That afternoon, Senator Kassebaum and I, accompanied by a government
protocol officer, flew in a United Nations helicopter to the church at Nyarubuye
in eastern Rwanda, near the Tanzanian border. Nyarubuye was as far off the
beaten track as one could get in Rwanda. Set in a copse of towering eucalyptus
trees, the brick church and surrounding buildings sat on the crest of a hill looking
out over the lakes and lowlands of the Akagera Park. We landed in a field of high
grass just outside the church compound, where we were received by a small delegation
composed of the new prefect, the local military commander, and a survivor
of the genocide. A dozen soldiers stood on discreet guard in a ring several
hundred yards around the church. The first thing I noticed was the complete
absence of other people. In Africa in general and in Rwanda in particular, there
are almost always crowds of people, especially at any event that draws a helicopter,
but at Nyarubuye there were none. The delegation said that the local population
had all fled to neighboring Tanzania two years earlier and had not yet
returned.
The wind whistled softly through the trees, accentuating the eerie silence. Our
guides explained that Nyarubuye had been the scene of vicious killing during the
genocide. Tutsi from the surrounding region had sought refuge in the church.
They were penned in and imprisoned there for several days until Interahamw
squads arrived. After that the massacre was methodical. Persons were led from the
church to the courtyard, where they were simply slaughtered. According to the
survivor we met, the foyer of the church was set aside as a rape room. He said
there was a lot of noise and confusion during the killings, during which he and
several others managed to climb over the compound wall and run miles down to
the swamps of Akagera.
The church itself was completely empty when we visited, and having been desecrated
by the deaths, no longer used. To the side of the church was a courtyard
enclosed by a brick wall at one end, and lined by buildings on the other two sides
whose doors and windows opened into the courtyard. Obviously, they had served
as Sunday school rooms, church offices, and the like. However, the rooms were
stacked to the ceilings with the mummifying corpses of thousands of human
beings. Near skeletal faces of men, women, and children stared blankly. A moldering
stench of death hovered in the air. The horror of what had happened there
was overwhelming, yet the quiet lent dignity to the repose of the dead. I was
stunned.
In respectful tones, our guides explained how the murders occurred. They
showed us a large smoothly polished stone in the courtyard, worn down by
repeated sharpening of machete blades. We saw a bloodstained log where legs had
been chopped off, “to make the tall ones short.” The prefect said that not all bodies
had been pushed into the rooms by the killers. The courtyard and the church
itself had been waist deep in death as well. Those bodies had later been moved by
RPA soldiers, including the local commander who was present, into the nearby
rooms. A crunch underfoot in the knee-high grass revealed a human jawbone,
which we reverently added to the collection in the nearest room.
You cannot talk much on a helicopter, but on the return trip, the senator and
I were each lost in our own thoughts. Nyarubuye was to be the first of a dozen or
so preserved genocide sites that I would visit over the next three years. I never
became indifferent to them. Each one affected me deeply, but after Nyarubuye I
knew what to expect. I believe the government of Rwanda is wise to preserve
these sites, not so much for the edification of foreigners like the senator and
myself, but more for the education of Rwandans. As the genocide fades into history,
such sites will become permanent markers of the tragedy and stark reminders
that such inhumanity must never be repeated.
