Okay, going to get personal on you. Look out.
Many people ask me why I chose the photograph I did for the cover of my book Testimony Africa. The man is Rwandan genocide survivor Emmanuel Mugenzira. In the photo, he is standing in front of buildings full of preserved bodies from the 1994 genocide at the Murambi memorial site outside Butare, Rwanda. Shot in the head and left for dead in a mass grave, Emmanuel miraculously survived but lost his wife and children (read his full story below).
Several people I know have visited Murambi and have met Emmanuel. One of them, a photographer I respect, told me nonchalantly that “I met Emmanuel in Rwanda, too, many years ago!” As if to say that he’d been photographed before, no big deal.
But here’s the thing: in my line of work we can often snag a great photo and look at it later and think “sweet, that’s a great one” but just kind of treat it as a little treasure we picked up doing our job, something cool for the portfolio. But how often are we willing to stop, give the guy a big hug and shed a few tears over his story like I did with Emmanuel that day in 2004? Or better yet, go to bat for the poor guy (who I am pretty sure has a big time drinking problem)? When I got back from the trip I wanted to tell his story if I could, so I submitted this photo and the bit about his family to Smithsonian Magazine. They printed it. This is the stuff we photojournalists need to do if we are going to make any real difference in the world.
Another photographer, who frankly I have grown to disrespect, told me I would sell more copies if I didn’t put Emmanuel on the cover. Maybe he is right. But dang if he just didn’t get that this work is more about telling the stories than making people feel warm and fuzzy when they look at the cover. I know the cover makes some people blanch. But for some, it will cause them to ask themselves what the story is, and then, maybe they will ask this question to themselves: “What am I supposed to do about this?” Those are the kind of people I want to hang out with!
So here is the epilogue. Yesterday, a woman ordered the book who was with me when I took the cover photo. This story lives on. As it should. And last June, I went back to Murambai. I was wondering if Emmanuel was still there. Sure enough, on the bumpy ride in to the site, I spotted him on the back of a bicycle sitting side sattle. I rolled down my window and as I passed him I yelled his name and gave him a wave and a thumbs up. For the first time, I saw him smile.
When we both rolled into the site, I quickly went over to greet him. With my translator, I asked him if he remembered me. He said yes, of course he did. I gave him a big hug (yes, he reeked of booze) and walked with him for a long time. I asked him if I could put his photograph on the cover of my book. He happily said yes. And although he was gaunt and sickly looking, I knew that I loved this man.
This is the kind of stuff that makes my job the best job in the world. Don’t write me and tell me the photograph is too strong or that the guy has been photographed before. Just go out and do something for people like this. Then let me know how you are changing the world!
MASSACRE AT MURAMBI
As told by Emmanuel Mugenzira
“My name is Emmanuel Mugenzira. I was born here in 1957 in Gikongoro, in the district of Nyamigabe. My family died here at the Murambi memorial site – my wife, my five kids, two boys and three girls – they all died here. The oldest was only 13. I just can’t bring myself to talk about them.
Before the war I was a farmer and later I got a job at the provincial office. But I was fired from there by the Mayer – because of my ethnic group. I returned to farming, but it wasn’t too long before the war started and they started killing people.
The way those wars took place was the result of President Habyarimana’s bad governance. Before that, people lived happily together, but then they were taught negative things – that Tutsi are ‘cockroaches’ and a bad tribe. After Habyarimana’s airplane was shot down, meetings were held immediately by our local authorities, and Interahamwe and soldiers started coming to the hills, burning houses, taking cattle and killing people.
On 8 April, we ran to take refuge in the parish of Gikongoro where we lived. By 16 April, a lot of people had gathered there and some were outside, getting rained on. Mayor Laurent Ukibaruta of our province, Capt. Seduhura, Mayor Semakwavu of our district and the director of the tea plantation in Mata, Mr. Kamodoka, held a meeting with all the mayors and councilors and they told us to go to the school in Murambi. We did this and arrived on 16 April. Life there was hard because they had cut the water pipe. They gave us four gendarmes for protection, but from 17 April we never saw them again. Instead, we started getting attacked on 18 April. We fought against the attackers using stones and many people died during the battle. We were using stones, they had guns, but eventually they left because they couldn’t handle us.
On 19 and 20 April, we were fighting against those who were trying to infiltrate. Then on 21 April, at 3 a.m., a truck arrived, full of militia and soldiers. They offloaded at the roadblock, surrounded the area and started shooting. Those who attempted to escape were shot. That continued. I got shot in the head; I was undressed and left there because they thought I was dead.
After they left, I made my way to Nzega forest nearby. Next day, they brought tractors to bury the people and they killed whoever was not dead by then. I watched them bury the people and when I realized that my family had all died there, I decided to leave.
I walked during the night and rested during the day until I arrived in Burundi. It took me three days to get there because there was no place to cross over during the day. When I reached the border, my head was swollen and I was saved by the soldiers I found there. They put me in a car and took me to the hospital in Kayanza. I had walked all the way, naked, in the cold and rain. As well as my wound, I also had malaria. I was only saved by God. I stayed in Burundi and eventually returned to Rwanda with the refugees who had fled in 1959.
At first I stayed in Nyamata, but I was moved back to Gikongoro to show the mass graves because people were denying that there had been a massacre at Murambi. I came here and buried the people with dignity. I carried on, but it’s hard to live in a place where you have lost your entire family. I have my wife and five kids buried here, my entire family. There must have been 66-70,000 people killed here, but we’ve only exhumed 20,000. I carried on here, living a bad life. We exhumed the corpses you can see here at Murambi – that’s the life I’ve been living for five years.
I endure it because there’s no alternative, but it’s really hard and scary for us to describe the things we witnessed. I also felt the need to take care of my family until they are buried, so I protect them. And there are people who need to know what happened here at Murambi and I explain to them.
As for the future of Rwanda, I see things going well, although there are still people with such animalistic hearts – people who have killed. You can tell that they would do it again, but they are scared of the authorities in place now.
Although Gacaca is taking place, I can’t really say what will happen. There are things that puzzle me though. There are people who committed genocide and are involved in Gacaca, so I don’t know how they’ll conclude some of the cases. I think they might cover up some things, because those people might be accused as well. Maybe it will go well elsewhere, but not here in Gikongoro.
Reconciliation is not the problem. The problem is that those who killed, ate our cattle and took out things are not getting close to us to communicate. They run away from us, so I don’t know how we can forgive when there hasn’t been any sort of communication between us. There are lots of people like that who look at you and wish you were dead.”