Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (10 page)

“Don’t forget that you’re Catholic,” Dad reminded me. “John sounds like a good boy, and you have my blessing to date him—as long as he doesn’t try to convert you.” Dad was a very tolerant man, but he was also a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic.

My first two years at university flew by, and all was well. My grades were good, my family was healthy, and my life was fun and exciting. In fact, life was so good that it was sometimes easy to forget that there was a war going on—while other times it was impossible to forget.

Despite on-again, off-again peace talks and cease-fires, the fierce fighting between the Tutsi rebels and government troops continued in the north. Radical political parties were springing up in many towns and cities, each violently opposed to the others. Unemployed young men flocked to the youth wings of the different parties because they had nothing better to do. Many were just street-gang members who joined the parties for free drugs and alcohol.

President Habyarimana’s own political party organized a youth movement called the
Interahamwe,
which means “those who attack together.” The Interahamwe attracted thousands of homeless kids, and its membership spread across the country like a virus. It became the Hutu-extremist militia, and many of its members were trained to fight and kill by government-army soldiers. They traveled in packs and wore informal uniforms—baggy print shirts of bright red, yellow, and green that resembled the flag of their political party. But no matter how much they organized, I always viewed them as lawless street thugs.

I first noticed the Interahamwe during my Easter vacation in 1993. I was in Kigali with John, visiting Sarah and her parents, when the bus we were traveling in became stuck in traffic. As we waited, I glanced out the window and saw a group of young men surrounding a middle-aged Tutsi woman who looked as if she was heading home from shopping. The boys casually took the poor lady’s purse, pulled off her jewelry, stole her packages, and knocked her down. Then they yanked off her shoes and ripped off her dress. It was a busy street in the middle of the day, but no one dared to help her. Everyone just looked the other way.

I jumped up from my seat and started shouting out the window for them to stop, but John pulled me down. “Don’t say anything!” he ordered. “You have no idea what’s going on in this city, Immaculée. You don’t want to get mixed up with those guys—they will kill you.”

“John, we should do
something.
At least get the police.”

“The police won’t do anything. These Interahamwe are part of the government. Don’t talk to them, don’t even look at them—especially since you’re Tutsi.”

I felt disgusted and helpless. The boys walked away, and I watched as the poor woman struggled to get up off the ground. She limped away in her bare feet, wearing only her tights and a shawl.

If we let devils like these control our streets, we’re in deep trouble,
I thought as I watched the woman disappear up the road.

A few months later, I had an even more disturbing encounter. Damascene and I had traveled from Mataba to Kigali for a wedding. It was a long, hot, dusty bus trip, and we’d almost reached our destination when the bus came to a sudden stop.

At least 300 Interahamwe were standing in the road blocking our way, all of them looking ridiculous in their clownish outfits, but dangerously wild-eyed as well. Many of them seemed to be drunk or on drugs, as they danced around in circles, yelling and cursing at passersby. Our driver was too frightened to go forward, so he announced that he was turning the bus around. He said that we could stay aboard with him and take a two-hour detour, or get out and walk.

“Let’s just stay on the bus,” Damascene said. “Those people look insane.” But I didn’t want to stay for many reasons, mainly because I refused to be intimidated by a bunch of hooligans.

“We have to get off or we’ll miss the wedding,” I told him. “We can walk to the church in no time.”

We disembarked, along with half of the other passengers. Once outside, we saw that many of the Interahamwe were holding machetes while checking the identity cards of people who wanted to walk past them. I felt a surge of anger and asked, “What gives them the right?”

Damascene was worried. “I think we should go back, Immaculée. I’ve heard bad things about these guys. Let’s walk home.”

“
Walk home?
It took us four hours by bus to get here, and it would take us three days to walk home. Besides, these people can’t just set themselves up as police and bully us because we’re Tutsi.”

I was less worried about the Interahamwe than I was about the frightened look on Damascene’s face. He almost always had a jovial expression, and was probably the bravest person I knew. But I saw then that he was really scared. Normally
I
would have been asking
him
what to do, but something pushed me to go forward.

“Let’s walk on through,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that? What makes you think they won’t just kill us? The government allows them to do what they want. The police don’t touch them.”

“Let’s do what you always suggest when we have a problem, Damascene. Let’s pray and trust that God will protect us.”

We stood on the side of the road and prayed, 30 feet away from the mob of angry extremists. I asked God to excuse the short notice, but we needed His help to get to the church safely. I walked toward the roadblock, and a couple of the young men noticed me and tapped their machetes against their thighs.

“Oh, no, Immaculée . . . are you sure about this?”

“Yes, yes, just act naturally—and maybe you better get your rosary out of your pocket.”

I held my own rosary tightly in my hand as we walked toward the Interahamwe. About a dozen of them surrounded us, looked me up and down, and demanded to see our identity cards. I stared at them straight in the eye, smiled, and handed over the documents. I could see that I confused them by being so bold—they couldn’t understand why a Tutsi woman wasn’t afraid of them or their machetes. They handed back our cards and let us pass, but I never forgot the fear I saw in Damascene’s eyes. It was the first time I’d seen him falter, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something evil had arrived in Rwanda.

A month after our roadblock experience, President Habyarimana traveled to Tanzania and signed a peace agreement with the Tutsi rebels. The agreement would end the civil war and give Tutsis a role in governing the country. It sounded wonderful—I thought that Rwanda might find peace, and that Tutsis and Hutus could finally live in harmony as equals.

