The Genocide

I have not spent much time writing about the genocide that occurred in this country.  You all know about it and it certainly has not dominated my trip.  It has however, constantly been in the back of my mind.  Standing in the streets of Kigali and wondering what it was like when it was littered with bodies.  Looking at machetes and wondering if they were ever used for killing.  Finding out that the kindest man at the orphanage was imprisoned for alleged acts during that time.  Sitting at the pool at Mille Collines in the lap of luxury yet knowing that it protected so many.  Meeting a man whose family swam across Lake Kivu to the Congo and lost two siblings along the way.  Visiting the memorial in Kigali.  Seeing a scar on the neck of a young man at the orphanage.  It is everywhere. And yet, the most impactful was the church in Nyamata.  A place where people thought they were safe—but the army bombed and shot their way in and killed thousands.  The clothes of those victims piled on the pews. Bullet holes in the ceiling.  The blood of the babies that were swung by their feet and slammed against the wall still evident.  And looking at the casket of a woman that was repeatedly raped before she was killed.  And she was killed by a sharpened stick that was inserted in her vagina and pushed until it came out the top of her skull. I think, for the first time, I might truly believe in evil. 

And yet, while I type this, it is occurring again and again and again.