Remembering Rwanda on the 30th Anniversary of a 100 Day Massacre

Recovered skulls of the victims of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide in a display case in the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Photo: Arlana Shikongo

Immigration desks always scare me. There's just something about the austerity with which they demand for a passport or visa, or sternly question: "Why are you visiting?" and "Where are you staying?"

In Kigali, however, the immigration officer waved me over with a smile on his face and rather than demanding my “passport, please” he asked: ‘How are you, madam?’

The smile swept across his caramel-coloured, oblong face caught me by surprise.

I would later learn that the Rwandeses’ affability was a remnant of the sore, violent history that gripped the small, 26,000 square kilometres, land-locked country in 1994.

The ‘Heart of Africa’, as it has so affectionately come to be known, is a fraction of Namibia’s size. It could fit in the southwest African country I call home more than 30 times.

However, as my eyes attempted to find the edge of the unending rolling hills blanketed in green, Kigali displayed an enormity that makes one forget that it is the capital city of one of the smallest nations on the continent.

As we pulled out of the airport, my eyes darted across my surroundings trying to ascertain some understanding of a place my mind had preconceived as worn, ruined, pained and burdened because of the 100-day long bloodshedding of the Tutsi tribe.

Instead, I marvelled at the wonder of infrastructure standing atop what appeared to be insurmountable hillsides, tarred roads on which traffic operated smoothly despite the lack of traffic lights, and the unending lush greenery reminiscent of tropical landscapes that I only ever imagined in Tanzania or Ghana.

“Where are you from?” the driver implored as we trekked the winding road from the airport to a very modern hotel situated in the city centre, or what my the driver called ‘New Kigali'.

“From Namibia,” I responded briskly, my eyes still exploring the contrasting mix of recently renovated buildings and the worn ones poised directly next to them.

“Namibia!” he exclaimed. “Such a rich country, with many minerals and riches… How is the leadership? Are the people friendly?”

After some pause, I shortly said: "Yes."

Under different circumstances, I might have found the question slightly offensive, as it seemed to question the efficacy of Namibia's political system, especially considering the nation's abundant natural resources.

He continued to ask me about Namibia: when the country gained its independence, who its colonisers were, how many tribes live within the country, and the dynamics between the different tribes.

Probing as the questions were, I understood where they were coming from.

A mere 30 years ago, Rwanda bore witness to one of the darkest chapters in human history, as ethnic tensions between the Hutu majority and Tutsi minority erupted into a brutal genocide. Over the course of a hundred days, close to a million Rwandans, primarily Tutsis but also moderate Hutus, were violently slaughtered, by their neighbours, friends and fellow countrymen.

In the capital city, the Kigali Genocide Memorial serves as both a poignant testament and a painful reminder of that tragic history.

The memorial was built on a hillside in Gisozi, a district of the city. Going down the mountainside, mass graves preserved in black granite stone span for a few kilometres. Approximately 250,000 Rwandan bodies are buried here.

Mass graves preserved in black granite. 
Photo: Arlana Shikongo

This number continues to grow each year, as the remains of bodies found in unmarked graves around the country are brought to this site and others for a ‘dignified burial’.

At the core of the Kigali Genocide Memorial lies the stories and resilience of survivors, embodying the heart of Rwanda's collective memory. Here, survivors find solace and a sense of belonging, their testimonies serving as a testament to the enduring spirit of the nation.

The memorial houses a touching tribute to the children lost during the genocide – an exhibition which forces one to stifle tears when viewing photos of their innocent faces, descriptions of their favourite toys, their final words, and the tragic way in which they were murdered.

Picture wall of the children murdered during the genocide.
Photos: Arlana Shikongo

Their toys and clothes, now displayed in transparent boxes, vividly bring to life the fleeting moments of their existence.

As I navigated the exhibition, a young Rwandese woman stood beside me as I read each placard of each child and took a moment to memorialise them. The young woman, who could not have been much older than 25, seemed to do the same. As we made our way to the end, I could see in her eyes that this memorial had touched her as profoundly as it had touched me. 

It is evident in the demeanour of the Rwandese, most of whom describe themselves as the ‘orphans of Rwanda’, that the bloodshed of 1994 left a lasting and profound effect on the population.

And now, 30 years since the brutal massacre, Rwanda continues to confront this tainted past while striving towards a brighter future. It's a pivotal step towards building resilient communities that are equipped to combat identity-based violence in the future.

