Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (17 page)

Oddly, in all the time that we were in the bathroom, I can’t recall actually seeing someone else use the toilet, even though it was in the middle of our little space, nor do I recall being bothered by any odors. Our menstrual cycles came, one after the other, and we perplexed the pastor with constant requests for more toilet paper. None of us were embarrassed by the situation, though—we learned to ignore these functions and forego the luxury of privacy, especially since it all seemed rather trivial in comparison to staying alive.

We ate whenever the pastor showed up with food, which was sporadically. Some days he didn’t come until 3 or 4 A.M.; other days he didn’t come at all. (He slid the wardrobe away from the door each time he needed to see us or bring us food, but he was always extremely careful not to be heard. There was a rug beneath the wardrobe that muffled the sound of the movement, so again, God was looking out for us.) Worried that someone would notice if he cooked extra food, he brought us his children’s table scraps or whatever the servants tossed into the garbage. Sometimes, no matter how hungry we were, we couldn’t bring ourselves to eat because what he gave us looked like pig food. (I laughed at myself, thinking about what a fussy eater I’d been at home.) Thankfully, he also brought us water to drink.

It seemed impossible, but after a few days of quiet we let our guard down a little. The pastor snapped us back to reality.

He came in one night and told us that the killers were nearby, going from house to house, ransacking homes, and killing every Tutsi they found. “They may come here in a few minutes, or they may not come until tomorrow or the next day. But they will definitely be back, so keep quiet,” he warned us.

Any fantasy we had of finding some peace of mind in that bathroom evaporated. Our anxiety about the killers’ return was constant mental and physical torture. I felt as if someone were stinging me with a cattle prod whenever the floor creaked or a dog barked. Since we could only sleep for brief periods at a time, my skin soon became dry and flaky, and I had a constant headache.

The mental anguish was even more intense. I was trapped alone with my thoughts, and the dark fears and doubts that had haunted me since my arrival became relentless—they wormed into my heart and undermined the foundation of my faith. When the killers were out of earshot, my thoughts drifted away from God, and the negative energy rushed in. Yet whenever I prayed, I immediately felt His love around me, and the anxiety eased.

So I resolved to pray during every waking moment, beginning as soon as my eyes opened at 4 or 5 A.M. My first prayer was always to thank God that the pastor’s home had been built so it could shelter us during the genocide. Then I thanked Him for having the architect design the house with an extra bathroom, and for prompting the pastor to buy a wardrobe of exactly the right dimensions to conceal our hiding place.

After my warm-up devotions of thanks, I began praying my rosary. I prayed many different Catholic prayers on the red and white beads. Sometimes I prayed so intensely that I broke out in a sweat. Hours would pass. . . . When I finished the rosary and my prayers, I’d take a “break” to meditate on some of my favorite Bible passages.

Because I felt that my faith was under attack, I spent hours contemplating two verses I’d memorized from Mark, which talked about the power of faith. First, there was this one: “Therefore I say unto you, what things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them” (Mark 11:24).

Then I would reflect on the other one: “For verily I say unto you, that whosoever shall say unto this mountain, be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith” (Mark 11:23).

Even a few minutes not spent in prayer or contemplation of God became an invitation for Satan to stab me with his double-edged knife of doubt and self-pity. Prayer became my armor, and I wrapped it tightly around my heart.

THE PASTOR WAS ALWAYS AFRAID THAT WE’D SLIP UP and make noise, so he rarely let anyone into his bedroom. But sometimes, when one of his kids or servants would visit him there, we’d be on pins and needles until they left. About a week after we arrived, we heard the pastor talking to his son Sembeba.

“What do you make of all this killing, Dad? Don’t you think that it’s good—exactly what we Hutus should be doing? I mean, they taught us in school that hundreds of years ago the Tutsis did the same thing to us, so they deserve what they get, right?”

“Sembeba, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me now. I want to sleep,” the pastor replied.

“Those Tutsis have always thought they’re superior . . . always looking down on us Hutus. Don’t you think that if they were still in power today they’d be killing
us
right now? So killing them is self-defense, isn’t it?”

His voice was so loud that I could tell that Sembeba was standing right beside the wardrobe, and I was terrified that he’d notice it had been moved. But as fearful as I was, I had to fight the urge to stand up and yell at him—his words made me so angry.

I knew that he wasn’t entirely to blame for his ignorance because he’d learned his contempt for Tutsis in school . . . the same school I went to! Young Hutus were taught from an early age that Tutsis were inferior and not to be trusted, and they didn’t belong in Rwanda. Hutus witnessed the segregation of Tutsis every day, first in the schoolyard and then in the workplace, and they were taught to dehumanize us by calling us “snakes” and “cockroaches.” No wonder it was so easy for them to kill us—snakes were to be killed and cockroaches exterminated!

