Ntarama

Ntarama is almost too hard to write about because it requires remembering what I saw today. And remembering is an isolating experience – seeing the results of that kind of brutality makes you feel like humans are separated beings who cannot see one another for who they are. Remembering is difficult because my brain wants to keep veering off the track to think about what I am going to eat for dinner, when I am going to talk to Dustin, what funny joke are people laughing about, and whatever else can I think of other than that which I am trying to remember…

Prior to April 15, 1994, 5000+ men, women, and children fled their villages for the safety of their spiritual home – the Ntarama Catholic Church. From the beginning of the genocide, Tutsis had been hearing others die around them and were grasping for a safe place. If only they could make it to their church, surely Father would keep them safe from harm. After bringing their belongings to the church, Father charged a small fee to keep the masses fed and put all in the church – a building 24ft by 200ft long. Some people stayed in the three outbuildings. On the night of April 14, the doors to the church were locked as where those of the outbuildings. People believed it was for their safety from the Hutu extremist Interhamwe.

It started with the grenades being thrown in the church through the windows. No one could escape. Grenades exploded – for those that were not killed instantly, they were burned and mutilated by the shrapnel which was released. Because of the density of the people, there were survivors – most near the altar. They were wrapped in mattresses in groups of six and doused in petrol. They burned to death. Those that still were alive were macheted until they were dead. There were some survivors, but they hid under the dead bodies of their families for days, hoping (praying?) that they would live.

In the outbuildings, the small one was hit with grenades until no sound was heard. The large one had the doors locked, and then was set on fire. Everyone died.

5000+ people died at this site, all at the hands of the Father who promised safety, charged them money, plundered their goods, and then had the Hutu Interhamwe kill all. The Father is now living in Europe.

Walking up to the site, I felt a deep chill run through my body and felt like I was hearing people whisper “surely God will save us” which turned to hearing whispering of cries of agony. I walked through each outbuilding first before entering the church. One was empty, save flower in one corner. Another is full of debris left from the fire 12 years ago. The last has the stacks of belongings, each neatly organized and numbered placed between pews in what must have been a small chapel.

Unknowingly, I entered in a fourth outbuilding. Immediately I was surrounded by the piles and piles of bones of the dead – two piles, seemingly one for the torso and head and the other for the arms and legs. I almost vomited. Then I looked up – hanging from the ceiling were the remnants of the clothes people were wearing – hanging and in piles all around the bones. What do you wear when you are dying? What do you wear to where you think is safe? What do you bring with you? And then, in the center, were the piles of bones. For fifteen minutes, I stood in the midst of this life/death and cried. These were people who wore clothes and who died brutal, humiliating deaths in a place which signifies safety from harm – God. Where was God in all of this? What were these people thinking when they were attacked, waiting in the pews for nightfall, thinking that they would see another day?

At long last, I entered the church. Immediately on the right, there is a poster of John Paul – full of grenade holes. Rows of skulls greet you – mother’s skulls with those of their infants, people killed by machetes (you can see where the macheted sliced their heads open), one with a spear through its neck and top of the skull – all staring and bearing witness to the terrible end that they met and we allowed. I cannot help but feel responsible for the deaths because of my ignorance and our collective human lack of action to help them. From the skulls, you look up the church. In between each pew, there are bones and remains from those who died. Light filters in through the grenade holes. The altar has a cross and skull sitting askew on it. Behind the altar is the box where the host is kept after being blessed.

The place makes me feel faint – even just in my recollection of it. It is raw, raw, raw. There is nothing stylized or touristy or helpful. Everything presents itself as it is – human action gone horribly wrong.

And those that victimized and were victims now live next door to each other. Everywhere I look today, I think about the people I see and wonder how they are surviving, forgetting, remembering, forgiving, apologizing… What do you do? Someone said that it is almost like the Rwandese got slapped in the face during a discussion and just chose to ignore it. Trying to talk about it too much makes the hatred come back. And the hatred does not solve the immediate need to live in peace.

I am realizing that as interested as am in how people are able to live together in post-conflict societies, I may not have a strong enough heart for it all. I am not sure that I can be thinking about such academically interesting questions in a detached manner – especially now.