Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (16 page)

It was my turn to stretch when a commotion erupted outside. There were dozens, maybe hundreds, of voices, some yelling, others chanting. We knew immediately that the killers had arrived.

“Let us hunt them in the forests, lakes, and hills; let us find them in the church; let us wipe them from the face of the earth!”

I stood on my tiptoes and peeked out the window through a little hole in the curtain. The other ladies grabbed at me, trying to pull me down. Athanasia shook her head wildly, silently mouthing, “Get down! They’re looking for us! Get down before they see you!”

I ignored them, knocking their hands away and peering through the hole. I immediately regretted my decision because I was petrified by what I saw.

Hundreds of people surrounded the house, many of whom were dressed like devils, wearing skirts of tree bark and shirts of dried banana leaves, and some even had goat horns strapped onto their heads. Despite their demonic costumes, their faces were easily recognizable, and there was murder in their eyes.

They whooped and hollered. They jumped about, waving spears, machetes, and knives in the air. They chanted a chilling song of genocide while doing a dance of death: “Kill them, kill them, kill them all; kill them big and kill them small! Kill the old and kill the young . . . a baby snake is still a snake, kill it, too, let none escape! Kill them, kill them, kill them all!”

It wasn’t the soldiers who were chanting, nor was it the trained militiamen who had been tormenting us for days. No, these were my neighbors, people I’d grown up and gone to school with—some had even been to our house for dinner.

I spotted Kananga, a young man I’d known since childhood. He was a high school dropout my dad had tried to help straighten out. I saw Philip, a young man who’d been too shy to look anyone in the eye, but who now seemed completely at home in this group of killers. At the front of the pack I could make out two local schoolteachers who were friends of Damascene. I recognized dozens of Mataba’s most prominent citizens in the mob, all of whom were in a killing frenzy, ranting and screaming for Tutsi blood. The killers leading the group pushed their way into the pastor’s house, and suddenly the chanting was coming from all directions.

“Find them, find them, kill them all!”

My head was spinning; I fell backward onto the ladies. I couldn’t breathe. “Dear God, save us . . . ” I whispered, but couldn’t remember the words to any of my prayers. A wave of despair washed over me, and I was overwhelmed by fear.

That’s when the devil first whispered in my ear.
Why are you calling
on God? Look at all of them out there . . . hundreds of them looking for
you. They are legion, and you are one. You can’t possibly survive—you
won’t survive. They’re inside the house, and they’re moving through the
rooms. They’re close, almost here . . . they’re going to find you, rape you,
cut you, kill you!

My heart was pounding. What was this voice? I squeezed my eyes shut as tightly as I could to resist the negative thoughts. I grasped the red and white rosary my father had given me, and silently prayed with all my might:
God, in the Bible You said that You can do anything
for anybody. Well, I am one of those anybodies, and I need You to do
something for me now. Please, God, blind the killers when they reach the
pastor’s bedroom—don’t let them find the bathroom door, and don’t let
them see us! You saved Daniel in the lions’ den, God, You stopped the
lions from ripping him apart . . . stop these killers from ripping us apart,
God! Save us, like You saved Daniel!

I prayed more intensely than I’d ever prayed before, but still the negative energy wracked my spirit. The voice of doubt was in my ear again as surely as if Satan himself were sitting on my shoulder. I literally felt the fear pumping through my veins, and my blood was on fire.
You’re going to die, Immaculée!
the voice taunted.
You compare yourself
to Daniel? How conceited you are . . . Daniel was pure of heart and loved
by God—he was a prophet, a saint! What are you? You are nothing . . .
you deserve suffering and pain . . . you deserve to die!

I clutched my rosary as though it were a lifeline to God. In my mind and heart I cried out to Him for help:
Yes, I am nothing, but You
are forgiving. I am human and I am weak, but please, God, give me Your
forgiveness. Forgive my trespasses . . . and please send these killers away
before they find us!

My temples pounded. The dark voice was in my head, filling it with fearful, unspeakable images.
Dead bodies are everywhere. Mothers
have seen their babies chopped in half, their fetuses ripped from their wombs . . . and you think you should be spared? Mothers prayed for
God to spare their babies and He ignored them—why should He save
you when innocent babies are being murdered? You are selfish, and you
have no shame. Listen, Immaculée . . . do you hear them? The killers are
outside your door—they’re here for you.

My head was burning, but I did hear the killers in the hall, screaming, “Kill them! Kill them all!”

No! God is love,
I told the voice.
He loves me and wouldn’t fill me
with fear. He will not abandon me. He will not let me die cowering on a
bathroom floor. He will not let me die in shame!

I struggled to form an image of God in my mind, envisioning two pillars of brilliant white light burning brightly in front of me, like two giant legs. I wrapped my arms around the legs, like a frightened child clinging to its mother. I begged God to fill me with His light and strength, to cast out the dark energy from my heart:
I’m holding on to
Your legs, God, and I do not doubt that You can save me. I will not let go
of You until You have sent the killers away.

The struggle between my prayers and the evil whispers that I was sure belonged to the devil raged in my mind. I never stopped praying . . . and the whispering never relented.

IN THE EVENING, THE PASTOR OPENED THE DOOR and found us all in a sort of trance. I was bathed in sweat, exhausted, clutching my rosary in both hands, and oblivious to my surroundings. I was still mouthing prayer after prayer while staring vacantly at the others. Therese was using one hand to cover her eyes and the other to hold her Bible firmly on top of her head. And young Beata was crouching on her knees, arms in front of her, hands clasped in prayer.

