An old black woman sits on a pew in the front of a church. She is alone. Her colorful fabrics stand out in the dim lighting. Everything is covered in a layer of dust. The church is empty, save for her, and the relics of a different time that surround her. Her face betrays a deep sadness, a fundamental sense of loss and grief. Sitting in this church, unmoving, she contemplates something that unites her to something greater than herself while it simultaneously ravages the core of her being. She is lost, looking for salvation and finding only her thoughts.
In the distance she hears voices. She does not understand the words, but she knows what they mean. What has happened to her has not only turned her into an object of interest, but has fundamentally impacted the society in which she lives. She is part of something bigger than herself whether she wants to be or not. She is now something to be wondered about; she is something to be viewed with deep curiosity by ones who do not understand what she has gone through and how it has changed her.
The voices draw closer. They are English, though she does not understand what is being said. No longer does she hear the familiar sounds of French. The French. The Belgians. They are the past now, just like her grief. Yet, her grief is also in the present, and the legacy of the French speakers lives on as well.
Four visitors have entered the church, following a woman who speaks English to these visitors with a familiar lilt. The old woman still does not understand the words, but she knows their content more intimately than the words could ever expect to convey their meaning to these visitors. They stand, looking at the relics of the past. She does not turn around to look at them. She knows who they are and why there are here, and looking at them will not change her understanding of them.
They have disturbed her quiet, but their presence is not unusual. She continues to contemplate. Now the voices draw closer. These visitors – these white visitors – now stand next to where she is sitting. The begin to take furtive glances at her. She does not catch them all, and she does not care to. She understands why they look at her so inquisitively, but she is too caught in her thoughts to care. Yes, they have disturbed her, but she understands why, even if she has not come to terms with it.
The visitors move on, following their guide, and the old woman returns to her thoughts. Unbeknownst to the old woman, the visitors thoughts have turned to her. They wonder what her story is, and why she is sitting quietly in this church full of bones, clothes, and coffins. They think they can imagine how the experience of genocide has impacted her life – maybe her children were killed, or maybe it was her husband? Maybe it was her whole family? Why is she sitting there like that? What is she thinking? How does she feel about us? Have we disturbed her tormented peace?
This post is based on my experience visiting the Ntarama Genocide Memorial site. Obviously it’s mostly conjecture, but I wanted to try to capture what, for me, was the most intense moment of visiting the Ntarama and Nyamata sites.
Thank you.