Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (12 page)

None of us slept more than a few minutes that night.

The next day we listened to a BBC phone interview with Rwanda’s prime minister, Agathe Uwilingiyimana, a moderate Hutu living in Kigali. Even though United Nations peacekeepers were guarding her, there was gunfire all around her home. She said that she, her husband, and their five children were lying on the floor and had no way to escape. During the interview, the phone line went dead. We learned later that soldiers had burst into her home and shot both her and her husband. Luckily, her children had been rescued.

The prime minister’s words affected us deeply, and it was now impossible to pretend that things were going to get better. If killers could execute the Hutu prime minister, what would stop them from murdering us?

The constant tension during those 24 hours took a toll on my family. My mother went into a kind of trance and began moving from room to room, packing every suitcase we owned with whatever she could lay her hands on. “I’m not going to leave the things I’ve worked so hard for so that people can steal them,” she told us. “I’m going to hide them away. One day we’ll come back for them.”

I didn’t know where she was planning to go—we’d just heard over the radio that our only practical escape route (across Lake Kivu) had been cut off by the Interahamwe militia. They were murdering every Tutsi or moderate Hutu who approached the lake.

My father remained in bewildered denial. “If the killing continues,” he reasoned, “the RPF will step in to stop it. They could be here in Mataba to protect us in a few days.”

“Daddy, what are you thinking?” I asked him, incredulous. “The RPF soldiers are up north near the Ugandan border. They have no vehicles; they’re on foot and will have to fight the army and Interahamwe every step of the way. It will take weeks for them to get here . . .
if
they get here at all!”

I could count the number of times I’d contradicted my father on one hand, but everything was changing. My parents weren’t thinking clearly, and Augustine and Vianney were too young and scared to depend upon. I’d followed Damascene’s lead my entire life, but now he’d retreated to his room and was staring at the walls.

“Do you honestly think we’re going to escape this?” he asked when I came to find him. “I’m lying here trying to picture what I’ll be doing next year, but I can’t. I don’t think I’ll be alive. I have no future.”

“Damascene, you have to snap out of this!” I shouted. “You can’t give up before we even start to fight! If you can’t see what you’ll be doing next year, I can! You’ll be with me in Butare when I graduate university. You’re going to be sitting in the front row clapping and cheering when I accept my diploma. So please, get up and help Mom and Dad!”

“I wish I had your faith and courage,” he muttered, then continued staring at the wall.

I didn’t feel courageous, but someone had to pull my family together. I tried to be strong and at least
act
brave so that the family wouldn’t collapse in complete despair.

By nightfall we’d heard that the ten Belgian UN peacekeepers protecting the prime minister had been murdered by government soldiers and that the lives of all the other Belgians in Rwanda were being threatened. We knew that if the Belgians and other foreigners left the country, there would be no one capable of stopping an all-out slaughter. For the second night in a row, none of us slept.

AT DAWN, THE SCREAMING BEGAN. Two-dozen Interahamwe militiamen attacked our village, tossing grenades into houses. When the families inside tried to escape, they were hacked to death with machetes.

When my family heard the screams, we opened our gate and ran out to the road. We could see for quite a distance from our hilltop home and searched for the source of the commotion. Below us, on the far side of a nearby river, we saw a group of Interahamwe surrounding one of our neighbors. They moved like a pack of jackals, holding their machetes above their heads and circling him slowly. We watched helplessly from afar as they moved in for the kill, mercilessly chopping him to bits.

We turned away from the murder in horror. Coming toward us quickly from the other side of the hill were dozens of our Tutsi neighbors. The men were carrying sticks and stones to protect their families, while the women carried their babies in their arms and yelled at their older kids not to fall behind.

“Leonard! Leonard!” they called when they saw my father. “Please help us. They’re killing us! What will we do? Where should we go?”

Since my father was one of the most respected men in the village, within a few hours approximately 2,000 men, women, and children were camped out in front of our house, looking to him for guidance. I couldn’t believe how many people had been driven from their homes. Scores of families sat around cooking fires, arguing about what to do next, while their children played games and chased each other through the fields. If it hadn’t been for the occasional gunfire and grenades exploding in the distance, the gathering could easily have been mistaken for a family picnic.

