Dec 24, 2018 · 11 min read –
A generation that ignores its history has no past — and no future. Robert A. Heimlein
Over the past year or so, I have read accounts where history is being destroyed and eliminated from the public square, buildings and academia. I don’t understand the so-called “social justice warrior” Americans that are having statues and memorials of our own Civil War, for example removed or destroyed because they are “offensive”. Tearing down a part of our history for what purpose? To ignore it? To make it like it didn’t happen? Tearing down a statue does more to erase the memory of the horrific Civil War than help keep it alive, to prevent it from happening again. We all know slavery was an ugly part of our past. We all know President Lincoln wanted to preserve the union, and it cost thousands of lives and much spilled blood. But fortunately, it’s in the past. And our country healed. Maybe the statue destroyers should heed Jose Rizal: “Each one writes history according to his convenience.”
Well, I was part of history some years ago, and I truly want the stories and the memorials to stay alive forever. I’m telling my story so the readers of this essay learn and appreciate it, and work to prevent the horror of what happened from ever occurring again.
In the early summer of 1994, Rwanda erupted into civil unrest and war. The recently elected Hutu President’s plane had just crashed and the newly politically dominant Hutu tribe blamed the Tusti opposition for shooting it down. The Tutsis had been preferred and selected for government and industry leadership over the years by the Belgian colonialists. Thus, the new majority Hutus declared war on the Tutsis and pushed them down into Burundi. The Tustis regrouped and came back into Rwanda to reclaim their place. And they started to win the battles. This set the Hutus on a course of butchery and killing unprecedented in modern times. Radio and TV messages goaded the people to kill anybody that looked like a Tutsi. Friends and families turned on each other. Social pressure and the mob mentality of the present anarchy had neighbors and family members killing each other.
When the Hutus realized they were going to be overrun, they decided to destroy everything. The mentality was that if the Tutsis were going to return and gain back the country, then why not destroy it on the way out of Dodge? So they killed, burned, looted, raped, hacked with machetes and destroyed anything and everything. The end result was roughly 800,000 people being brutally killed due to hatred between the Hutu and Tusti tribes. And the world let it happen over the course of 100 days.
A million refugees crashed the border into Zaire (now D.R. Congo). Three refugee camps ended up outside of Goma, at the north side of Lake Kivu with 750,000 people total. Another quarter million people invaded Bukavu, at the south end of Lake Kivu.
Goma and Bukavu couldn’t handle the influx of people. So the United Nations came in, as well as numerous relief organizations from all over the world to help with food, water, shelter, medicine and basic human sustenance. Cargo planes bringing supplies, food, medicines to help. One million people. 100,000 orphans. The numbers were staggering. A cholera outbreak hit the camps in July. Thousands were dying. Bulldozers had to dig mass graves to keep up. When the water supply got figured out, the deaths dropped down from around 20,000 to about 1,000 per week in August and September. Based on the number of refugees, the UN deemed this “acceptable”.
I’d been watching the news and reading the papers about the events in Rwanda and Zaire for the time it had been going on. I was reading the paper one morning and came across an article about a man who literally fell off his bike and died right in front of an aid worker due to the cholera epidemic. I started crying in my cereal bowl. I resolved to do something to help. I began to hit the phones and started contacting charity and relief organizations to offer my help. Raised in Zaire, I was fluent in French and Lingala, a local trade language. Furthermore, I had been a local and knew my way around the governmental agencies. I thought with my background I’d be an asset and not a liability. Finally the 14th agency, World Relief, Inc. accepted my application. Was told the news on a Tuesday, tickets were Fed-Ex’d on Wednesday and I was on the plane to help with the Rwanda genocide crisis on Saturday.
Our group of 8 had responsibility for 175 Rwanda refugee kids that were being fostered by Zairian families. We provided food, supplies and medical treatment 6 days a week. A mere 175 out of 100,000 orphan kids that had no clue where their parents were or had watched their parents get killed in front of their eyes. The hopelessness and emotional scarring in the children was on their faces and it was heart-wrenching.
Our team stayed in the city of Goma in a house on the bank of Lake Kivu. I slept in a tent outside and bathed out of a bucket every day. Every morning we’d drive our beater jalopy VW Van 20 KM to the edge of one of the camps to work with our 175 kids. Every morning, bodies of those who’d died that night were wrapped in a cloth or blanket on the side of the road waiting to get picked up and buried.
