Unfinished Walls of Names
Mukamurenzi Francoise. Mukamunga Editta. Mukamwezi Usta.
The list of “M” names runs on and on, white letters on black stone. A tribute to the dead. Evidence of genocide. The wall of names stands close to the Nyamata church, a red brick building with shattered glass and damaged corns. The site of a massacre beneath the cross of Christendom. Over 5,000 men, women, and children were hacked apart by machetes in that place of worship turned bloodbath, their names now testify to their memory, life, and story.
I remember the first time I saw a wall of names stretching on and on as a tribute to the fallen. In glossy black stone, the Vietnam Memorial in Washington D.C. captured my attention. I ran my hands along the smooth surface, a feeling of reverence sitting over the site. Roses, ribbons, friendly trinkets, and letters lay scattered along the stone, left by friends and family for the departed loved ones. That image stayed with me for years. Lists of men, the fallen and missing soldiers.
The second major wall of names to that scale that I remember is carved in the white memorial of the Pearl Harbor National Memorial. A homage to the men who perished under flame and fire, sinking into the shallow harbor under enemy fire. The brutality of war and the testimony of ultimate sacrifice hung above the blue ocean and silhouette of a sunken ship.
As I ran my hand along the wall of names at the Kigali Genocide Memorial, and the Nyamata Church Genocide Site memorial in Rwanda, it felt different. It took me a moment to realize why. Unlike the other walls of names I’d seen, lined with testaments of young men, these walls were etched with men, women, and children’s names.
While meeting with speakers throughout my time in Rwanda, one outlined what the main differences were between war and genocide. While there were many, all harrowing, one in particular disturbed me. The speaker explained how in war, young soldiers are the targets in order to defeat the enemy. In genocide, women and children are targeted in order to exterminate the rising generation. [i]
The wall of names ran unfinished, blank spaces still standing to be filled as remains continue to be found and identified. The unfinished walls of the victims of genocide, standing as a reminder for those lain to rest, and waiting to memorialize those still waiting for that privilege. As I stood before the walls of names in Rwanda, I had a feeling of reverence, respect, sadness, and longing that those horrible events hadn’t happened. I wished that those people didn’t have their names written on a stone wall, but on the mailboxes of their homes when they came home at night to their families.
Throughout my experiences at museums, speakers, village discussions, books on the genocide, and discussions with classmates, I tried to wrap my head around the event of spring 1994. How could neighbors and friends commit such terrible atrocities? While I will never understand inside the mind and heart of one who committee genocide, and while I will never understand the mind and heart of those dying under machete cuts, I can understand the power of remembering both sides of the story. Following the holocaust, the phrase, “never again,” was stated around the world as a sort of global pledge to prevent future genocide. Concentration camps were preserved, evidence collected, memorials and museums created to help us remember, thus holding true to our global conviction of “never again.”
And yet, Appollon Kabahizi’s quote stated in the Kigali Genocide Museum, “when they said, ‘never again,’ after the holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?”[ii]
Coming from the wall of names filled my mind with a tumble of emotions. I tried to picture Francoise, Editta, and Usta. I tried to imagine their lives. What kinds of family did they have? What were their jobs? What did they have for their last meal before they died? Little questions like that swirled through my mind, each tied to their names.
The unfinished walls of names taught me how to remember. The cases of preserved skulls in the church still bearing marks of death help me remember. Hanging photographs of smiling faces help me remember. Carefully hung clothes, the last garments of the deceased, help me remember.
My experience in Rwanda studying the 1994 genocide impressed images and emotions on my mind to help me remember, and to strive towards a world in which such horrors happen “never again.”
[i] Bernard, lecture at the Institute of Research and Dialogue for Peace (IRDP), visited May 16, 2022.
[iI] Appollon Kabahizi, statement from the Kigali Genocide Museum, Rwanda, visited May 15, 2022.