I am writing from beautiful Kigali, the capital of
Rwanda. I arrived yesterday
morning with my English friend, Ryan, after a 9-hour overnight bus ride from
Kampala (the Irishmen we were with got stuck in Kampala for a few days due to
visa complications). The ride was
very typical of the region—jerky, crowded, cold, and overall uncomfortable. The view of the Rwandan countryside once
the sun came up, however, made the discomfort completely worth it. Rwanda, “The Land of A Thousand Hills,”
is nothing but green as far as the eye can see, and the farming terraces
extending up the hillsides paint a rustic, romantic picture. Kigali is by far the nicest African
city I have visited so far. It is
also known as the safest capital city on the continent. Spanning several hills, the city is
clean (spotless, really), the roads well-maintained, and the people polite and
soft-spoken. English is less
commonly spoken in Rwanda than in Uganda or Kenya (French is more common. Rwandans also speak Kinyarwanda and
some Kiswahili), but we have had hardly any trouble so far.
The events of 1994, when the country descended into a
horrific 100-day-long genocide in which more than one million people were
brutally murdered and two million displaced, play a significant and visible
role in the national conscience.
Signs and billboards around Kigali commemorate the 18-year anniversary
of the violence, with slogans such as “Learning from our past to create a
better future.” Today Ryan and I
visited the Kigali Genocide Memorial, which, in addition to housing a museum
spotlighting the Rwandan genocide as well as other genocides of comparable
magnitude around the world, is the final resting place of some 250,000 genocide
victims. It was a powerful
experience, bringing both Ryan and I to tears. One room displays rows upon rows of human skulls and bones
of the deceased, and another shows photos of children who were murdered in the
conflict—including details such as their favorite food and exactly how they
were killed. For example:
“Francine, Age: 2; Personality: always smiling; Means of death: smashed into a
wall.” Other means of death included being hacked by a machete in their
mother’s arms, being thrown into a latrine pit, and a bullet in the head. Needless to say, it was difficult to
enjoy a casual meal at the museum café after emerging from such a somber atmosphere.
Currently, I am sitting by the pool at the elegant Hotel des
Mille Collines (in English, “Hotel of a Thousand Hills”), the site of the
events that inspired the Academy Award-winning film Hotel Rwanda. The
story centers on Paul Rusesabagina, who was given control over the hotel after
the European managers were evacuated.
Rusesabagina opened the hotel’s doors to an estimated 200 of the city’s
persecuted Tutsis and moderate Hutus and, in the face of great personal risk,
managed to keep the refugees safe through bribery, cunning, and courage. We are having drinks with a man whose
girlfriend—at the age of 12 and with only her two sisters as company—sought
solace under Rusesabagina’s protection for some 1.5 months. During the 100 days of madness, the refugees
consumed all the water in the swimming pool for cooking and drinking, and our
friend can point to the places in the bushes where the hunted hid from the
Interahamwe (the perpetrators of the genocide).
Tomorrow we are visiting a church 20 km outside the city,
where several hundred people perished after the church was barricaded and set
on fire. Most of the site is still
intact, and I am told that the experience at the memorial museum pales in
comparison to seeing piles of human remains, untouched since the genocide. The only survivor of this massacre is
your guide. I’ll let you know how
it goes.
