Murambi Genocide Memorial

I entered the Murambi Memorial with a heavy heart. Walking through the buildings of what was once a vocational school, I was confronted by chilling displays of human remains preserved under glass. Rows of skeletal bodies – men, women, children – lay silent but spoke volumes. The sight of these victims, arranged as if sleeping, was indescribably haunting.

It forced me to confront the scale and horror of the violence in a way that numbers alone never could. Women and children were among those most brutally targeted: I saw skeletal remains of the youngest victims, and I knew that many had been horribly violated before they were killed. The memorial underscores the deeply gendered cruelty of the genocide, reminding me that mass rape was used as a weapon of terror as much as machetes and bullets.

Walking those halls, I felt a profound sorrow and also anger. The physical evidence of cruelty raised questions about justice and accountability. I found myself thinking about the international community: how could so many bystanders have remained silent? I remembered claims that foreign forces – especially the French army and government at the time – failed to protect civilians and may even have abetted extremists.

This injustice makes Rwanda’s current foreign policy stance more understandable. I realized why the country is so guarded in diplomatic relations and so determined to never again be left vulnerable. In that moment, looking at the evidence of betrayal and inaction, I sensed why Rwanda now insists on self-reliance and vigilance on the global stage. Leaving Murambi, my emotions were raw – grief for the victims and a sober awareness of how fragile peace can be without accountability.