a British explored who came to Africa in search of the source of the River Nile.  What he found was an avid Arab slave trade.

Baker’s Fort is essentially a natural rock formation that the Arabs used as a trading post before their captives were transported to Khartoum and on to Europe to be sold.  Baker later took over the fort and used it as a headquarters for his soldiers in his fight to end the slave trade in East Africa.

It was strange to stand in awe of the natural beauty of this place and realize this is where many Ugandans of days gone by met their fate.  There were specific sections pointed out to us by our guide that were used for firing squads, and more gruesomely, a slanted surface of rock that was used as a site for beheadings.  You can still see the axe marks in the stone, and up until a few years ago, you could still see blood stains.

beaheading platform.

cave where female slaves were kept before they were transported.

firing squad.

The slave trade had an active role in shaping the history of this region.  In school growing up we spent most of our time looking at the West African slave trade, which supplied forced labor to the Americas, but never really looked at the Arab slave traders in the east.  It was certainly an eye-opening experience to step foot in a place so rich with history.  Despite its gruesome past, Baker’s Fort is likely one of the most interesting and beautiful places we’ve visited.