Day 60 ~ Doubt
I went to the Kigali Genocide Museum yesterday. I thought I’d be able to handle it no prob as it “wasn’t my first genocide museum”. Wow, was I wrong. I cried and cried, and a couple of times wanted to throw up. I woke up this morning and cried some more. I’m thinking about going home for lunch so I can be alone and cry properly without worrying about anyone hearing me. But then I'd have to come back to work all puffy eyed... so maybe not. Just hold those tears in like a grown-up Naomi.
The layout of the museum took me underground to learn about the history of Rwanda, the ethnic division that was invented and exacerbated by first German then Belgian colonialists, the political strife and propaganda that lead to mass killings and eventually the organized, swift and gruesome genocide of 1994.
Throughout, there are videos of survivors telling their stories. There are stories also of heroism and bravery – Hutus who hid Tutsis in their homes, churches and mosques. But, as the placards say, there were too few who were successful in these endeavors – and most who tried this were killed along with their families and the Tutsis they were trying to save.
There was a room in the museum called the Children’s Room. It was painted a lively orange, in stark contrast to the black walls that dominated the rest of the building. As I walked in I was greeted by a large photo of a smiling 7-year-old boy. Below his photo is a plaque that reads:
Name: Fabrice Bagaza
Age: Seven
Favorite Food: Mango
Character: Gregarious
Cause of Death: Machete wounds to face and neck
The Next photo is of a giggling 4-year-old girl.
Name: Justine Sehene Age: Four
Favorite Food: Eggs and Chips
Character: Quick Witted and Funny
Cause of Death: Bludgeoned to Death with a Club
The next photo is of a toddler in diapers.
Name: Emanuel Mugabo
Age: Two
Favorite Food: Ice Cream
Cause of Death: Tortured to death
I stopped reading. I had to. There were maybe 10 more photos in that room. And that’s not even the tip of the iceberg. Of the 1,000,000 people who were killed most were women and children. I can’t get those words out of my head…hacked, bludgeoned, tortured to death... Or the pain on the faces of the people in the videos throughout the museum talking about the many horrid ways in which they watched their family members be murdered and then tossed in the river like garbage. I’m loath to say it, but there are even worse stories there on those walls – stories I won’t repeat here.
How does a person get to a point where they can torture a toddler to death? Where does cruelty like that come from? Where does their humanity disappear to? Actually, that word ‘humanity’. I don’t think I can use it anymore to mean compassion or doing right by your neighbor. Humanity is tainted with so much darkness. I know, I know. There is light too, but why doesn’t it seem to pack the same punch? (Please pardon the violent expression). Is there an act of compassion or kindness that can balance out those actions of unthinkable cruelty?
If you can think of one, hearing it might do me some good today.
But I don’t think it exists. A lifetime of good deeds can’t undo that one toddler’s pain, confusion and fear – let alone his mother’s…
I walked away from the memorial yesterday feeling that humans are a deeply flawed species, and seriously doubting my ability or even my desire to continue with social work. I had thought that social work was a good fit for me, as I am a naturally empathetic person. But now, as it’s been more than 24 hours and the tears don’t seem to be giving any sign of slowing, I wonder if I’m strong enough. If maybe there’s such a thing as caring too much. If I’m too much of a ‘sensitive soul’ to do the kind of work that takes me to the heart of human suffering. If I can’t keep it together, who can I help? If I loose grip on my mental health when faced with great human suffering – maybe this isn’t the right path for me.
