will the blood ever dry?

by Brigid Avery (Australia)

I didn't expect to find Rwanda

“They found my grandparents a few months ago, in a mass grave up north. We’re giving them a proper burial in two weeks” I didn’t feel this needed a response. The old land cruiser chugged along, a broken spring in my seat will clearly be leaving a lasting impression. Isaac and I met this morning and have been driving about 2hrs now. We’re probably halfway between Five Volcanoes National Park and Kigali, struggling in a low gear to make it up the winding mountain road. We’ve been chatting non-stop and after cautiously raising the subject of Rwanda’s political history, more so the 1994 100-day genocide, Isaac has been proudly sharing with me his family’s story. The discovery of his grand-parents’ remains is finally helping him get some closure. Thankfully, Isaac left me to visit the Genocide Museum by myself. Two hours later we headed south in silence. At some point we turned off the main highway, leaving civilization behind. This is where the old Toyota came into its own – dust and dirt scatter as we bump our way across pot-holed paddocks and what appear to be goat tracks. A bemused look is on the face of the farmer as we pass by and I’m not surprised. Some old buildings are up ahead, barely discernible in the swirling dust cloud we seem to have all around us. Young children laugh as they chase chickens. Isaac stops and I’m guessing he’s asking directions. The bemused face of the farmer is replaced by some very suspicious stares. This is not the time to bring out the iPhone and ask if I can take a photo! We were meant to be heading to the Nyamata Church memorial –or so I thought. Wherever we were going, Isaac had us taking a shortcut. It was about this time that I realised no one had a clue where I was, nor who I was with, only that I was to meet the others in the hotel bar tonight. Discreetly checking my phone, I wasn’t surprised to see ‘no service’. Driving on, we reach another village, eventually pulling up outside some old buildings. This is not Nyamata. No-one is around. Isaac runs over the road, returning with an older woman. Rita’s English is flawless. She explains that this memorial isn’t officially open at the moment as they are ‘restoring’ the kindergarten and kitchen area, however she will happily show me through. Isaac took me aside...”you said you wanted to know more”. What was I in for? After visiting the church, Rita asks if I’d like to see the work they are doing in the kindergarten. Mumbling, I say ‘yes please’, not really sure if I do want to see. This tiny mud hut, with no windows, is all of 4m x 4m. The dank, damp smell filled my head instantly. The doorway provides some dim lighting. Rita explains that the plastic storage boxes are being filled with the clothing and toys of babies and toddlers slaughtered here. An old teddy bear is missing a leg, it’s stuffing falling out and stained a dark brown colour. Tiny wooden building blocks are scattered under a table. Pieces of bloodied fabric, that could be clothes, are bundled into piles. Unlike other established memorials, there are thankfully no tiny bones or skulls to show the reality of what happened in this room. When I mention this to Rita, she points to the front wall, asking me if I know what the large dark brown staining is on the left half. Of course, I have no idea. “This is where they held our babies by their feet and swung them, screaming and crying headfirst into the wall, until they cried no more…this is the dried blood of our children” I sit here, months later, writing this story and the tears are flowing almost as much as they did in that instant. I was winded and wanted to vomit. I try to block out that image of the blood-stained wall, but I never will. Later, we drove in silence back to Kigali. I’d asked for something more, to see more layers. Sometimes, you really do need to be careful what you wish for.