We leave Kigali in a minivan. I find it hard to see people walking on these roads with their belongings, friends, children, ordinary lives. It’s my second day in Rwanda.
In the little church of Ntarana dozens of villagers were massacred with bullets, grenades and machetes in 1994. From the outside, the church does not hint at what took place inside.
I can see a bullet hole in the steel gate. The folded steel looks like a "tulip", demonstrating the force and impact of the bullet. I enter the church. Even the concrete floor has big holes in it. All pews are covered with piles of clothes, stifling the interior.
Daylight trickles into the darkness through hundreds of tiny holes in the metal roof. As if someone tried to fashion a starry sky. They are the silent witnesses of the grenades that exploded among the men, women and children who wore these clothes.
The guide leads our group from story to story, from holes in the wall to mortal remains with their skulls bashed in. The inside of the baptismal font in the corner is damaged by gunfire. I don’t want to hear any stories anymore. I step outside.
On a grass patch next to the church, people are setting up a tent for a memorial service. I decide to join them. I strike up a conversation with "Aimable". "In 1994 I was a Belgian soldier in Kigali," I explain. We look in front of us and say nothing. He then points to the church and starts talking: "My parents were killed there. Nobody in our community understood why. People got along well. Strangers from outside our village did this."
We hold each other’s hand.
We sit next to one another and watch. Most of the time, we don’t say a word. Someone from our group quietly tells us for the third time that we need to get moving. Together with Aimable I walk in the direction of the main entrance where he, as a 15-year-old boy, stood in the church portal and watched the bodies of his parents.
Aimable says he’s very happy to have met me. I feel overwhelmed by his gratitude. Two different worlds meeting each other in this moment and finding support in it. We give each other a hug and say goodbye.
A group of exuberant children run onto the square in front of the church. I estimate their age at 8 - 12 years. They play tag.
"This is the place."