The Smell of Preserved Death

Recently I was re-reading a book about the genocide in Rwanda, and in one passage a woman expressed smelling death all around her. It made me wonder, if my sterile, safe American nose would know the smell of death if I too was surrounded by it.

Just a few days later, I think I caught a whiff.

The history of Rwanda in the last 50 years is far too full of massacres and deception for any local person to forget. But in case the day comes when that is no longer true, and to honor the thousands upon thousands of innocent people who lost their lives because of nonsensical tribal hatred, memorial sites have been established all over Rwanda. I have been to several of these sites, some are no more than a tiny plot of land draped with purple ribbon and a small sign, others are entire churches filled with the remnants of life and death.

One memorial that was especially striking was a church spattered with bullet holes that had pews (or really small benches) piled high with the clothing of the 10,000 people who had been killed within its walls. In the yard, white tiled boxes gave way to two large underground rooms that were filled with coffins and naked bones of the victims. I found myself a bit short of breath.

A couple of days ago, I visited another. The location was a school, or rather it was supposed to be a school, but it never fulfilled its purpose. The guide told us that the government had advised the Tutsi people of the area to gather not in the churches but in this school-to-be, where they would be protected. More than 50,000 people came from all over the area, trusting that they would indeed be safe, but 2 weeks after the genocide began, they were slaughtered. Mass graves were filled with men, women, children and babies. A year later, when the new government was going back to genocide sites and re-burying victims, they found one of the graves so well sealed that the bodies had only partially decayed. Instead of continuing with the reburial process, a decision was made to preserve what remained of these people so that they could remain as a vivid reminder of the genocide. The bodies were covered with limestone, which stops their decay and leaves the stiff, flattened corpses in what looks a little like a white plaster cast.

We stood in the lawn near the buildings that were intended to be classrooms, and have instead become houses for the deceased as our guide was telling us the story of the massacre, and the discovery and preservation of the bodies. A few times, the wind blew and an unpleasant aroma would pass by. At first I thought nothing of it, unpleasant smells are not uncommon in Africa, but then the thought struck me, "what if that is the smell of death?" As we passed through room after room filled with the self-entombed bodies of victims, my suspicion, at least in part, was confirmed.

Stepping into each room would have been overwhelming enough had the air been fresh; viewing people whose last moments of consciousness were filled with horror, and now had no choice but to be laid out on display for whoever chooses to stop by is difficult enough to swallow. Seeing faces frozen in screams, legs missing feet, arms missing hands, skulls cracked open by blunt force takes its toll. Maybe even more disturbing were those who looked at peace; a baby sucking its thumb, a man laying as though he were asleep, an old woman whose sister I could swear I've met. But then on top of all of that was the smell.

Maybe it wasn't the same odor that was described as death, when it was fresh. Maybe it was just the scent of limestone. But somehow I knew that this was different than a room full of rocks would smell. There was, at one point, life in that stench.

As it turned out, I did know the smell of death, preserved though it was. The woman I read about probably didn't know that particular scent before it was all around her either. I think maybe it's just something we know inherently, the contrast between life and growth and death and decay.

I have to say, though, that while the horror of murder and massacre was wickedly evident, I was grateful. I was glad that though so many had suffered, they no longer are feeling the terror and pain they faced in life. And though I can't account for a single soul's current suffering or joy, but I have to believe that many are now living in peace. And that, was my second piece of gratitude. The hope of a life not torn by conflict, jealousy, fear, or anger, but instead bathed in the endless light and peace of my loving God that cares enough to have exposed His own son to a horrific death. Thankfully, limestone couldn't hold Him back.

I guess that the smell of death, preserved or fresh, is also the evidence of life. I think maybe that's why it holds so much power.