The number of people who had come seeking my father’s help and advice seemed to bring him back to reality. He became more like himself and took action. “Everyone be calm,” he said. “We’ll find a way to get through this together.”

THAT NIGHT MY FATHER TOLD ME HE WAS concerned for my health. “You haven’t slept at all, Immaculée. The rest of us are going to stay outside tonight with the others, so I want you go to your room and get some sleep.”

“But Dad, I . . .” I didn’t like the idea of staying in the house alone. I was terrified that we’d be attacked in the night.

He saw my hesitation and smiled. “Don’t worry, my sweetheart. I’m here, and I’m going to protect you. It’s cold outside, and you need to get some rest. Now go inside and lie down.”

I knew that he couldn’t protect me against the Interahamwe, but I couldn’t bear to hurt his pride, so I did as he asked. My mother promised that she’d stand guard over the house to make sure I was safe.

Despite my parents’ love and concern, I couldn’t sleep at all that night either. I kept a small radio on my chest, spinning the dial until dawn and listening to report after report of what was happening around us. The news got worse as the night wore on: Tutsis were being killed in large numbers in every corner of Rwanda, peace talks between the government and Tutsi rebels had broken off, and the RPF vowed to fight its way to the capital to stop the slaughter.

In the middle of the night I went outside and found my mother asleep in the courtyard. She’d dozed off guarding our front door.

When I moved closer to wake her, my breath caught in my throat. She was wrapped in a white bedsheet, and in the cold moonlight she looked like a corpse. I was overwhelmed by the sight and ran back to my room. I fell onto my bed, and for the first time since our nightmare began, I burst into tears.

“Why is this happening?” I cried into my pillow. “What have we done to deserve this? Why is being a Tutsi so wrong? Why are you letting this happen to us, God?”

I felt selfish for crying and dried my eyes.
Silly girl,
I thought,
cry
later. This tragedy is just beginning, and there will be plenty of time for
tears.

I returned outside just as the sun was beginning to rise over Lake Kivu and stood beside my sleeping mother. I softly stroked her feet and carefully unknotted the tangles in her hair. Mother was always so beautiful and proud of her appearance—she’d be mortified to be seen in such a state. I kissed her cheek and gently shook her awake. “Mom, get up,” I said softly. “It’s cold out here. Get into bed.”

As soon as she opened her eyes, they filled with fear and confusion. “Where is Damascene? Where is Vianney? Immaculée . . . you should be in the house getting rest. What are you doing outside alone in the dark?” she asked, struggling to get up.

“What are
you
doing out here, Mom?”

“I didn’t want to leave you alone in the house, but I didn’t want to be too far away from your father or my boys. I have to make sure everyone is safe.”

“Everyone
is
safe, Mom. The boys and Dad are camping out with the others. Maybe things will get better today,” I said, my heart aching from the pain etched on her face. She’d worked and sacrificed for us her entire life and spent countless hours worrying about our safety. Now she knew she couldn’t do anything to protect us, and it was killing her. She seemed to have aged years during the past few days.

We went looking for my father and brothers, who were with the refugees, and we weren’t prepared for what we found when we stepped outside. At least 10,000 Tutsis were camped in front of our home.

My father was walking through the huge crowd, greeting people with words of encouragement. He’d been up all night and refused to go inside and rest. He washed, put on fresh clothes, and was right back among the refugees. Dozens of people were trying to reach him, calling out his name, but there were so many that it was impossible for him to talk to them all.

Finally, he climbed to the top of a large boulder at the base of a cliff and turned to the frightened crowd. “Friends, friends!” he shouted. His voice boomed above the multitude.

“I know you’re afraid; don’t be. These people—these killers—are few, and we are many. They’re not stronger than we are, not if we have God’s love in our hearts. If they are acting out of evil, if they have come to harm us for no reason other than their hatred for us, then we will defeat them. Love will always conquer hatred. Believe in yourselves, believe in each other, and believe in God!”

