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