Ubumuntu: The word that followed me home

The hem of my black skirt dances with the dust floating up from beneath me. I plant my blue boots in what resembles the red Georgia clay on which I grew up. I close my eyes. I breathe in the warm, dry air, hold it and let go. Never before has my soul ached in a place with which I have no connection, one I have only heard about in the past few hours. I open my eyes. I see a tall, white fence protecting what was once a church. A sign arches above the entrance: Nyamata Genocide Memorial. ALSO READ: A preventable genocide, a denied responsibility: What ‘Corridors of Power’ reveals about Rwanda Bushes line the route to the French doors at the front of the church – the bottom of the white metal bars battered from grenades lobbed inside. I walk in through the opening and pause. A lump forms in my throat, but there’s no time for tears to form. ALSO READ: UNESCO-listed memorials to play key role in educating youth Before me are rows and rows of blood-stained clothes recovered from the dead; victims of the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi. Pink, blue and yellow striped shorts draped over a pew. Another with a waistband no wider than the length of a pencil. The clothes climb up from the pews, reaching out, pleading for help. ALSO READ: Rwanda’s commemorations in the shadow of indifference The sun filters inside through bullet holes in the roof, illuminating the evidence of the horror that took place here. The large room is claustrophobic and eerily still. I feel the thousands of lives that were ended before the altar; they are here. ALSO READ: Killing many in a short period; how civilians were prepared for the Genocide Small craters scattered around the sanctuary reveal the cement floor that was once a foundation for worship. Now it is cloaked in dirt and blood. This church turned into a compound for mass executions in 1994. Extremist leaders organized the mass murder. Between April and July 1994, Interahamwe militias, and the genocidal regime’s army killed one million Tutsi. ALSO READ: Why genocide ideology doesn’t dissolve three decades after dispersion of genocidaires Nyamata Church shares a border with École Les Colombes, a primary school. The rhythm of the drums and the voices of the joyful classes echo through the memorial while I peer at the small tombs in the basement. The irony does not escape me. I am transported back to the silent Children’s Room inside Kigali Genocide Memorial, where large portraits of innocent faces line the walls. I watched a woman wearing a black genocide remembrance shirt touch those faces, ones I can never forget. I stood back and observed, not knowing how to respond. Below each image, a piece of paper listed details that brought the child to life. Their favorite games, favorite person, favorite toy. ALSO READ: FDLR and the Security Council: When UN resolutions become a substitute for action “Favorite food: Mother’s milk,” one of the signs read. My heart shattered a little more with every word that followed. This was a child who knew no more than the milk of their mother. “Today, young people are participating easily,” said Claude Mugabe of Aegis Trust, describing how Rwandan children live together, and not separated by identity cards and propaganda. “There is hope.” Mugabe was just 8 in 1994. As a Tutsi, he lives every day with the genocide. His children ask about their grandfather, who was killed in 1994. “We need to equip this generation of today,” he said. “We need to show them the truth.” I was inspired by the Rwandans I met. Inspired by how they forge on with grace and determination despite the trauma they carry. Visiting Rwanda also forced me to face my own privilege. I went to primary and secondary schools in idyllic American suburbia, near churches and greenery, not genocide memorials. At Kigali Genocide Memorial, I learned the Ikinyarwanda word, ubumuntu. It means, but is not fully encapsulated by, the English word, humanity. Ubumuntu has taken up residence in my head. It will return home with me to a nation that could use more of it. The writer is a student journalist at the University of Georgia.

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Ubumuntu: The word that followed me home