On July 15, 1994, the nightmare ended. It had been 100 days and nearly a million Tutsis were dead. Even though 85% of the population in Rwanda was Hutu, the Tutsi, a mere 10-14 % dominated the country in every way.
The Belgian Colonizers who controlled Rwanda from 1916 to 1961, believed that the Tutsi were more intelligent, tall, hardworking, better looking, with more Anglo- Saxon features. While the Hutu, were seen as short, ugly, big headed, big lipped, with an inferiority complex, shy and less intelligent. The Twa, representing 1 % of the population and also known as the indigenous people of Rwanda, were thought of as subhuman, and only good for manual labor. i
The Tutsi were put into position of power by the Belgians, while the Hutu were forced to do all the hard labor. ii Years after the Belgians left, the lack of infrastructure, poverty, and division in the community, were still taking a toll on Rwanda. Years of division and pent-up hatred had finally caught up to the Rwandan people. On April 6th, 1994, Rwandan President, Juvenal Habyarimana, was assassinated alongside Burundian president, Cyprien Ntaryamira, both Hutu, when their plane was shot down with surface-to-air missiles as their jet prepared to land in Kigali. Who shot it down? This is a question that is yet to be answered. What we do know is that this would be the beginning of what some would describe as the worst 100 days of their lives.
Post genocide, Rwanda has come a long way, becoming one of the fastest growing economies in Africa. Access to affordable health services has expanded through the introduction of community-based health insurance. The country is on track to reach the Millennium Development Goal on maternal health. Kigali, the capital, is a thriving city. “Life is orderly, pavements are clean, and roads are free from potholes that curse much of Africa. Kigali is nurturing a reputation as the safest city on the continent,” says The Guardian, a UK newspaper.iii
Such material progress can almost make you forget the scars of the past.
Trying to understand what happened in Rwanda is nearly impossible without experiencing it yourself. This does not mean that we should stop trying to do better. Before coming to Rwanda, I had a stop in Amsterdam. Fortunately, I was able to explore the city for a few hours. The beautiful flowers and canals that surround the city distract from the fact that thousands of people died there by the hands of the Nazi’s during WW2. Like the identification cards the Tutsi were obligated to show when requested, the Jews were forced to always wear a yellow star badge on their garments, this was how the Nazi’s constructed division. By the end of the war, 205,901 Dutch men, women and children had died of war-related causes. The Netherlands had the highest per capita death rate of all Nazi-occupied countries in Western Europe (2.36%). Over half (107,000) were Holocaust victims. Included in the victims was a 16-year-old girl named Anne Frank. She lived in Amsterdam and her house remains a museum to this day, a subtle reminder of what it once was.
One of my objectives while in Amsterdam was to visit Anne Frank’s house. To my disappointment, it was not yet open, so I sat outside on a bench staring at it. So much history, so much pain, so much suffering, and yet it just sat there, like nothing had happened. I thought to myself, “How lucky I’m I?” This was Anne Frank’s safe haven. Confined to the four walls of her home for 761 days, due to the fear that she could be executed on sight, she was never able to leave. Here I am, 77 years later, hoping, imploring, that this museum will open early so I can see where she hid from certain death. What a morbid and horrible thought that is, nevertheless, the reality of this world. Kigali reminds me of Amsterdam in a strange way, so much history and suffering, yet so beautiful and full of potential. Green hills and friendly faces any direction you choose to look. Yet, there is an ugly backstory permeating this place, and we are reminded of it every single day while we are here.
On our first day in Rwanda, we visited a local market. As I entered the market, I found myself surrounded by a wave of friendly faces, loud yelling, and eager salesman offering me and infinite selection of potential gifts for purchase. “Brother, give me a chance”, says one man, “no, no come here”, says another. This back and forth continuous for several minutes. I need a break from all of the commotion. I feel overwhelmed.
Exiting the market, I am instantly hit with the ugly truth of Rwanda’s recent brutal past. A man walks up to me, begging for food wearing torn clothes, battered sandals, no left hand, and only one finger on his right hand. He speaks very softly and gently, as Rwandans seem to do. I can barely hear him. He stares at me, and I stare at him and -- just like that -- I am struck with the reality of my privilege. The market and loud noises grow silent behind me, as if they no longer exist. I try to think of anything in my life that could compare to what this stranger has lived, and nothing comes close. His reality and my reality are polar opposites -- yet here we are. I give him money and walk away. But that’s the thing, I walked away. No matter how much I try to understand, I will never know what it feels like to not be able to walk away from the reality of something as traumatizing as having your hand cut of, and to think that in Rwanda, this is not the worst thing that could have happened to you during the Genocide.
We are now heading to the Kigali Genocide Memorial, a place where over 250,000 victims of the genocide are buried. As I walk through the memorial, I come across some plaques written by children that survived the genocide. One in particular catches my eye, it reads as follows:
.In my search for a hideout, I found Jerome, his legs cut off. I could not leave him in this state. I tried to lift Jerome so that we could leave together but the car of the commune stopped near me. It was full of machetes and other instruments of the death. I lay Jerome on the ground because a man got out of the burgomaster’s car to kill me. He finished Jerome off. I saw this when I looked back to see if anyone had followed me. I will never forget the way Jerome ‘s face was filled with desperation. Whenever I think about it, I cry all day. - Eric, 13- iv.
I have thought about that boy every single day I have been in Rwanda. For some reason I can’t get him out of my head. I can’t help but think that my son is almost the same age Eric was when the genocide took place, yet their paths are so different. Even though I am grateful, I ask myself, “why does my son get to grow up loved, well-nourished, and relatively fear free, while there are millions of Erics out there in the world suffering alone?” That may be a question to which I will never know the answer. What I do know is that we have the obligation to change. We must take a stand for all the Jeromes and Erics in the world that have no voice, that have suffered or who are suffering now, because of decisions made by overprivileged adults, who know nothing of pain. We can be their voices; we can make a difference.
References
5.
[1] Rutikanga, Bernard. Kigali: Institute of Research and Dialogue for Peace, May 18 2022. Presentation.
[1] Rutikanga, Bernard. Kigali: Institute of Research and Dialogue for Peace, May 18 2022. Presentation
[1] https://www.un.org/africarenewal/magazine/april-2014/rising-ashes
[1] Kigali’s Genocide Memorial, May 17, 2022
So tragic that so many people couldnt see it - that deliberate manipulation you described by the authorities in Rwanda, and that of the Nazis that caused artificial societal divisions. It was promoted with propaganda. How can we encourage people to see what the similarities in what has happened over recent 3+ years by globalist governments? “Papers please!” These genocides do not appear from nowhere.