A First Sketch of Kibuye
The Kibuye Genocide Memorials
There are two genocide memorials in Kibuye. The first, a mass grave squeezed between the Pentecostal church and the soccer stadium, holds the remains of 40,000 victims. It is a simple plot - a walled in rectangle of grass - only distinguished from the neighboring stretches of green by a sign that explains its existence. Children play in the adjacent church playground; their laughter prevents too solemn a reflection on the significance of the site. The street is bustling with vendors, goats, sweepers, and hospital patients, so it is possible to walk by the grave without even noticing it.
The Kibuye church, on the other hand, is hard to miss. It was the site of a substantial massacre in 1994 but has since been restored into a functioning place of worship. The brooding stone structure perches high on a cliff that overlooks the main road into town. Circles of stained glass, blown out by grenades and later replaced, depict abstract designs of yellow, red, and blue that contrast severely with the dark brown stones of the walls. The church can be busy; but if you can time it so that you have a moment alone, the quiet will give you a moment to reflect on what this sanctuary has witnessed.
The road up to the church carves into the side of a small mountain, and one side plummets down to the lake. Gravestones line the steep hill close to the church, balanced perpendicularly to the slope. Some of the bodies rest in low crypts, but others must have been inserted into the hill from the side because I don't know how else it is possible to dig into such a steep grade. Very long last names, like Nyarmitaranka and Murikawegata, are painted on the stones in tall white letters.
There was a flurry of activity as I approached the church. In the front lot, children had set up slalom courses of empty USA Vegetable Oil cans for young men on motorcycles to navigate. The loud motor revving was periodically followed by metallic crunches as cans crumpled under the tires of an imprecise driver. Dodging the swerving vehicles, I scampered across the dusty gravel and up the front steps. Because it was Saturday evening, men and women were gathered for a choral rehearsal on the porch. They all stared at me for a moment without saying anything, so I heaved open the large wooden door and continued inside.
The sanctuary was absolutely silent. Light spilled through the stained glass and splashed across the dark stone walls in a colored chiaroscuro. Strings of plastic flags stretched across the ceiling, like someone had decorated for a party. Rows of short benches lined the floor, and a mural of the stages of the crucifixion was painted onto the wall behind the altar. Thousands of people, believing that a church would be protected, had sought shelter in this room.
The chorus outside began to sing. Although this was not a big church, the stone and concrete amplified the sound of the voices. Female sopranos weaved in and out of the men's low humming.
I have delayed this posting because I still cannot figure out how to describe what it felt like to hear that singing. My trip to Kibuye was ripe with hassle, but it is impossible to explain how beautiful, and alarming, this moment was.
There are two genocide memorials in Kibuye. The first, a mass grave squeezed between the Pentecostal church and the soccer stadium, holds the remains of 40,000 victims. It is a simple plot - a walled in rectangle of grass - only distinguished from the neighboring stretches of green by a sign that explains its existence. Children play in the adjacent church playground; their laughter prevents too solemn a reflection on the significance of the site. The street is bustling with vendors, goats, sweepers, and hospital patients, so it is possible to walk by the grave without even noticing it.
The Kibuye church, on the other hand, is hard to miss. It was the site of a substantial massacre in 1994 but has since been restored into a functioning place of worship. The brooding stone structure perches high on a cliff that overlooks the main road into town. Circles of stained glass, blown out by grenades and later replaced, depict abstract designs of yellow, red, and blue that contrast severely with the dark brown stones of the walls. The church can be busy; but if you can time it so that you have a moment alone, the quiet will give you a moment to reflect on what this sanctuary has witnessed.
The road up to the church carves into the side of a small mountain, and one side plummets down to the lake. Gravestones line the steep hill close to the church, balanced perpendicularly to the slope. Some of the bodies rest in low crypts, but others must have been inserted into the hill from the side because I don't know how else it is possible to dig into such a steep grade. Very long last names, like Nyarmitaranka and Murikawegata, are painted on the stones in tall white letters.
There was a flurry of activity as I approached the church. In the front lot, children had set up slalom courses of empty USA Vegetable Oil cans for young men on motorcycles to navigate. The loud motor revving was periodically followed by metallic crunches as cans crumpled under the tires of an imprecise driver. Dodging the swerving vehicles, I scampered across the dusty gravel and up the front steps. Because it was Saturday evening, men and women were gathered for a choral rehearsal on the porch. They all stared at me for a moment without saying anything, so I heaved open the large wooden door and continued inside.
The sanctuary was absolutely silent. Light spilled through the stained glass and splashed across the dark stone walls in a colored chiaroscuro. Strings of plastic flags stretched across the ceiling, like someone had decorated for a party. Rows of short benches lined the floor, and a mural of the stages of the crucifixion was painted onto the wall behind the altar. Thousands of people, believing that a church would be protected, had sought shelter in this room.
The chorus outside began to sing. Although this was not a big church, the stone and concrete amplified the sound of the voices. Female sopranos weaved in and out of the men's low humming.
I have delayed this posting because I still cannot figure out how to describe what it felt like to hear that singing. My trip to Kibuye was ripe with hassle, but it is impossible to explain how beautiful, and alarming, this moment was.
posted by LookingGlassLand.com at 11:06 PM
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