The clothing worn by victims of the massacre when they were found.
Photo: Arlana Shikongo

 

Despite the scars left by the genocide, the nation has made remarkable progress in reconciliation, economic development, and social cohesion, as the country continues its journey of healing and rebuilding.

Remembering those lost to the genocide isn't merely about honouring their memory but also about understanding the lessons they impart.

Skulls of genocide victims with some of the items found on them.
Photo: Arlana Shikongo

Picture wall remembering the victims of the genocide. 
Photo: Arlana Shikongo

*Disclaimer: The pictures featured were taken during a visit to Kigali, Rwanda in 2019. While every effort has been made to accurately represent the exhibits at the memorial, please note that the content may have changed since that time. 

Tales of a Hopeless Romantic in Transit

There was something about the way we made eye contact. In those brief seconds, I felt myself become akin to this man, a man I didn't know. No longer were we strangers, as those seconds filled the distance and years that lead up to this moment. 

There wasn't anything particularly striking about him. His white skin and male privilege dressed him easily, and occasionally I would catch him cracking a smile as toddlers waddled by like penguins, barely able to keep themselves from tripping over their own two feet. Stubble sat on his chin, a deep brown like his smooth hair; that smooth hair that you just knew he ran a hand full of hairgel through after his morning shower. 

As I dosed off, I'd catch him peering over his shoulder in my direction. My mind told me it could be a number of things: he either didn't think I was pretty, or he though me to be incredbily so; I was drooling and he might have been entertaining himself by it, or he just couldn't take his eyes off my piercings, like most people. 

Speculation got me nowhere, so I didn't find out what it was about me that beckoned him to glance over every chance he got. But as I sat there, making a marvel of his porcelain face, I realized that this romanticized reality need not end, as it was the whipping of my own mind and with it I might run and play a fun game called happiness. I might imagine love and romance coming with me to the beach, holding one hand as the other held on to a melting cone of gelato while the Portuguese sun beat down on us. 

For a moment, a stranger gave me promise of a reality that, in some alternate universe, could have been the most beautiful romance of my life... But I watched him step off that plane without uttering a word. Sometimes our fantasies do exist only for our dreams, and like many others, I had to let this one go. 

Something strange happens when you're about to leave a place, 

Something about all the things that meant the world changes. 

It’s like being in the finale of your own grand scheme, 

For once feeling like you're on the winning team, 

Because you'll be going away and gone for a long while, 

Death as a destination could only make you smile, 

Something strange happens when you're about to leave a place. 

None of the love can save you anymore,

But you say all the words to save all your loves, 

Because you need them to know that it wasn't them, 

and that when you're gone you're never really gone. 

Something strange happens when you're about to leave a place

And all I can do is share fleeting moments with friends whose eyes hold tears as they try not to cry, 

Share the potions that clear my pain with them, 

and put on a brave face for them, 

because inside I'm really hurting and scared, 

But goddamnit I love the people here. 

And it makes me sad to go, 

But I know there’s not enough left for me.

Something strange happens when you're about to leave a place, 

Arlana Shikongo

November 16, 2014, 4:21pm

White lines, 

In line, 

With white lies. 

To Redeem Ourselves

We are people who run too fast, 

Run fast into the arms of strangers, 

And leap before we know we'll be caught. 

We put our hearts in fragile hands, 

Trembling,

The brittle earth shaking beneath their feet. 

But we run and we jump and we throw,

As though it's the last redemption. 

Redemption, 

Redemption from what though? 

Redemption for enjoying the throws of passion, 

For craving the texture of moist, cracked lips

On bare skin, 

In and out of where my crevices begin. 

Redemption for being inlove with making love, 

So that even when we're fucking, 

We're making love. 

Because people like us need redemption. 

Redemption for loving too much. 

Redemption for making love, and making life 

Especially when the intention is neither. 

So we run too fast, 

Run, jump and throw

To redeem ourselves. 

Arlana Shikongo

May 2, 2015, 10:31am

Day Break

I drown in your eyes, 

Those galaxies that consume me. 

So dark, so rich. 

Encompassing the whole night,

But giving me none of it; 

Because auburn begins to fill, 

My stomach begins to warm, 

And as the sun colours the horizon, 

As if the line is where daffodils and sunflowers grow, 

Day breaks and the blue exudes, 

Washing over me, 

And me, washing into you. 

