32 Hotel Rwanda Legacy: 26 From Indifference to Resolve 32, 54 before, 79 after
Book I: The Unlearned Lesson (H1, font 23) 0 before 49 after
Part 1: A Recurring Nightmare (H2, font 17) 0 before, 29 after
Chapter 1: The Echo of Machetes: From a Church in Ntarama to a Maternity Ward in El Fasher (H3, font 13) 0 before 16 after
The first thing you notice is the silence. Not peace, but its opposite: a profound and heavy absence. Inside the Ntarama church in Rwanda, the air is thick with the dust of thirty years and the residue of five thousand souls. The sunlight, fractured into a rainbow by a lone surviving piece of stained glass, does not illuminate; it exposes. It falls on the wooden shelves that line the walls, shelves that hold skulls in neat, terrible rows. Small skulls, separated from the large ones. Infants.
Below them, on the rough pews, are not hymnals, but piles of faded clothing. A child’s torn shirt, a woman’s patterned kitenge. This is all that is left. These fabrics are their tombstones. Standing here, in this archive of a massacre, the promise the world made in the aftermath—a solemn vow of “Never Again”—feels less like a sacred covenant and more like a cheap, weightless whisper. A whisper drowned out by the echo.
A hard cut. The world rips from silence to chaos. The air is not dust but smoke, acrid with cordite, filled not with the ghosts of screams but the real, tearing screams of the living. This is the maternity ward in El Fasher, Darfur, and Amina, a nurse, is on the floor. The sound is everything. The methodical crack of Kalashnikovs, the alien buzz of a cheap commercial drone overhead, the shriek of a mother who has just seen her newborn’s bed strafed with bullets. Amina performs a desperate, instinctual act. She pulls a surviving, screaming infant from its bassinet, shielding the tiny body with her own as men in the uniforms of the Rapid Support Forces sweep through the ward.
The tools have changed. The machete of 1994 was a weapon of intimate, hacking brutality. The rifle of today is a tool of brutally efficient distance. But the target is identical. The most vulnerable—new life, and the mothers who bring it—in a place that should be a sanctuary. The echo of the machete is in the crack of the rifle.
And the world? In 1994, it was a sin of omission, a conscious choice not to see, not to act. Today, it is a sin of calculated insufficiency. The images of El Fasher flash for a moment on a billion smartphone screens, a brief horror between a celebrity scandal and a cooking video, then they are gone. We provide enough aid to conflicts to seem concerned, but not enough to stop them. We send thoughts and prayers, but never planes and troops. We learned nothing from the silence of Ntarama because the echo, we have discovered, is a sound we can choose to ignore.