Posted by Sahana Venkatesh
Hills covered in rich green forestry stretch out as far as the eye can see—interrupted only by the occasional cornfield with its golden stalks swaying in the breeze. As I gaze at the Rwandan countryside, I can’t think of a description more fitting than the ‘land of a thousand hills’. It is so hard to believe that twenty-three years ago, these same tranquil slopes were the site of terror and genocide. Today, the mass graves are hidden under grassy meadows and the Rwandan people couldn’t be more united in their national identity. From an outsider’s perspective, Rwanda is a country at peace with itself and the world. The lazy moo of a grazing cow interrupts my train of thought and brings me back to the scene in front of me.
Men and women wearing blue jumpsuits are setting up rows of wooden benches and makeshift stools. As I take my seat, I contemplate what is about to take place. We are visiting a TIG camp—one of many avenues for justice in post-genocide Rwanda. The individuals in the blue jumpsuits—with their joyous smiles and spirited chatter—have all been convicted of perpetrating genocide in one form or another. Today, we will be engaging in a discussion with them as we try to understand their stories. I have no idea what to expect.
After a brief introduction, we dive right in. We are given free rein to ask any and all questions that come to mind. I have several: “How could you do it? How could you look your neighbors in the eyes and hack them to death? How could you stand by and watch it happen? How do you live on knowing that other lives ended in your hands?” But I know these questions are not fair and I hold my tongue, listening instead.
As the discussion moves on, I find myself struggling to keep an open mind. Every time I see a smile in the sea of blue, an unexpected wave of anger rises within me. I’m reminded of Murambi Genocide Memorial—of the countless rooms filled with corpses of all ages with faces frozen in perpetual pain—faces that will never smile again. I’m reminded of how these corpses are but a sliver of the total devastation and of how throughout Rwanda, nearly a million such lives were brought to horrific ends. How could they smile? Didn’t these people deserve to feel a fraction of that pain?
And yet, as they shared their stories, a glimmer of understanding made its way into my thoughts. One woman spoke of how she hoped her daughter would live in a better world— a world where her daughter would never have to commit such acts. A man shared his emotional journey to forgiveness. How owning up to his crimes through the Gacaca courts had allowed him to gain forgiveness from his community. How he had found forgiveness from God through religion. How all he had left to do was forgive himself.
I began to notice flickers of individuality in the sea of blue. A colorful necklace here or a bright pair of socks there. It dawned on me that these individuals all had stories of their own. Perhaps they were loving mothers or talented soccer players, gifted musicians or inspiring orators. They had a collection of experiences with an amalgamation of good and bad actions—just as we all do. Twenty-three years ago, they were put in positions we hope never to be in. If you were told to kill or be killed, if you had been told for years that the people you were killing were worthless dangers to society, if you had been in their shoes… you never know what you would have done.
I was not the only one to have found a measure of understanding through the conversation. The atmosphere was tangibly friendlier as the discussion wound down. A few of the men asked permission to perform for us and I couldn’t help but smile as the drums began to beat. Soon, a chorus of voices was joined together in a joyous song. Nearly everyone was on their feet, feeling the rhythm and dancing to the beat. Hugs and laughter abounded as prisoners and visitors mingled together. In that moment, there was no ‘us’ and ‘them’. In that moment, we were all one—a mass of humanity coming together for the beat of the moment.
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