Living on the equator is a study both in colorful variety and also unrelenting sameness. More tropical climates seem to nurture a kaleidoscope of patterns: the flora and fauna, the varied fabrics of women's head wraps and baby slings, the spicy music and spicy food to go with it. But being closer to the sun also means that it rises and sets at just about the same time every day, all year long. No depressing dark mornings, but no late, light evenings to savor. The coming and going of the rains mark the passing of seasons more so than the color of the sky at 6 pm. Weekends also do not seem to differ very much than weekdays for many. The sun is up, it's time to get up, there's work to do! Kigali is growing fast, we're moving forward in the world, and we need to make that happen, even on a Sunday!
Thus, despite a relatively late night at the Great Rwandan Beer Fest, with more than my share of Mutzig, Primus and Turbo King, I awoke this morning bright and early, to a strong sun and the rhythmic banging of the tools being used to construct the new houses across the street. Further sleep was impossible, so I decided to do something, that would not be enjoyable per se, but that I wanted to be sure to do before leaving Rwanda. I paid a visit to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre.
Kigali is built over several hills and valleys, and the memorial is built on a hill at the northwestern corner of the city, across a small valley from the downtown area. As I stood on the peaceful terraced hillside, among the mass grave site of over 250,000 people, surrounded by rose gardens and fountains, I reflected on the modern city across the valley. There are several tall buildings, that could almost be considered sky scrapers by African standards. There are fancy cafes and expensive grocery stores. There I stood among the remains of the people who would never get to be a part of that growth, and yet were perhaps, somehow, the catalyst for that growth even being possible.
Inside the museum, there is a hall of pictures. Photos hanging on little clips off of strings of wire. The kind you could buy at Bed, Bath and Beyond. These are not photos behind glass cases. These are strings of photos that families have clipped up of their lost loved ones. I could imagine them looking through their old photo albums, choosing which ones to put in that place. These are not old, black and white photos of people who look like they lived impossibly long ago, like you may see at a Holocaust museum. These are modern, color photos, of people with early 1990s hair and clothes, clothes I remembered wearing. Snapshots from Uncle Fabrice's birthday party or Christine's christening or just because. These people were here not that long ago, walking up these hills, headed to their jobs downtown, perhaps even shopping at some of the stores I have passed by. Now they lay here, on this beautiful hillside, as each same day passes under the unpatterned sun, as a reminder of what has been but also of the only way forward.
Somehow, almost impossibly, the Rwandan people have managed to live among each other again, move forward and do amazingly well. Perhaps it's due to the success of their development and progress as a country, and because the alternative, reopening those wounds, would lead to more of the unthinkable.
My being here, in this place, with this history, is a part of the push for progress. I am only here for six weeks, but some of my medical colleagues are here for a year or more. There is so much further to go in improving the medical system here, but there is so much more here than there once was.
Thus, despite a relatively late night at the Great Rwandan Beer Fest, with more than my share of Mutzig, Primus and Turbo King, I awoke this morning bright and early, to a strong sun and the rhythmic banging of the tools being used to construct the new houses across the street. Further sleep was impossible, so I decided to do something, that would not be enjoyable per se, but that I wanted to be sure to do before leaving Rwanda. I paid a visit to the Kigali Genocide Memorial Centre.
Kigali is built over several hills and valleys, and the memorial is built on a hill at the northwestern corner of the city, across a small valley from the downtown area. As I stood on the peaceful terraced hillside, among the mass grave site of over 250,000 people, surrounded by rose gardens and fountains, I reflected on the modern city across the valley. There are several tall buildings, that could almost be considered sky scrapers by African standards. There are fancy cafes and expensive grocery stores. There I stood among the remains of the people who would never get to be a part of that growth, and yet were perhaps, somehow, the catalyst for that growth even being possible.
Inside the museum, there is a hall of pictures. Photos hanging on little clips off of strings of wire. The kind you could buy at Bed, Bath and Beyond. These are not photos behind glass cases. These are strings of photos that families have clipped up of their lost loved ones. I could imagine them looking through their old photo albums, choosing which ones to put in that place. These are not old, black and white photos of people who look like they lived impossibly long ago, like you may see at a Holocaust museum. These are modern, color photos, of people with early 1990s hair and clothes, clothes I remembered wearing. Snapshots from Uncle Fabrice's birthday party or Christine's christening or just because. These people were here not that long ago, walking up these hills, headed to their jobs downtown, perhaps even shopping at some of the stores I have passed by. Now they lay here, on this beautiful hillside, as each same day passes under the unpatterned sun, as a reminder of what has been but also of the only way forward.
Somehow, almost impossibly, the Rwandan people have managed to live among each other again, move forward and do amazingly well. Perhaps it's due to the success of their development and progress as a country, and because the alternative, reopening those wounds, would lead to more of the unthinkable.
My being here, in this place, with this history, is a part of the push for progress. I am only here for six weeks, but some of my medical colleagues are here for a year or more. There is so much further to go in improving the medical system here, but there is so much more here than there once was.
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