The Descent into Genocide
A walk through the Kigali Genocide Memorial
There are two stained-glass windows at the Kigali Genocide Memorial, both of which were designed and created by Ardyn Halter, son of Holocaust survivor, Roman Halter. Each window sends a shaft of light into the memorial’s dim basement—the basement into which visitors must descend as they are led along the path of genocide. Recently, I was the one making that descent. As I walked down those basement steps, I was caught off guard by the darkness of the place, but then it made sense to me. The 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi was a work of darkness.
During my visit to the Kigali Genocide Memorial, I was impressed by the buildings’ purposeful design and layout. The architecture itself tells the story of genocide in Rwanda, although I didn’t realize it in the moment. Walking in, I found myself being greeted by a friendly smile in an open and bright reception room on the ground floor. The man behind the desk gestured toward a flight of stairs straight ahead of me, explaining that the tour starts in the basement. So, to the basement I went. The brightness of the world above ground was a stark contrast to the ill-lit exhibit beneath. And it seems obvious to me now: the descent into that basement represents the country’s descent into genocide just 28 years ago.
When my eyes finally adjusted to my new environment, I could see the colonization of Rwanda outlined in front of me. In 1884, Rwanda was colonized by Germany, but Belgium took control in 1919 after WWI. It was under colonial rule that the nation’s already existing ethnic groups (Hutu, Tutsi, and Twa) became racialized, and ethnic identity was directly tied to political power. These separate identities and the unequal distribution of power are what laid the foundation for the 1994 genocide.1 After the 43 years of Belgian occupation, Rwanda gained its independence, but that did not mean it was free from the damage caused by the culture of separateness created by colonialists.
I moved slowly along the curve of the exhibit’s path, taking in every word and every image displayed. Suddenly, I found myself standing in a small room, staring up at a somber stained-glass window. It took my breath away, and its title shook me: Descent to Genocide. Positioned at the top of a small staircase, the window sends a shaft of light down into the exhibit. That light is a symbol of hope. The stairs that lead up to the window are representative of the fact that the genocide was not inevitable, but the world refused to step in while turning back was still an option. Warnings could have been heeded and action taken. Those who had the power to intervene knew full well what was going on, yet they denied the reality of impending genocide. Instead of following the path into the hopeful light that beamed down to stop the genocide from happening, the world watched silently as Rwanda descended into hell.
Standing at around 11 feet tall and 8 feet wide, the window is substantial. Being the only source of light in the room, the dark blues, purples, and reds of the stained-glass work together to create a dismal but reverent atmosphere as the sun shines through. The sharp and rigid edges of each glass shard felt dangerous. My eyes focus first on the center of the piece: a small staircase in shades of blue that get darker with each step downward. At the bottom, where the blue is darkest, skulls are piled on the ground. Their whiteness stands out against the slices of blood-red glass behind them. My heart hurts as I stare at them, not knowing what to think. Each fractured skull is unique, each tells its own murder story. Moving my eyes to the left, I see machetes. Used to slaughter thousands, they are tools of death and destruction.
I don’t know how long I was at that window; it was hard to leave. I didn’t want to forget it, and I was dreading to continue on to the next section of the exhibition. I knew what was coming next. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the light beaming through that first window and into the darkness of Genocide. This section outlined the realities of the Genocide Against the Tutsi in 1994, during which about 800,000 Tutsi and moderate Hutu were murdered by the Hutu majority. Neighbors killed neighbors, friends turned on one another, families were ripped apart, death abounded. There was no mercy. There was no humanity. There was only fear and suffering.
I find relief as I step into another small room filled with the hopeful light that streams through stained-glass. Looking up toward the light, I am in awe of what I see. It is the second of Ardyn Halter’s works: The Way Forward. It demands my attention. Like the first window, it sits atop a small set of stairs. I study it carefully, yearning to understand the story it is trying to tell me. First, I notice a staircase with a pile of broken and bloodied skulls at the bottom, similar to the other window. The staircase is in shades of brown that get lighter with each step upward, and the skulls stand as a reminder of genocide. I notice that this window is not as harsh and rigid as the first. It's brighter. Smoother. Kinder. The edges of the glass are elegant and graceful, making me feel safe after having just emerged from the darkness of the reality of what happened in 1994. Staring at the massive window, I move my focus to the sky. It’s beautiful, a light blue that feels like freedom. I can finally breathe again; I feel that peace and hope are attainable, even after 100 days of pure hell.
I made my way along the final stretch Rwanda’s path of genocide, through its aftermath, and eventually found myself at the museum’s exit. As I ascended the stairs, I was again greeted by the brightness of the world above ground. Looking around, I thought back on the bouquet of roses I had seen a few hours earlier. The flowers were a vibrant red-orange color, placed atop one of the mass graves at the memorial. A ribbon was draped across the bouquet with the words “never again” written out in bold letters. In a moment of reflection, I realized that I had heard those words before. It was in school when learning about the Holocaust, and in Cambodia, visiting the Killing Fields. Until now, I had always thought of “never again” as a promise made by humankind to look out for one another, to make sure nothing like this ever happens again. But, if that were the case, why do I keep hearing them? Why do people keep saying “never again” when the atrocities of genocide happen again and again? It feels like an empty promise.
Walking away from that memorial in Kigali, I thought about those words in a new light and with a renewed sense of purpose. Much like the light that shines through the stained-glass windows, “never again,” to me, is a message of hope. It's hope for a better and brighter future where atrocities like genocide never again take place. Such hope lies within the youth of the countries of the world, and I see it in the eyes of the young people in Rwanda. Additionally, “never again” conveys a message of warning, a call to action, a petition to do better. It is a plea to all members of the human family to make the world a place of equity, a place where the dignity and worth of every human being is recognized.
We must do better.
Kigali Genocide Memorial. Kigali: 2022. Audio Tour.