Each evening, our team would meet for a dinner and we’d give reports and stories of our adventures and experiences. Some had helped with supply hauling, others medical and food distribution and some of us helped with tracking and accounting for our group of 175 kids. Or we’d go assess needs in another village where the locals had absorbed hundreds of Rwandan refugees and needed food and supplies. I remember joking with a few on our team that we should write a poem or song about our living conditions and some of the funnier things we’d experienced during our time.
I left several weeks later, enduring a 40 hour journey from Goma to Nairobi to London to the States and ultimately home. The long journey gave me lots of time to think. I’d changed from what I’d experienced. It was like the scene in the movie Platoon, where Charlie Sheen’s character, Chris Taylor, was wide-eyed, fresh, naïve, and green when he got to Vietnam. He was in shock and overwhelmed upon his arrival and couldn’t handle what he saw initially. Months later, he is at the airport, ready to head home after his tour. He was tough, hardened and experienced. A fresh batch of recruits land. The newbies get off their plane and he’s standing there and he said “welcome to Vietnam”. Well, I sat for 6 hours in Goma waiting for my plane. Some newbie volunteers landed that morning and walked up to the terminal where I was standing. They were taking it all in; the planes, supplies, equipment, and activity. “Welcome to Goma” I said. I felt like Chris Taylor. I wanted to capture that in that moment. I knew what the new volunteers would be in for, and they were probably wondering what I’d been through as I was waiting to go home. I caught an Aeroflot U.N. charter plane with a bunch of German water engineers to take me to Nairobi, Kenya, and I had 7 hours till my flight to London. I got some paper and a pen and I wrote:
Goma, Zaire — a quiet border town nestled in one of Central Africa’s most picturesque settings. The altitude is 5,000 feet, with green rolling hills, majestic mountains and expansive Lake Kivu. Goma, Zaire; a quaint little place where the air is cool, and the views so nice. An active volcano rises to the skies, glowing orange at night. Goma, Zaire — in early 1994 — unknown to the world.
On April 6, 1994, the Rwandan President’s plane went down, setting off a stream of civil war, fighting and murderous butchery. The world stood by and watched. As the Hutus lost to the minority Tutsis, they ran, butchering and plundering over half a million civilians. Rwanda was in upheaval. The country was in disarray. And Goma lay quiet. A quiet border town.
Countless dead in Rwanda. Over 1 million refugees crashed through the Zaire border to result in this decade’s worst tragedies. A wave of adults and children, carrying only a few possessions ran away to safety, to Goma. Others poured into Bukavu, to the south, over a single lane bridge. A stampede of humanity invaded the quiet border town. Wake up Goma! You may rest and sleep….no longer.
With people came sickness and disease; cholera and dysentery. Food and water were in short supply. People dying, over 10,000 per week. Bodies stacked 10 high, with not enough graves and not enough people to move them. Bulldozers dug through the rock and hundreds were tossed inside, with no ceremony or wake. Nameless bodies in unmarked tombs. Oh Goma — you healthy border town….no longer.
The plea went out to the whole wide world. TV, CNN, and the AP news showed the horror and death. Newspapers and TV footage graphically depicted the scene. The United Nations High Commissioner of Refugees came in, along with many NGO’s. People offered to extend a hand, a dollar, or themselves. A tragedy was underway, and help was late. But interest stirred. Oh Goma — it’s only just begun.
The planes came in, some thirty a day. The airport was extended, and trucks and equipment rolled out. Sheeting, tarps, blankets and food. Relief was arriving. Water pumps and tanker trucks came. But the town was overrun, and buildings were trashed. The people had to move. There were just too many. There were just too many. Oh Goma — you pretty little town…no longer.
Camps were made; Mugunga, Katale, and Kibumba. The people moved out of town to them, crammed into little shelters with tarps for cover. Thousands spotting the hills and fields, each camp with nearly 300,000 people. Their food and water came, and the deaths decreased. The hillsides grew more barren as trees were cut down for firewood. And the sky filled with smoke from the thousands of fires. Oh Goma — will you ever recover?
The situation settled, and some order established. Volunteers came and helped with the sick, the hungry and the alone. Orphans were cared for and parents found. Unaccompanied children were fostered. And malnourished children were fed. The tragedy was getting under control. Cholera had run its course. And the world started to lose interest. Oh Goma — what have you become?
