Laura McDermid continues her stories about Iris McCullum in Rwanda.
There are certain years in a person’s life that remain emblazoned on one’s memory forever. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that they are imprinted on one’s soul. Those years define us and shape who we are.
In my case the year was 1994, my ‘Rwanda’ year. A year defined by extreme highs and lows. That year revealed the full spectrum of what human beings are capable of.
The levels of depravity and extreme cruelty that are woven into our DNA came as the biggest shock. On the one hand, the things that one human being could do to another in cold blood never ceased to appal and sadden me. On the other hand, the lengths that some people would go to in order to help a complete stranger in need also never ceased to amaze me.
Don’t misunderstand me; I could never get used to seeing the body of a small child hacked to pieces by a lunatic wielding a panga. But I came to accept that the worst aspects of humanity are irrevocably entwined with the best. And so these contradictions lived in me, side by side.
I was freelancing for Aslam Khan who owned Aircraft Leasing Services (ALS) and he had contracts with UNICEF and the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC).
I had flown into Kigali, the capital of Rwanda, mere days after the senseless killings began in April 1994. On 13 October I flew the President of Ireland and her entourage from Wilson in Nairobi to Kigali.
I had hoped to get some time off at the end of the year, however, December transpired to be a very busy month with me logging a total of 120 hours. I was bouncing between three aircraft, the Twin Otter 5Y-JHZ and the two King Air 200s, 5Y-BJM and BKA, flying between Sudan for UNICEF and Rwanda and Congo for the ICRC.
On 30 December I began the day flying 5Y-BJM, code name Red X 435t, from Wilson to Lokichogio (a town in the Turkana District in northwest Kenya), to drop off a fresh recruit to ICRC medical staff and then back to Wilson.
After refuelling, I flew via Kigali to Ngara, a district in Tanzania, where one of the biggest refugee camps had been established to accommodate the masses who had fled Rwanda. I was to collect four Irish nurses who were being driven to Ngara from the Congo where they had been stationed.
During and following the genocide in Rwanda, nearly two million Hutu refugees crossed the Congolese border, mostly settling in refugee camps in the North Kivu and South Kivu provinces.
I’d had very few days leave this year and I could appreciate how exhausted these poor ladies must be. I was to fly them to Wilson where they would catch a flight to Jomo Kenyatta International for a flight to Ireland. I was given strict instructions to be airborne before dark, as the storms over Lake Victoria could be violent, especially at night.
The massive lake which stretches 70,000 square kilometres, is the world’s second-largest freshwater body and the biggest of its kind in Africa., as well as the chief reservoir of the Nile.
The lake, which lies on the equator, has a distinct effect on the weather. It generates a huge amount of Convective Available Potential Energy (CAPE) which is characterized by the development of cumulus and cumulonimbus clouds with attendant severe weather hazards.
I landed on Runway 24 at Ngara and taxied to the spot where I was meant to meet the UN driver. But there was no one there. I glanced at my watch, which showed 16h30, two hours before sunset.
I made a call on my HF radio and was told that my passengers were still on their way, but were held up at the Congolese border. There was nothing to do but wait. I watched the sky in the west transform from a dark blue to a brilliant, fiery orange.
The ubiquitous clouds over the lake were stacking up like giant fists. Jagged tendrils of light flickered and branched out in unpredictable patterns, creating a pyrotechnic spectacle.
Just as my concern was reaching its peak, the distant rumble of a car broke the tension. I let out a deep sigh of relief. The Land Rover rolled to a halt and the four nurses stepped out. Even from a distance, I could see that their bodies were stiff with tension.
As the driver approached me, his face filled with relief. I took his outstretched hand, noticing the stress etched on his face.
‘What happened my friend? I was expecting you several hours ago.’ I asked in Kiswahili.
Aziz recounted the harrowing ordeal that unfolded after their passports were confiscated by a border official who ‘had eyes like a snake’. They were forcibly detained and subjected to hours of interrogation in a windowless prefab room.
The Congolese authorities were suspicious, unable to fathom why four single white women would find themselves in the midst of war-torn Africa.
Aziz, steadfast and resolute, maintained his composure, never straying from his story in his efforts to prove that the women were nurses. However, the man with eyes like a snake continued to harass them. It was only when another official arrived that they were finally granted their freedom.
The four nurses introduced themselves as Cleo, Ciara, Pam, and Fran. I estimated them to be in their late twenties or early thirties, although they looked much older as a result of the harrowing ordeal they had endured.
Their faces were caked with dirt and their hair matted from the distressing experience. But beneath the layers of grime I could discern a hint of their once-rosy complexions, where tears had carved rivulets through the filth, serving as a poignant reminder of the horror they endured.
‘Thank you so very much for waiting for us, we realise that you have gone beyond the scope of your job’. Cleo’s eyes sparkled as the tears welled up.
‘If Aziz hadn’t stood his ground, I’m convinced that we would have been raped’.
I took her hand in mine. ‘I’m really sorry you had such a terrifying experience. Let me fix you some coffee and get you some water to clean your faces’.
Little did I know at the time that it was not to be my first or my last apology for the savagery of this beautiful continent I called home.
The coffee in the thermos was lukewarm but the ladies gulped it down as if it had been nectar from heaven.
We bade farewell to Aziz and soon we were airborne. That evening the weather was kind to us as we crossed the magnificent Lake Victoria. We were surrounded by storms and my passengers were enamoured with the towering clouds as they flashed on and off like light bulbs.
My previous trip in the King Air from Kigali to Nairobi saw me inadvertently fly into a cell of bad weather. We were pelted by hail so profuse that my forward vision was completely obscured. Thank goodness for the autopilot. I ended up executing a 180-degree turn and descending to FL140 before I managed to escape it.
Flying alongside members of relief organizations restored my faith in humanity. I encountered extraordinary individuals, many of whom had forsaken their safe and comfortable lives to embark on a profound journey to a foreign continent, to unfamiliar lands with strange languages.
These courageous souls willingly ventured into war zones, driven by an unwavering commitment to aid people they had never met and might never meet again. They staked everything on their sense of purpose.
I would touch down, leaving these individuals in new, often perilous environments, only to takeoff once more. If fortune smiled upon us, our paths might cross again in six weeks or three months.
What unfolded during that time lay entirely at the mercy of fate. I couldn’t help but feel that these remarkable individuals deserved more recognition and gratitude than they received.
The Irish nurses made it home safely and expressed their gratitude by sending me a bottle of Johnny Black. I knew I was merely doing my job, but I held immense respect for them, for their unwavering dedication to making the world a better place. If only they knew the profound impact their work had on those they touched, including a humble pilot like me.