Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
home stories of what life was like in corners of the world that do not always make it into
our headlines. I had this, at least, in common with the heroes in whose footsteps I was fol-
lowing.
I stopped to linger over a photograph in the hotel lobby that depicted the house as it had
originally been, back in Kandt's time. In the frame a grand bungalow sat alone amongst
the bare hillsides, with only a few wattle huts for neighbours. The Kigali of Kandt's time, I
realised, was little different from the country we had been walking through - but, whereas
that country had remained in the past, Kigali had somehow contrived to join the modern
world.
'Boston,' I said. 'Are you done?'
Boston was positively slavering over the thought of the crocodile, and it took some mo-
ments before he looked up. 'Let's hope we don't meet any further north.'
Kigali's Genocide Memorial Centre is not far from the place where Kandt used to live, and
it is much more than a museum. When we arrived, Amani was waiting for us at the gates.
Eager as ever, he took my hand in an enthusiastic hello.
The Memorial Centre stretched before us, and there was no denying its beauty. The
air was heavy with the scent of eucalyptus, and the gardens of the hilltop were vivid and
bright, their flower beds perfectly arranged. Colourful birds - western citrils and mustard
yellow canaries - darted around in the trees. Somewhere, as Amani began to tell us of this
place, I heard children playing.
'It has been open ten years,' said Amani, 'and that was ten years after the events. It is
all here, everything that happened.'
He was speaking about a record of the genocide. I already knew that one of the principal
aims of the Memorial Centre was to bring together the testimonies of all those who had
survived, and taken part in, the atrocities - as well as taking part in the Gacaca trial pro-
cess, the traditional community courts whose role had been to try those accused of involve-
ment. But it wasn't until we reached the foot of the Memorial Centre building, a piece of
modern architecture seemingly at odds with the natural surroundings, that I understood that
Amani meant something different as well. Outside the building, which looked somewhat
like an English crematorium, were a series of large concrete slabs inscribed with names.
Trellises and decking served as a path between these great stones. We followed it in si-
lence, finally reaching the centre's exterior wall which was dominated by a single, vast
brass plaque. Here were inscribed hundreds of names written in a list that was still incom-
plete, petering out half-way down.
Amani was not being his usual energetic self, and now I understood: the Memorial
Centre is not just a museum to memories of the genocide: it is a mass grave, a site of gen-
ocide itself.