My heart swelled with pride. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had seemed so confused and unreasonable just hours before. Yet here he was, passing his strength on to so many lost and terrified souls.

“We will fight them,” Dad continued. The crowd, moved by his words, began chanting his name and cheering him on, but he held up his hand for quiet.

“As I said, if these killers are driven only by hatred, we will force them away. But if the government is sending them, if these attacks are part of an organized plan to exterminate Tutsis, we are in serious trouble. The government has guns and grenades—it has an army and a militia—and we have no weapons at all. If the government plans to kill us, all we can do is pray. Let us use the time we have to repent. Let us pray for God to forgive our sins. If we
are
to die, let us die with our hearts clean.”

The cheering stopped and the crowd was silent. At first I thought that my father had crushed their spirits, but I realized that thousands of them had taken his advice and were quietly praying.

“It doesn’t matter if we live or die—the important thing is that we fight against this evil that has come to our homes!” my dad cried out.

As thousands of eyes were glued to him, he lifted his right hand high above his head. I could see that he was holding his red and white rosary.

“We will ask God to defend us against evil,” he shouted, waving the rosary in the air. Then he reached down and picked up a long, metal-tipped spear with his left hand. He lifted the spear about his head as well and continued, “We will ask God for help, but we will also defend ourselves. Find a spear, arm yourselves, but don’t kill anyone! We won’t be like them—we will not kill—but we won’t sit around and be slaughtered like sheep either. Let us be strong . . . and let us pray.”

A FEW HOURS AFTER MY FATHER’S SPEECH, 50 Interahamwe armed with knives and machetes attacked the Tutsis outside our home. My father gathered more than 100 Tutsi men together and rushed toward the killers. When they got within throwing distance, they tossed stones at them and eventually chased them away. But it was a minor victory—the radio continued to report widespread killings, and a steady stream of Tutsi refugees was arriving at our door. Each new arrival had a new horror story; from what they told us, we realized that we were completely surrounded by Interahamwe.

After the attack, I went to my bedroom to get my scapular, a kind of cloth necklace that Catholics wear. The scapular is very precious to me because it’s blessed with the Virgin Mary’s promise that “whosoever dies wearing it shall not suffer eternal fire. It shall be a sign of salvation, a protection in danger, and a pledge of peace.” I bought it when I moved away to university, believing that if anything happened to me, my scapular would speed my journey to heaven.

I went to my father’s study, where he’d gone after chasing off the Interahamwe. He was rummaging through his desk and sticking family photos into his pockets.

“Dad, I have something for you,” I said, holding out the scapular.

He knew what it was and what it was for. “Why don’t we leave it in the house? That way no one will burn it down,” he said.

My eyes filled with tears. “No, Dad,
you
have to wear this. Who is the person in this family putting himself in danger? Who is the most likely to be killed in all of this, Dad? Stop worrying about the house—it’s your spirit that matters now, not material things.”

“All right, Immaculée. I understand,” he said, taking the scapular from my hand and putting it around his neck. “Now, what do I have for you? What can I give my only daughter?” he wondered aloud, rifling through his desk. “Ah, of course! I know exactly what to give you.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the red and white rosary he’d shown to the crowd. He pressed the beads into my palm and covered my hand with his. “Keep it always, Immaculée.”

“I will, I promise.”

As soon as we exchanged gifts, our front door banged open, and a neighborhood woman began yelling desperately for my father. “Leonard! Leonard! Please come quickly! They’re back! The killers are back! But there are many, many more of them now!”

My father ran to his bedroom, grabbed a spear that he had hidden under his bed, and charged out the door. I followed him as best I could, but my legs felt like rubber. I thought that we were about to die . . . especially when I saw that the killers were standing about a quarter mile from our house.

“Let’s fight these wicked people! Let’s stop this senseless killing! They might kill us, but we’ll die pure of heart!” my father cried out, trying to rally other Tutsi men to his side. No one joined him.