A Million Reasons

There are many reasons why George and I love to travel. We enjoy sampling exotic foods and trying new flavors. Wandering strange cities and listening to unfamiliar languages. Experiencing all the natural beauty of our amazing planet.

But maybe the most important reason we travel is to be reminded that no matter how dissimilar other people and cultures can sometimes appear from ourselves, in the end we are all really much more alike than we are different.

Unfortunately, that holds true not only for the happy similarities such as the universal appreciation of great food and good music and our desire to be close to our families and friends. It also holds true for the unhappier aspects of life here on earth. The losses we all endure. The pain we feel. The tears we shed.

And the tragic ways in which human history keeps repeating itself.

For example, in the concentration camps of Nazi Germany. In the killing fields of Cambodia.

And in Rwanda, during 100 ghastly days in the spring of 1994.

It was during those 100 days that one million Rwandans were systematically tortured, beaten, raped, and slaughtered. Not by outsiders or oppressive military troops, but by their fellow Rwandans. One million people lost their lives at the hands of their very own neighbors and friends. In some cases, even their own family members. People they knew. People they lived with. People they trusted.

The circumstances that culminated in those unimaginable crimes are too complex to delve into in a silly little blog. Suffice it to say that Rwandans lived in relative peace and unity until German and Belgian colonists barged into their lives during the first half of the 20th century. Obsessed with meaningless anthropologic details that were used to categorize and judge people, the uninvited white rulers invented three racial groups – the Hutus, the Tutsis, and the Twa. Over time, the colonists convinced the Rwandans that they should be divided among those three groups. And unfortunately, those divisions led, as they almost always do, to interracial distrust and tension and strife.

In the decades after Rwanda gained independence, the racial conflicts intensified and worsened, until they exploded horrifically in the spring of 1994. The Rwandan genocide was a shocking but sadly predictable outcome of making people believe that they are more different from other people than they actually are.

And so we traveled, along with our friends Paula, Karin, and Laura, to the Kigali Genocide Memorial in the country’s capital. We walked among the souls of the 250,000 people who are buried there – just one quarter of the victims lost during those 100 days. Many of them remain unknown and nameless. Others live on in the memories of surviving family and friends, some of whom visit the memorial in the same way people visit an ordinary cemetery.

Thirty years on, Rwanda seems to be recovering fairly well. At least, as well as a country can be expected to recover from such an unspeakable tragedy. Although they can never forget (nor do they want to) they have mostly learned to forgive, and they are doing their best to move on. They welcome tourists like us with smiles and good will. They seem grateful for our presence. And we are equally grateful for their hospitality. Grateful to sample their food and culture. To wander their cities, explore their countryside, and interact with their wildlife. To hear the determination in their voices and see the hope in their eyes. To be happily reminded once again of the many ways in which we are all far more alike than we could ever be different.