A Lone Researcher

It’s rather funny to think that back home, as I was packing in Korea, my mother and grandmother(s) were so concerned about the weather here in Kigali. Yes, it is rather hot during the day, and a bit muggy and the city always seems to be enveloped in a certain fog / dust for the most part, but it is actually far, far easier to breathe than in Seoul. Monsoons don’t happen in developed countries, my friend used to say, but Seoul is a great big exception – we have something that strongly resembles a rainy season. The weather, in other words, was horrendous when I left, with temperature up to 31 degrees (celsius) and rain incessant. It is, on the other hand, the dry season here in Kigali. The sun is out, the humidity is low (or non-existent) and the mornings are reasonably cool and days pleasantly hot. In other words, it is rather nice here.

Funny, huh? How things can be so different from what we fret and worry about. Often it seems, our concerns are directed towards the wrong things – the weather is hardly the problem, compared to making sure I don’t go over budget in Kigali (who said Africa was cheap?). There is no dearth of nice places to go in this city; I am sitting in a café overlooking the city, which well could be an African themed café in London, Seoul, or New York. No one, however, worried about getting the right ‘authorizations’ for everything I need (or want) to do. (Well, okay, that’s a slight lie – but lets just say its not the same as I heard). You are never really prepared for Africa, says Justine(?), a British med school student working in Gisenyi. Maybe you are never prepared for anything.

That’s exactly how I felt this morning in the shower, getting ready to head to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Center. Are you prepared to see what you are going to see? An Australian adventuress, Katie, had asked the night before. For the past couple months, I had read everything there is to be read on Rwanda, on the genocide, on the memorials. Every testimonial, every travelogue, every academic article. I could recite to you the history of the genocide, the memorial, and everything around it if I needed to. I had read everything and anything on the theory of memory, theory behind memorials, theory behind art in commemoration, and other things the academia had churned out. But that did not make anything better, if not worse—just because I knew what reaction is expected of me, does that mean the memorial will elicit that response from me? What if my response is to the contrary? Will my prior knowledge be in the way of actually processing what I see?

The Memorial is a beautiful white building, surrounded by a series of gardens (garden of unity, garden of reconciliation, garden of children, genocide...). Had it not been the sign, it could have been a nice mansion of a rich Rwandan. The normalcy was almost startling. (But then again, isn't the status of "normalcy" killing assumed during the genocide almost as disturbing as the actual violence?)

The exhibit itself was...i hate to say this, but, a bit unimpressive. I guess to those who had not been reading about what happened in 1994, the exhibit was a highly educational experience. Often, I found myself reading the posters with astonishing skepticism, not necessarily about what happened

, but mostly about how they described certain events. I could not help wondering,was this what most Rwandans, or "victims" think, or is this what the West thinks (this memorial was built mostly by Western money)? Is it wrong of me to question those things? You would think the "main" exhibit would be the main stage of all emotions.

Before I entered the exhibit, I had taken a tour of the gardens. On one side of the building are large stone slabs - mass graves of bodies found around Kigali. One after another, unmarked, undifferentiated, these slabs were the last resting places for hundreds of Rwandans. I could not decide what was more disturbing- the sheer number of deaths, or the fact that just like when they were killed, the victims had lost their individualities even in death. They were killed not because they were Paul, Samuel or Beatrice-to their killers, they were simply "Tutsi" (or a dissenter) and nothing more. There individuality meant nothing at the moment of their death. And even in their graves, they are still "victims". That was the aftermath of a 'jenoside.'

At the end of row of graves was a single glass panel that showed the inside of the slabs-which revealed two coffins, covered by a white cloth with a purple cross. I found myself afraid to go any closer to the panel. (Was I afraid of the dead?) I looked up, and saw an old man walking towards where I was standing. I became deathly afraid. I did not want to disturb him, if he was visiting the grave of a loved one. I did not want to be seen, to afraid to peer into the panels. Hesitantly, I pulled out my camera to fulfill my role of "documenting" the memorial- behind the safety of the lens, I inched forward, looking down upon the caskets. I could make out the shape of the casket through the cloth. I felt myself choking up. The sight of two caskets, and one old man who was sighing deeply at the sight of it, was far more poignant than a roomful of commentaries and evidence. Nothing is as expected, and nothing really prepares you for anything.

I thought I was discreet, but I guess something of me smelled "researcher" rather than "tourist." (I thought behind my ridiculous white sunglasses, I would seem like another ditzy wife/child of a businessman, but I guess my note taking gave it away) Sooner or later, I had the head guide trailing my whereabouts, peering time to time at my notes (if he understood them he is a genius- I was writing in a jumble of Korean and English). Eventually I decided to introduce myself - and voila! I whipped out my Harvard ID."Hahvahd! The famous school!" Yep, we are rather well known. After a couple name-dropping sessions (oh, and you know Dr.Stephen Smith? Well I've been talking to him via email, and he said...) I had a name card (Honoré, Head Guide), an appointment with the chief operator tomorrow morning, and potential access to the archives. A big, big sigh of relief.

I ended the day at Cafe Bourbon, a famous gathering space for muzungus and rich Rwandans - I figured I needed some muzungu interaction to detox from my first day. Honestly, I was at loss of what to do - I hardly know anyone in town, and I don't really have work to do yet. Well, I guess I could just blog. In the surreal environment of Bourbon, where most of the clientèle spoke English and the decor was more East Village than East Africa (okay, Central East to be exact I guess), I caught myself gazing at the door, half expecting someone I know to walk in. (Yes, my point is, I am getting a little lonely). Oh well. I'll catch up on my reading.