The volunteers came from all walks of life to help in some way. Living conditions were rough; they often slept in tents and bathed in cold water. And everywhere one turned, one saw an outstretched hand. Hands from refugees for food. Hands from local officials for bribery money. Many dollars were spent, with lots not making it to the refugees in need. Oh Goma — corruption and extortion have overtaken you.
The nights brought murders in the camps. Hutu soldiers killing civilians wanting to return to their homeland. Confrontations with Zaire and Rwanda soldiers lead to innocent deaths. Gunshots in the night. The sick and malnourished continued to die. And every morning, the truck rolled through the camps, picking up the dead on the side of the road. Oh Goma — you safe little town…no longer.
Little children, dirty, hungry, sad and alone. Most without Mommy or Daddy or both. Many saw soldiers butcher their parents. Most barely made it out alive. No hot showers, hot meals, clean sheets or clean clothes. No sign of family or friends — they may be all dead. Nobody to love them. No future, no dreams, no hope. Only sorrow and death. Not just for now, but for generations. Oh Goma — you city of hope….no longer.
Volcanic dust and dirt permeate the volunteers’ eyes, ears and nose. Black dirt everywhere. Stones are pulled from one’s shoes and clothes are soiled. The sickness also hits the volunteers with colds, the flu and worse. Most get bouts of diarrhea. Living is rough. Work is filled with sadness and grief. The air is full of odors and stench. Oh Goma — you healthy little town…no longer.
The situation looks grim, as weeks have turned into months. While food and water are being provided to the people, the question of term continues to be asked. How much longer can Rwandans live like this — in tents, temporary, and away from home? How much longer can the Zairians tolerate them? How soon until Rwanda reconciles? Or will the people ever? Oh Goma — your future is certain….no longer.
Volunteers come and go. Each having given a piece of him or herself. A smile to a child, love to an orphan, food to the malnourished, medical help to the sick, and encouragement to all. Volunteers leave with mixed feelings — overwhelmed and frustrated, wishing they could have done more, yet glad to have helped, knowing they’ve seen hell first-hand. There are no regrets for going and investing in this crisis. Oh Goma — you will never be the same. Oh Rwanda — you will never be the same. Nor will I.
When I typed up my notes that I’d written, I only changed a couple of words. I’d poured out these feelings onto paper in 20 minutes. And there was nothing funny about it. These were words that captured this tired volunteer’s thoughts and emotions, who was reflecting on the magnitude of the genocide, refugees, and the entire experience.
I knew that this horrible event and aftermath would not affect just this generation of Rwandan’s that had gone through the killings and flight from their homeland, but would impact subsequent generations. I also knew that next to Stalin in Russia killing millions, Pol Pot in Cambodia wiping out 2 million and Hitler’s holocaust in World War II killing the 6 million Jews, the Rwanda Genocide would rank up there as one of our planet’s worst tragedies.
I’ve often recommended the movie “Hotel Rwanda” to people when they hear I was a part of this crisis. It’s a movie every human needs to see. It’s a challenging movie to watch. Yet it does a great job of capturing the horror, awesomeness, and human tragedy of the event in as good of “taste” as one can with the subject matter. Everyone needs to see how easy we humans can slip from civility to savagery. Civil society is very fragile. Anarchy is not a distant condition; it’s closer to our present than we think. I heard the story of a man telling his Hutu brother if he didn’t kill his own wife, (who happened to be Tusti), then he would. A guy was going to murder his sister-in-law with a machete because she was from a different tribe? What has to happen to get to this level?
I believe the world would be better if we all read books about our human history and what triggered geopolitical events. Watch movies about history in order to understand it and to protect against doing it again. Enjoy the good parts of history, including the victories and successes. But study and respect the unpleasant and uncomfortable parts. Visit the Holocaust museums, the Rwanda Genocide Museum, Gettysburg battlefields, the Pearl Harbor memorial, the Twin Towers museum, the Coliseum in Rome, and other memorials of the human race’s tragic and bloody past. This past needs to be preserved, visited, appreciated, studied, respected, and remembered.
I hope this short story of my small part in the Rwanda Genocide refugee camps helps you to understand from my perspective what happened, and that it urges you to keep all history alive for future generations. One thing I’ll never forget is the horror that happened in Rwanda. I know, since I was there. And I pray nothing like it ever happens again.
Congo Kid – Article # 2 – December 2018
Copyright © 2018 by Jeffrey W. Eales. All rights reserved. No portions may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without the prior written permission of the author.