And it is fresh, and brisk, 

This day break of love, 

Bursting through, 

Birthed anew, 

Day breaks as I break into you. 

Arlana Shikongo

April 7, 2015, 10:31am

Boundless

Pressure. 

Palms suffocating my mouth, 

Hands pushing down on my chest, 

Ribs, popping out at the seams. 

Hearing, my lungs 

Breathing, 

On their own, 

They've outgrown me. 

I'm sorry I couldn't stop

Black ashes from crowding your floors, 

Dusted core, 

Unhinged, a slightly fringed door

To a black hole, 

In which we sink, 

Quick, quickly, 

Quickening. 

Before I realize that you see me, 

You've seen me. 

Vulnerable; 

Discretion is lost. 

It is lost on me, 

But let me hold and, 

Host your body, 

Cradle me. 

Cradle me. 

Let me go. 

We were never here together. 

We were never here. 

Arlana Shikongo

April 5, 2015, 9:43pm

Underground Hip Hop in Amsterdam

The air that greeted me was thick with smoke; both nicotine and marijuana. Everyone was vibing to the tunes and the atmosphere was filled with genuine enjoyment. Sticky checked floors licked my soles, billiard balls clattered on a nearby pool table, and illuminated graffiti bouncing off the walls on the far right beckoned me to a corner where DJs, rappers and a rather solemn audience bobbed their heads to some seemingly complex verses. 

The underground Dutch Hip Hop scene was exactly as I imagined it would be. New school mixed with old skool, a rainbow of diversity embracing the spirit of music and liquor and marijuana flowing as loosely as the drug policy that allows the phenomenon to occur. 

The staring up to the slightly elevated stage, I push my way through the crowd and make it right up to the front. I swayed with the audience, memorizing then regurgitating words I didn't know just sing along to the choruses of some of these songs.  Once in awhile one of the free verses would be in English. I was very impressed by the Dutch people's ability to code switch between the two languages so fluidly. 

By the end of the night I was soaring. The company I'd come along with and the company I'd met offered my a new experience of hip hop and Amsterdam. 

Takeaway: attend an underground hip hop event in Amsterdam, because going underground is where hip hop is found.  

Poetry Circle Nowhere - Amsterdam

Tonight I attended my first poetry event in Amsterdam. It was hosted by Poetry Circle Nowhere, an "ever growing group of young, passionate, writing performers that has its heart in Amsterdam, chapters in Eindhoven, Groningen, Rotterdam and Tilburg, but has the whole world as a playground", as they describe themselves. 

In a desperate attempt to find some sort of creative, open and spoken-word community, I went on to google 'Poetry in Amsterdam' to find this organization’s page and a few of their public events. 

I was nervous because of the obvious language barrier that might exist. Although I knew I could understand dutch, I anticipated that the language they used would be out of my range of understanding and I’d be stuck sitting like a headless chicken, lost in a haze of confusion. Instead, it was an amazing night with a beautiful mix of English, Dutch, singing, dancing and all around positive energy. Everyone was willing to share and open their arms to those of us that were new to their event or new to the world of spoken word. It was a quality I’d come to learn existed very much in these creative souls, which is why I found myself seeking them out and growing so fond of them.

I shared a poem tonight and the praises I got from these strangers played my heart like a Spanish guitar. I was impressed by their work as well, and gave credit where credit was due. 

It was a night of entertainment and inspiration. I have found my church again, and my soul is peaking.

You and...

Your hands on my skin, 

Wet nose on my chin. 

Reflections of your grin;

In glassy lakes we drive by,

Grass beneath your head as we gaze at the sky. 

Your tongue lapping up my tears as I cry, 

And I know the reasons,

The reasons why. 

Like a newborn, I'm a fetus of your soul, 

Connected to you by our umbilical cord.

Beyond who we are,

To be read in our stars.

I trust astronomy; 

Unconventionally we'll be, 

A fairy tale story.

What is, 

To shoot, and hit a par. 

Arlana Shikongo

April 3, 2015, 3:45pm

Cascades

The Stars cascade

Tides pulling us in and out.

Licking the shore,

Then lapping it up again,

Toes buried in the sand.

The sky cascades,

Dark mass enveloping itself,

Me, myself.

Breathing it all in,

Cool and brisk.

Air.

