The church is breathtaking for all the wrong reasons. Upon entering the grounds, “We will never forget” is spelled out in a lovely and restrained planting of small shrubs. Then, upon entering the church, I was thunderstruck by the site of the clothing of ten thousand people piled onto low, backless benches, which once served as pews, and by the rotting stench of the defiled bodies that have been removed, piece by piece, from the clothing. I cannot even begin to describe the shock of this.

I moved in transfixed horror between the benches, studying the piles and piles of t-shirts, pants, jeans, dresses, baby clothes, sweaters. Everything is dirty, and it’s easy to discern bloodstains from life’s wear and tear. I kept stopping every few steps to turn slightly; it was relentless from every angle, ten thousand people, ten thousand people, ten thousand people, butchered in this small room.

Within the church is an opening in the floor, a set of stairs that leads down to a basement. Oh my God. The basement is very simple, going from right to left with only a very narrow footpath. Its walls are lined with shelves that go from the floor the ceiling. Oh my God. These shelves are stacked with bones. Human bones. Skulls, femurs, fibulas. Stacks upon stacks upon stacks of bones.

I didn’t know if I should enter. I didn’t know if I could. I didn’t know if I would later have trauma if I did. I thought about my own bones and how these women, elderly and children were innocent. I decided that the bones in and of themselves were not spooky; what was done to them was. I pressed on. From time to time I thought I was suffocating. I would stop, struggle to breathe, look at the shaft of light from the church above and gather my determination to see, feel and know the truth.

As far up as I could see were orderly, stacked rows of human remains. Some of the skulls are missing chunks where a machete had connected. Many were missing teeth. Many were very small.

One skull was sticking out a bit from its shelf. The path is so narrow, I was already turning sideways not to bump into leg bones. I had a quick obsession flare up that someone would knock this skull off its shelf and I really wanted to pick it up and set it somewhere more secure. I equivocated, a real-life version of some childhood dare. I thought, “Oh, it’s just bone. I know what bones are made of. The soul has flown away, it’s okay. Do the right things by this skull. Pick it up.” But right before I touched it, Papa Jack said, “Maybe in life he was a sticking out there kind of guy.” I laughed in an improbable celebration of this skull’s personality and left it as it was.

There are also caskets. They are filled with 20-25 bodies each. The woman who was raped over a period of days is in a casket in a place of respect for the uniqueness of her suffering.

Outside, with the stench from the clothes funneled through the church door and canceling out any freshness from the rain, I visited with the woman who guides tours. She lives nearby and does this as much as she can, taking days off when it really starts to get to her. We talked about her crops (cassava and sweet potatoes), how I live somewhere that has four seasons instead of two and best agricultural practices. She was a tragic figure, and I welcomed helping her find a few smiles. We exchanged addresses and I look forward to writing her. Oh, she is a grandmother, and she lit up in the special way that grandmothers do when asked about their grandbabies. I was glad for her that she has them, even as I know lack of family planning is a serious crisis in Rwanda.