Two weeks ago, our community around the world came together to remember a night many
would prefer to forget: the Gatumba Massacre of Aug. 13, 2004. Here in Concord, survivors live among us. They are our neighbors, classmates and coworkers. Yet many do not know their story. To build an inclusive community, we must learn not only each other’s celebrations, but also each other’s wounds.
Gatumba was not a battlefield. It was a refugee camp registered by the United Nations, a place where families who had fled war in Congo expected safety. Instead, it became a killing ground. Late at night, armed men from the Forces Nationales de Libération, joined by local militias and Interahamwe who had committed genocide in Rwanda against Tutsi, stormed the camp.
They came singing gospel songs, songs of faith they knew the Banyamulenge cherished. They mocked a community that has always loved music and believed in God. But behind their voices were weapons, fire and hate. They carried rifles, grenades, machetes and cans of fuel. They did not look for soldiers. They came for civilians.
Witnesses recall how attackers poured fuel on the tents, set them ablaze and shot anyone who tried to escape. Survivors describe watching relatives run out of burning shelters, their clothes and skin on fire, only to be shot before they could take another step. One mother still remembers cradling her young son as he bled to death in her arms. It was the first time she had ever seen someone die. Another survivor spoke of seeing a man, his body burning, standing against a tree until he collapsed. These are not the scenes of crossfire; they are the details of genocide. By morning, 166 Banyamulenge were dead, more than 100 were wounded and the camp lay in ashes.
To understand Gatumba, we must go beyond that night. The massacre was not random. It was the outcome of decades of policies and propaganda that treated the Banyamulenge as outsiders in their own country.
For generations, our community has resided in the highlands of South Kivu, in eastern
Democratic Republic of the Congo. But politicians repeatedly questioned our citizenship and used hateful rhetoric to label us “foreigners.” This language turned neighbors into suspects and gave militias an excuse to attack. By 2004, Banyamulenge villages had already been burned, roads blocked to starve families and children raised with the knowledge that they might have to run at any moment.
Gatumba was not an accident of war. It was the planned destruction of a people who had already been pushed to the margins of their homeland.
The scars of Gatumba are more than numbers. They are generations changed forever. Many of those killed were parents, teachers and elders, the people who give communities stability and memory. Their absence left children without guidance, schools without leaders and families broken.
Survivors live with both visible wounds, burn scars that ache in the cold, bullet injuries that
never healed and invisible ones: the panic triggered by the smell of smoke, the habit of keeping a bag packed at all times, the nightmares that will not fade. Even children born after 2004 live with this inherited trauma. It is carried in the silences of parents, in the sudden pause when certain stories are told, in the careful way families move through life.
Perhaps most painful of all is the lack of justice. Many of those who planned the attack have never been prosecuted. Some foot soldiers faced punishment, but the leaders walked free. Too often, the world described Gatumba as “ethnic clashes,” a phrase that hides the truth. Gatumba was not a clash. It was an organized assault on unarmed civilians. They were killed because of their identity and how they looked, an identity that still haunts them with fear and exclusion in their own country.
For the people of Concord, this is not only distant history. Survivors of Gatumba live here among us. They carry their stories quietly into classrooms, workplaces and community gatherings. To be inclusive means more than welcoming a neighbor’s food or festival. It means being willing to know their history, the losses they carry, the resilience that keeps them standing and the truth that shapes their identity.
When we learn about Gatumba, we not only honor the dead. We affirm the dignity of all living beings. We say to our neighbors: your pain is not invisible, your survival is not forgotten and your story is part of our shared community.
Fiston Mututsi is a refugee, community organizer and youth leader based in Concord. He is the co-founder and executive director of the Young Adults Development Network, founder and director of Importance Leadership, and founder of One Concord. His work focuses on youth empowerment, racial justice and building inclusive communities through advocacy, education, and civic engagement.