What is not....Life

It is not a sequence of days,
Building up one by one to be called a living.
Nor is it feeling the sun on your skin,
When the skies are grey and crying.
It isn't capturing moments on an iPhone,
Making the ordinary surreal,
So that to some body else it might seem,
Like you've got it all together.
It is not the moments in which you realize the little things,
And transcend your knowledge,
Your ideas of the meaning of being.
It is short,
It is simple,
It is sweet.
It is not a sequence of days,
Building up one by one to be called a living.
It is life;
It's a real thing,
...and it's happening to you as we speak.

Arlana Shikongo
April 1, 2015 4:57pm

Rainy Afternoon Epiphanies

It was a rainy afternoon and I was hungry, so I walked into this dingy little place I saw from across the road as I cycled home along a canal. It was called "DeWerf" and the first thing you'd notice looking into it was the bar and its shelves of liquor. None the less, the little board outside read "DeWerf Eatery". I was already parked and standing in front of the door, so I decided to head inside. 

It smelled musky, much like you'd associate with the antique-y pieces that furnished it. There were 3 men sitting at the bar and an older women serving. She looked like someone who had a good time in her day. 

I sat down, ordered a Heineken and went with the soup of the door for my lunch. It was a lobster soup, which I could only hope would be fresh and sanitarily prepared. 

Rainy days in Amsterdam were never dull. I've had low moments during them, but overall, they were a pleasantry that nudged me into random little spots on random streets to experience random things. Who would have thought I would find myself in a dimly lit, orange ambiance little restaurant listening to what I could only imagine my dad might listen to every now and again, while drinking a Heineken on my own. 

It occurred to me right there and then that we never quite know the experiences we can have or are going to have; and I think that's the only real driving force of life. We need to keep living in the hope of seeing what is to come. Perhaps things will get better, perhaps I will prosper, perhaps I will matter. It is all about that great perhaps. Possibility. Those things drive hope, and thus hope drives life. That aids in explaining why faith is something people kneel to the ground for. Faith keeps hope alive. Faith re pumps the fuel that lets hope run rampant. 

....and for the sake of hope, I will walk into random bars, cafes and restaurant time and time again hoping to run into the awe that inspire and awakens the most dormant corners of my soul.

How do you say "Belgian Waffles" in French?

We got off a bus and took a right, and around that corner we were greeted by an outstanding, enormous cathedral; we were in Brussels. 

The air was cool, but warmer than it had been in Amsterdam. With my backpack hanging heavily behind me and a small luggage bag in my grips we marched to Brussels' tourist square. 

The first order of business was food. Of Belgium, we knew a couple of things were imperative: Belgian fries, Belgian waffles and Belgian chocolate. I ordered a burger that was much bigger than my fist, and hence, my stomach. I ate half of it, accompanied by fries drenched in a Hollandase sauce. For breakfast I indulged in a waffle overflowing with chocolate sauce and strawberries. One thing was for sure, Belgians loved their sweet things. 

A sweet scent filled the air. My nose was being greeted by sweet aromas from dusk till dawn, and my tastebuds knew they too, would soon experience the pleasure of Belgian delicatessen. 

Not only that but they'd also be entertained by a variety of brews. Europeans are famous for their beer thirst and Belgium did not lack in living up to that identity. I remember asking the concierge for directions to the nearest liquor store once we got to our hostel, to which he responded, "There's a grocery store across the road. Here, there aren't specific liquor stores. They all just kind of sell all alcohol," and that was the essence of the Belgian lifestyle. 

Seeing Old Faces in New Places

The air hit my face as I waited. Orange lights lit up the info signs and "IJburg 4min" was reading on this platform. I waited, taking in the air that smelled lightly like cigarette smoke. One train came and another left, but I sat tight, waiting for my friend to arrive. 

When she did I was sitting at the top of the stairs with the Lloyd Hotel shining brightly at me in red.

She ascended the stairs as I began to light a cigarette. Momentarily, my heart stopped and heat rushed into my ears. We yelled and hugged. I was finally seeing one of the best human being I knew once more, after an excruciating stretched out year and a half of having oceans between us. 

Another day in Amsterdam

We cycled 20 minutes to get to Centraal Station. Today, we were taking a ferry to the biggest flea market that existed in Europe: the 'IJ Hallen', and boy was it huge.

The city was windy today, but that isn't rare. I've experienced four seasons of weather on repeat in one day. That means to say it went from hailing to rain, to terrible wind to sunshine and then back to windy in a span of 20 minutes, repeatedly. 

