Memorial Day

Memorial Flame

Yesterday was national Genocide Memorial Day. Nothing in my life could have prepared me. It was intense.

Loona, Alicia and Morley (VSO vols) all work up at Gisozi Memorial Centre, the epicentre of national mourning. Loona said things would probably start about ten, so I took a moto and arrived about half-nine. The police had stopped people from going up to the gates on moto and everyone - hundreds of people - were walking the long winding road up the hill. It was baking hot already, but there was something spiritual about being amongst this procession.

Paula had arrived there before me. She texted to say that she was waiting at the gates but, as I got to them, they closed - too many people. I was wondering what to do next when Hattie, Loona's colleague, saw me in the crowd and came to rescue me. She took me round the side to the gift shop where Charlotte, one of the VSO Programme Managers, was helping out. Paula found me soon after, and we went into the Centre and up with Loona and Alicia onto a balcony overlooking the main entrance square.

Loona explained on the way up that earlier in the year Gacaca (community genocide courts) had extracted a confession from a convicted man about where they had buried the bodies. That morning they had re-interred a further 100 people from about ten or twelve families, so emotions were running high.

The courtyard was packed. Someone was talking in Kinya over the loud speakers. Then a choir started singing the most beautiful melodies. Alicia and I were just chatting away, mostly about our placements.

Then the screaming started.

I just remember sitting up and looking at Alicia, saying "What's that?"

"The grieving is starting," she said. "It has a domino effect."

She was right. Within minutes it had spread around the entire court - screams like you've never heard; wailing, crying. I thought it'd be like Diana's funeral - quiet mass sobbing. I had no idea. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

The Red Cross were there en masse and every so often they would wade into the crowds. Up to five men would bodily carry a man or a woman out, restraining their kicking legs and thrashing arms. They were shouting out in Kinya, often names. One man, I will always remember his voice, shouted out names and then gave this soul-deep gasp: 'Ooooh!' - reliving what he saw in front of him. It was the saddest thing I've ever heard.

Originally, there was a room set aside upstairs for people in trauma. We had a trauma specialist on hand. As the day wore on, more and more casualties came in and soon there were people lying in every room in the centre. I was drafted into the effort with boxes of water and piles of toilet roll to hand out. I stood in the lobby for a while with the tissue, but soon went out into the crowds just to be outside. The sounds were heartbreaking - just the screaming and the calling of names, people reliving what happened all over again. Morley spent two hours with one lady, who drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she would suddenly sitting bolt-upright and reaching out, crying.

It was really, really hard.

I held together well, and was hugely grateful for the sanctuary of the balcony. There was a one minute silence. This huge sea of people walking down to the graves, just stopped. Like the world had stopped.

At the end, they lit a flame in the middle of the fountain. It burns for 100 days. 

This is when I lost it a little. I just stood, watching and crying. It was the image of the flame - the souls of all the people lying in those four metre deep pits. Not even whole people, but the bits recovered, and the little children. All those who have passed through that flame, as the living walked away. The crowds dispersing whilst the flame burned is this picture in my head that seemed so unutterably sad.

I'd never seen someone in real trauma before. Not like that. It was difficult, but I'm glad I went. It was an experience - a very human one - which is what I guess I went for in the first place. It was something very real, and something very surreal, all at the same time.

Soon after, Alicia and I escaped with another volunteer. We came back to Kisimenti. Kigali was a ghost town, not a shop or a bar open and no one on the streets. We walked for a while and eventually found one solitary bar willing to feed us. It was honestly the only one in the area.

We were all wearing purple ribbons and scraps of cloth - the colour of the memorial week. We sat and unwound with a beer and brochettes then went our separate ways. We needed that debrief.

I came home. D was here. I thought I was fine, but then I had a good cry and I was really fine. It had been a bit of a shock. I've never seen grief like that, not on that scale.

It's still really quiet outside, but there's a bit more traffic. Everyone's back to work today.

On a different note, things between me and D are going really well again. I think better than they ever have, thus far. I've been a bit hard on him. We went for a walk last night, trying to find beer and food. We had to walk all the way to Remera to find one open shop - we'd almost given up lol We got back and ate, and drank, and talked and talked and talked. 

When I got back from the service, he'd already written his CV and asked me to look it over. It's impressive - he really knows how to sell himself. He's going to this job interview today, so fingers crossed. He's a bit worried because he doesn't speak Kinya. I reckon - in true Rwandan style - they'll probably tell him they're looking for someone, but the guy he needs to speak to is away for the week lol

More than that, we talked about the cultural differences. I've realised I've been way too tough. The time thing bugs me, and he's agreed to try and work on that. I said we could compromise. 'Soon' to me is 20-30 minutes, in African time it's 2-3 hours, so let's say one-and-a-half, okay? That's acceptable ;)

He really opened up about our friends situation. He said the only time the colour of my skin ever makes him think, is when we're out with my friends. He says it's overwhelming. I do actually understand that. There was this time when I left work and bumped into him with Steve and some other mates. It was really awkward. It isn't so much skin, as the whole cultural barrier. The way we Westerners talk and communicate is so different but, because of our situation, he's expected to be out with my friends much more than I'm around his. I'd feel just as uncomfortable. We all talk so fast, and everything we say is an opinion - not like African culture, where you don't share your opinions, or analyse situations and people in quite the same easy way.

We talked for hours. I explained how the time thing made me feel. Everyone here knows the culture and understands, but back home, if your guy never turned up to anything or was always really late, her friends would be thinking 'is he really interested in her?' It can leave you feeling self-conscious. Of course, here, even women are on African time, so no one ever sees it like that.

It was such a good conversation, and we talked about so many things that affect the way we communicate with our friends. He explained the 'mystery syndrome'. Everything seems an eternal mystery here - no one ever simply says where they're going or what they're doing. There's almost a suspicious streak of 'why do you want to know?' Everything is evasive. 

I said that, back home, it's kind of normal for people to just say: "Oh, I’m going to the shops, then to the bank to cash a cheque. I'll see you around four, or text you if it changes." Job done. To him, that's really odd - that anyone would ask, or that you'd tell them. 

This morning, he stood on the porch and gave me a quick run-down of what he was going to do today. I laughed and did the same. It was just funny.

We had such a cool night last night. That, combined with his CV and the obvious effort invested, has left my head a lot clearer than before. I'm feeling very loved-up again.

I honestly don't think we ever realise how big a thing culture can be. I think, as Westerners, we never have to consider it that deeply, because everyone else has to play in our ball park. I guess I just wanted to know that I was genuinely wanted. With African male communications, you have no real idea. He made a massive effort to come over to my side of the divide, and to talk to me as I told him guys would in my culture. In doing that, I was completely reassured.

He told me another funny superstition. Apparently, you would never sit as close to your in-laws as we were sitting, or drink from the same cup, or sleep on the same bed sheets, because it's believed it gives you some kind of shaking disease. It sounded like Parkinson's. I thought that, back home in England, we don't like to get all that close to our in-laws either, but for different reasons ;)

Ho-hum.