Rwanda - Nyamata Church

It is a strange thing when one can’t remember the features of a man’s face but can remember his expression. He was tall, almost gaunt – that much I know. He had a slight stoop as he made his way down the stairs. He turned and beckoned for me to follow. I imagine he could have had pronounced cheekbones, maybe graying hair. But all I remember is his message to me, as if his entire body were telling me, come down here, this is something you must see. It was not a fierce look, eyes boring deep into mine to signify its importance. It was not a coaxing look, encouraging, come on, don’t be afraid. It was just a matter of fact, you need to follow me now. So I did.

The stairs were steep, I went slowly. At the bottom, I found myself in an underground crypt, long and narrow with a window at the top of each end letting in dim light. It was like a wine cellar from a distant century – constricted, dark, dusty, forgotten. But instead of stacks of wine bottles, there were stacks of skulls.

He walked down the aisle towards the window and stopped at the end. 10 maybe 15 metres. He beckoned to me, but my feet would not move. I could feel Angelica, Grant & Jonathan behind me, silently waiting for my move.

I took a step. There were 4 shelves, evenly spaced on either side of me. The skulls just sat there, like old sandwiches tired of being on display in a London corner shop, or dainty antique objects in an overcrowded display case that hadn’t been dusted in a while. Except there was not glass protecting them, from me. There were rows and rows, they wouldn’t stop.

Still he waited for me. So I walked towards him, carefully holding my body almost sideways, for the space between this sea of skulls was very narrow. I walked and by the time I reached him I was shivering but I was not cold. I was crying for I was not dead. I was 11 when they were massacred in church.



Rwanda was hard. As a tourist, one immediately goes to the genocide memorial sites, to reflect, to pay respects. 15 years ago and the country seems to have moved on. Kagame’s face watched us calmly as we had pasty bread and bananas for breakfast. The streets were cleaner than Kampala, the bodas better behaved. They had uniforms and handed us helmets – unheard of in Uganda. The concierge at Hotel des Milles Collines (Hotel Rwanda) was sneering and polite when we requested to see a room. Judging from our appearance I’m sure he knew we couldn’t afford to stay but wanted to see and feel where Paul Rusesabagina protected his Tutsi wife and over a thousand others during the genocide. We took a bus to Lake Kivu, mistakenly believing it would take 2 hours (as the Lonely Planet guide said) only to find the last bus leaving just as we were arriving. Our efforts to hitchhike and negotiate a ride back with one of the many taxis milling around were met with blank stares. In Uganda, four muzungus with backpacks and money would immediately have 8 Ugandans bargaining overcharged prices to get you to whatever destination, be it the moon. It would have been a lively affair.

With everyone I met, all I could think was, are you Hutu? Are you Tutsi? Where were you 15 years ago? Is there a skull lying somewhere on display because of you?