Update: Join us on July 9th at noon (eastern) for a live Twitter Q&A with Tom and Dan from Juba, South Sudan. You can submit a question in advance or use the hashtag #inSudan to follow the action on Twitter.
The Rwandan genocide in 1994 was what originally set me along my current path working for an organization dedicated to ending genocide and mass atrocities. I was a high school student who knew just enough history to be horrified by the Holocaust and certain that something like that could never happen again. Seeing genocide happening in Rwanda was nearly incomprehensible to me.
Years of study and professional pursuits related to the fight against genocide and I am no closer to comprehending why. Indeed, being now in Rwanda and looking over the lush green rolling hills and speaking with the welcoming people, it seems even harder to explain.
If I think of visiting Rwanda as a pilgrimage of sorts for me, then Murambi is the ultimate pilgrimage site, a gruesome reminder of what genocide can do. Murambi was the site of a slaughter of more than 50,000 peoople who had gathered under the false belief that the picturesque hilltop setting was a place of refuge. Some 848 bodies have been preserved with lime as a reminder of what happened there. The captured gestures are haunting; hands up to block falling machetes, crushed skulls of small children, the mystery of an extended pointer finger (in fear or defiance?).
Words cannot describe the feeling of being in the midst of this captured terror. So as I walk from room to room, holding my breath against the smell of lime and death, the only appropriate response is silence.
Yet upon leaving each room, ears are met by the peaceful sounds of rural life, a breath of fresh mountain air flows into the lungs, and the eyes are met with a bitter contrast of surrounding natural beauty. The contrast is nearly overwhelming, such horror amongst such beauty.
One part of the memorial tells the story of a survivor, one of just 14 known among more than 50,000 in Murambi. She tells of genocidaires surrounding the buildings, throwing grenades, and using a spiked club to kill a child before her eyes.
Leaving the memorials as the Rwandan sun begins to dip low, I am left imagining hate-fueled monsters streaming up the hill toward the thousands of innocent victims. I struggle more than ever to make sense of it all and cannot begin to imagine how those directly affected by such violence might cope.
The voice of my Rwandan driver breaks me from my contemplation. “Agahozo Rwanda”, he says reaching for the radio volume in answer to my confusion. “Rwanda peace” he replies in his broken English and goes on to explain the lyrics of the catchy up-beat song that is playing. “Never again in Rwanda. The sun is coming up. Birds are flying. Birds do not fly during war. There is no father, no mother, no brother, but there is the future. Never again. Agahozo Rwanda.”