Today wasn't that extreme, but the wind does make it hard to cycle up little hills when it's pushing against you, and with my knees, that's sort of painful. 

None the less, I tried to take it all in. It seemed to be a newer part of the city seeing as the architecture was very modern.

Despite my eyes watering and as a result making it appear as though I was crying, I was enjoying the sway of the water as we drove over in the ferry. The sun would peek out from between the clouds every now and again and blanket my face so comfortably. 

I spent about 17euros during this day, including paying a 5 dollar entrance fee for the flea market and a sandwich lunch right after. I acquired a new brown leather book bag, brown booties, a few scarves, a coat, a down vest and gloves. I was amazed. 

Much else than that the day was uneventful. The sandwich I ate was  mouthwatering, granted I was also on a cloud. 

More than anything I wanted to talk to friends and family and feel less alone despite constantly being around all these people. But, time does not work like that. Some how we've complicated it even further. 

Read more on the Ij Hallen here: 
http://ijhallen.nl/

Missing Opportunities on Train Tracks

The white blanket that covered the earth was swooshing by. Trains moving past each other ricochet wind in a manner that made you know two trains were passing each other, even when your eyes couldn't quite grasp it. 

"Do you read?" he asked me, handing me a Time Magazine. He was an older man and I just happened to sit next to him on a train from Rotterdam to Amsterdam. 

"Née, dankje," I responded. 

For some reason, even this small gesture surprised me. He was a Caucasian man, drenched in all his privilege, if I were to judge the book by its cover. He wore dark jeans that seemed to be suit pants at first glance, but in fact not, on further inspection. 

He wore a button down shirt dressed in a blue sweater that I assumed he layered with a down coat given the weather. 

I did not get much more than that. Eyes, hair, facial construction; it swept past me or rather, I failed to observe it. 

...and there in lies the trouble of assumptions. The opportunity resulted in missing out on getting to know someone that my destiny had brought me elbow distance with. One could say that every human encounter is not always one that necessitates exploring, but with the amount of people that remain to be met and learned from, I cannot continue to sleep on the opportunity. 

I have had the opportunity to meet strangers that have changed my life, altered my perspective and completely hurdled me to places that might otherwise never have been reached, and such is the beauty of strangers and my encounters with them. More valuable than any possession or any materialist experience, is the experience granted to you from befriending a stranger. 

Ready, Set ... Bike!

The Dutch are cyclists, so as per the travelers traditional, I had to cycle around the old city in a similar way. 

I rented a bike for the semester, which meant I'd have to get acquainted with everything around me sooner rather than later. Cycling back from the store was a mission to figure out in its own right. A route that was supposed to take 10-15 minutes took closer to an hour and a half. It was cold but I wasn't complaining. I just wanted to get home with my bike, limbs and bones in tact. 

Here and there a cyclist had to scuffle me out of their way, and although the bike bells scared me momentarily, soon their frantic ring was no longer something that caused me to jump aside in alarm. 

Utrecht

We entered Utrecht pacing in quickly with the Saturday bustle. Cities closed down early here, just like home. So, similarly to home, Saturday was a big shopping day. Well, that's what I took from today. 

I ate a ham pancake to start off, and with a tickled tummy I was ready to go exploring this little city. We were in the heart of the shopping district and everyone was moving quickly to catch the sales. The air was filled with aromas because the open air market was also held that day, right in the heart of the town. There was fresh fish, 1 euro coffee, affordable clothes and right next to it: a mall and the central station. Utrecht was quaint and it pleased me in that manner. 

We walked, cyclists shuffling us out of their way. Although bustling, it was quite obviously evident that we were not in a big, crowded city. Cyclists seemed more patient and the amount of tourists were fewer. 

It was a slow day, which was necessary with the hurried pace this journey seemed to be taking on. By the end of it, I was able to enjoy a local beer in a small bar while watching people stroll by. 

The Air Under My Feet

The air dripped out of my feet

I was lifted with it,

as it filled my lungs,

then emptied it

In gray, heavy swirls

That heaved up and kissed my lips,

A body calling out

For the chemicals I faltered to.

The city with it all was no help,

Green herbs kissing my tongue

Often,

Canal waters washing the guilt

And cyclists echoing the call for health.

But the neon lights called to me

Blinking rhythmically

So I could not believe,

What my eyes had just seen.

I walk in for a coffee,

Order creative names instead;

And by the gram I measure my poison,

I want the earth to be swept from under me.