The pastor called our names, but not one of us heard him. Finally, he shook us to awaken us from our stupor. I looked up at him, blinking, confused, and completely taken aback when he began laughing at us.

“What are you ladies doing? For heaven’s sake, relax. The killers left seven hours ago. I can’t believe you’re all still praying.”

To me, those seven hours had passed in what seemed like a few minutes, yet I was utterly drained. In all my years of praying, I’d never focused so completely on God, or been so keenly aware of the presence of darkness. I’d seen evil in the eyes of the killers, and had felt evil all around me while the house was being searched. And I’d listened to the dark voice, letting it convince me that we were about to be slaughtered. Every time I succumbed to my fear and believed the lies of that poisonous whispering, I felt as though the skin were being peeled from my scalp. It was only by focusing on God’s positive energy that I was able to pull myself through that first visit by the killers. My father had always said that you could never pray too much . . . now I could see that he was right.

I realized that my battle to survive this war would have to be fought inside of me. Everything strong and good in me—my faith, hope, and courage—was vulnerable to the dark energy. If I lost my faith, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to survive. I could rely only on God to help me fight.

The visit by the killers had left us all spent. Pastor Murinzi brought us a plate of food, but despite our hunger, we were too tired to eat. The food was untouched when he returned around midnight.

The pastor returned again in the middle of the night during a heavy storm. The rain beat down so loudly against the iron roof that he was able to talk freely without the fear of being overheard. “We were lucky today. They searched all over the house and looked in every room. They looked in the yard and dug through the dung heap behind the cow pen. They crawled into the ceiling and under the furniture—they even stuck their machetes into my suitcases to make sure that I wasn’t hiding Tutsi babies. They were crazed, like rabid animals. Their eyes were glazed and red . . . I think they’d been smoking drugs.

“But when they reached my bedroom, they saw that it was neat, so they didn’t want to mess it up. They said that they’d leave the bedroom for now but warned that they’d search it next time when they came back.”

“Next time!” we gasped.

I couldn’t imagine reliving the same ordeal. Surely God wouldn’t put us through that suffering twice!

“You never know when they’re going to come back,” the pastor said. “They could come at any time, and God help us all if they find you.”

His parting sentence echoed in my mind, keeping me awake all night and throughout the next day.

Pastor Murinzi returned the next evening in a panic. “A friend told me that the leader of a death squad thinks the killers did a bad job searching the house yesterday,” he hissed. “Some of you were seen in the house a few days ago, and there are rumors that you’re hiding here. A different group of killers is being sent to search more thoroughly.”

I moaned as my body went limp. I simply didn’t have the strength to live through another of the killers’ hunting expeditions.
God, why
don’t You just lead them to us now and get it over with?
I entreated.
Why
do You let us suffer like this? Why do You torture us?

How could we escape again? The house that once seemed so huge had become my cell, a death trap. I could think of only one escape: I wanted to go to heaven.
Oh, God,
I prayed soundlessly,
I have
no heart left to fight. I’m ready to give up . . . please give me strength
and protect me from the demons that are all around me. Show me how
to make the killers blind again.

I raised my head and opened my eyes. When I saw the pastor standing in the doorway, a crystal clear image flashed through my mind. “I have an idea,” I told him in a hushed but insistent voice. “Can you push your wardrobe in front of the bathroom door? It’s tall and wide enough to completely cover it, so if the killers can’t see the door, they’ll never find us. It will be as though they’re blind!”

Pastor Murinzi thought for a moment and then shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t change anything; in fact, it would probably make matters worse. If they look behind the wardrobe and find the door, they will be even more vicious with you.”

“Oh, no! Pastor, please, you must . . .” I was certain that God had sent me a sign. In my soul, I knew that if the wardrobe were in front of the door, we’d be saved. But the pastor was immovable, so I did something I’d never done in my life: I got on my knees and bowed down to him. “Please, I’m begging you,” I said. “I know in my heart that if you don’t put the wardrobe in front of the door, they’re going to find us the next time they search. Don’t worry about making them angry—they can only kill us once. Please do this for us . . . God will reward you if you do.”

I don’t know if it was the sight of me begging on my knees or the fear that I’d be overheard that convinced him, but he relented. “All right, all right. Keep your voice down, Immaculée. I’ll move it right now. I hope it helps, but I doubt it will.”

He disappeared, and a moment later we heard the wardrobe sliding in front of the bathroom door. The other ladies looked at me and whispered, “That was such a good idea—what put it into your head?”

I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen the pastor’s wardrobe before, but I knew for certain that the idea to move it came to me when I prayed for help.

“God,” I simply replied.

CHAPTER 10

Confronting My Anger

S
everal days passed in relative calm. Only occasionally did we hear the killers outside, singing their sick songs. We prayed silently throughout the day and communicated with each other through sign language. Every 12 hours or so, we allowed ourselves a few precious moments of stretching. Other than that, we kept our movements to an absolute minimum, sitting in the same positions day and night.

We flushed the toilet according to Pastor Murinzi’s orders—only when someone else in the house flushed the other one. Using the toilet was a challenge: We had so little room that one of us always had to sit on top of it, so when one of us had to relieve ourselves, we all had to shift position. That put us in danger of making noise and being discovered.