But the promise of peace triggered more protests and threats of greater violence to come. The minute the agreement was signed, one of Rwanda’s most powerful military officers, a scary-looking colonel named Theoneste Bagosora—who was also the chief leader of the Interahamwe—stormed out of the talks. Bagosora was disgusted by seeing President Habyarimana shake hands with RPF leader Paul Kagame, whom he called a “Tutsi snake.” He vowed that he’d never make peace with the Tutsis and promised to return to Rwanda “to prepare an apocalypse.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

CHAPTER 5

Returning Home

T
oo many mornings I awoke to the sound of hatred. I’d sleep peacefully until the obnoxious sounds of RTLM drifted through my dorm window and into my dreams. You see, in my third year at university, RTLM became the new, ultra-popular radio station among extremist Hutus. It was little more than a radical hate machine, spewing out anti-Tutsi venom.

It was always some disembodied, malevolent voice calling for “Hutu Power”—the catchphrase for Hutus to rise up against their Tutsi friends and neighbors: “These Tutsi cockroaches are out to kill us. Do not trust them . . . we Hutus must act first! They are planning to take over our government and persecute us. If anything happens to our president, then we must exterminate all the Tutsis right away! Every Hutu must join together to rid Rwanda of these Tutsi cockroaches! Hutu Power! Hutu Power!”

It was an awful way to wake up, but the broadcasts were so ridiculously juvenile that they were almost funny. It was hard to believe that anyone could take the infantile insults and outlandish threats seriously; still, it was unsettling to know that the government was allowing Tutsis to be openly threatened over the public airwaves. But at the time, I was more disturbed by rumors that Tutsis were being murdered by extremists in several areas of the country.

Like my friends on campus, I tried not to dwell on the media reports. Easter was approaching, and it was always a special time for my family. We’d spend it together at home, entertaining neighbors and visiting friends and relatives. I’d never missed an Easter get-together before, but I wanted to stay at school to prepare for my upcoming exams. I was determined to do well on them.

Because my parents didn’t have a phone, I wrote Dad a letter explaining why I wouldn’t be home. My parents had always insisted that their children study extra hard to get ahead, so I was sure they wouldn’t mind.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Dad wrote back, begging me to come home. In fact, he asked me to come
immediately
and not even wait for the school holidays to begin. He wrote that he wanted me to be with him, and he promised that I could study at home with no disturbances. His heartfelt plea brought tears to my eyes:

My darling daughter,

I feel like school has taken you away from us. Your mom
and I wait so impatiently for your vacation to begin because it
means we can have you home and live like a family again. We
need your presence; we are your parents, and we love you and
miss you terribly—never forget that! Even if it can be only for
two days, you must come to see us; don’t sacrifice the time for
anything else. We need you with us. . . .

Before I’d finished his letter, I’d decided to go home. I planned to spend six days with my parents and be back at school for my exams at the end of the week. While I made my travel arrangements, Sarah’s younger brother, Augustine, asked if he could come home with me and spend the holidays with my family. Augustine was good friends with my brother Vianney, and he’d been staying in our dorm room since the semester ended at his high school in Kigali. He was a tall, handsome, and very sweet 18-year-old boy who was shy around everyone except Vianney. I told him that we’d be delighted to have him as our guest.

AUGUSTINE AND I ARRIVED IN MATABA on Saturday afternoon, and my parents were overjoyed to have me home. The entire family was there with the exception of Aimable, who’d won an international scholarship to do postgraduate work in science. He’d actually left the country to study in Senegal, more than 3,000 miles away. Damascene had traveled down from Kigali, where he’d been teaching high school since graduating with his master’s degree in history, and Vianney was home on vacation from boarding school.

I spent the first day back catching up on local gossip with Damascene, visiting friends, and arguing playfully with Vianney. The next day was Easter Sunday, and we had a beautiful meal together. We thanked God for all that He had blessed us with and prayed for the well-being of everyone in our family and our village—and we said a special prayer for Aimable, our only absent member. Despite the political tension in the air, we were having a great time. I felt safe and secure with my parents, knowing that whatever might happen, my mother would be there to comfort us and my dad would be there to protect us. At least, that’s what I thought.

It was such a typical evening that it was hard to believe our world was about to change forever. We were sitting in the living room chatting about school, work, and what had been happening in the village. Mom updated us on the crops, and Dad told us about the kids his coffee co-op was sponsoring for scholarships. Augustine and Vianney goofed around, making jokes with each other, and I relaxed and took it all in, happy just to be home.

The only person who wasn’t having a good time was Damascene. He was usually the life of the party, but he’d been pensive and anxious all evening.

“Damascene, what’s wrong with you tonight?” I asked.

My brother looked up at me, and when our eyes met, he couldn’t keep quiet any longer. He unburdened himself to me in a rush of words and emotion: “Immaculée, I saw them, I saw the killers. I was on my way to Bonn’s house, and we saw them in the distance. They were wearing the bright colors of the Interahamwe and were carrying hand grenades. They had
grenades,
Immaculée!” His voice was hoarse.

The room had grown silent, since everyone had overheard him. My parents looked at each other, then back at Damascene.

“Maybe you’re letting your imagination get the better of you,” my father said, trying to calm his son down. “There is a lot of dangerous talk going on, and people are seeing danger where there is none.”

“No, I’m not imagining things,” Damascene said, getting to his feet and speaking with urgency. “And that’s not all I saw. They have a list of names of all the Tutsi families in the area, and our names are on it! It’s a death list! They are planning to start killing everyone on the list tonight!”