The world had seen the same thing happen many times before. After it happened in Nazi Germany, all the big, powerful countries swore, “Never again!” But here we were, six harmless females huddled in darkness, marked for execution because we were born Tutsi. How had history managed to repeat itself? How had this evil managed to surface once again? Why had the devil been allowed to walk among us unchallenged, poisoning hearts and minds until it was too late?

The pastor must have known that we could hear this conversation because he scolded his son: “You are a stupid, stupid boy, Sembeba. There is never an excuse to shed blood without a very good reason. Now get out of my room. I’m sick of listening to you speak.”

“You think
I’m
stupid for hating Tutsis, Father? Don’t you think it’s more stupid to hide them? I hope you know that that’s what people say you’re doing. Is it true? Are you hiding Tutsis in the house?”

My heart jumped into my mouth. My anger vanished, and once again, all I felt was fear.

“I’ve had enough of your foolishness, Sembeba. I’m not hiding any Tutsis. And it pains me to hear your vindictive words—your own mother was a Tutsi! I hope you know that your aunts, uncles, and all of your cousins are being hunted and killed. Now get out of my room and don’t come back.
Get out!
”

We hadn’t recovered from Sembeba’s awful visit when we suddenly heard grenades exploding nearby. There was a series of terrific crashes that sounded like buildings collapsing. After each crash, we heard singing: “Kill them big, kill them small, kill them, kill them, kill them all!”

There was gunfire near the house, and the singing got so loud that we knew the killers were moving in our direction. I said a silent prayer, and moments later, we heard a clap of thunder, followed by a heavy downpour of rain. I can only guess that the killers ran back to their homes to stay dry, because all we heard for the rest of the night was the rain pounding against the metal roof.

That night the pastor came to us. His face was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot and weary. I thought that he was worried about Sembeba’s suspicions, but it was much worse. He’d been walking about outside and had witnessed the depth of the horror unfolding around us. He told us that Interahamwe militiamen, soldiers, and Hutu civilians were destroying every Tutsi home they came across.

“It is very bad outside,” he said, “very, very bad. I saw the killings in 1959 and 1973, and they were nothing compared to this. You have to understand that everything else has stopped—the schools and markets are closed, and people aren’t going to work. The country has been shut down until the job is done.”

“What do you mean ‘until the job is done’? Until
what
job is done?” I asked.

The pastor paused. “Killing Tutsis. The job won’t be done until all the Tutsis are dead. That’s the government’s main goal, and they’re making everyone work very hard to achieve it. I have seen things today that I wish I had never seen.”

My stomach twisted in a knot. I thought of my family, and I wanted to plug my ears and block out the pastor’s voice.

“They have killed thousands of people,” he continued, “tens of thousands . . . maybe hundreds of thousands, who knows? So many Tutsis ran into the churches for protection that the doors wouldn’t close. Churches have always been off-limits for killing, but not this time. The killers burned the churches with the people still inside, and they shot anyone who tried to escape.”

“Oh, God, no,” I said. “On the radio they told everyone to go to the churches and stadiums for protection!”

“They might have said that, but it wasn’t to protect anyone. The killers were sent there with machine guns and grenades. The bodies are piled up as high as my house . . . the stench is unbearable.”

“Please, Pastor, enough! Don’t say any more,” I begged.

I wanted to ask him for news of my family, but I didn’t want to hear what he might say. I couldn’t bear to hear another word.

“I’m sorry to tell you these things, but you must know what’s happening,” he said. “You may very well be the only Tutsis left alive in all of Rwanda. If you saw what I’ve seen today, I don’t think you would want to live.”

The other ladies were crying, but not me. At that moment I had no tears to shed. I didn’t feel sorrow; I felt anger. I was angrier than I’d ever been before—more than I believed was even possible. I was angry at the pastor for telling us such horrific details when our families were out there with nowhere to hide. I was angry at the government for unleashing this holocaust. I was angry at the rich countries for not stopping the slaughter. But most of all, I was angry at the Hutus—all of them. And as the pastor droned on about the horrible things being done to Tutsis, my anger grew into a deep, burning hatred.

I’d never done anything violent to anyone before, but at that moment I wished I had a gun so that I could kill every Hutu I saw. No, not a gun . . . I needed a machine gun, grenades, a flamethrower! I wanted to kill everyone, even Tutsis . . . I wanted to be like Rambo and set the whole country on fire. If I’d had an atomic bomb, I would have dropped it on Rwanda and killed everyone in our stupid, hateful land.

I looked at the pastor, and I wanted to kill him, too. I never would have believed that I would have had such capacity for rage, and I knew that I’d have to do a lot of praying to rid myself of it.

Pastor Murinzi finished talking, and we just sat there, looking up at him and waiting for more horrible news. It would have been kinder if he’d picked up a whip and beaten us to death. I couldn’t accept his words without confirmation. As he left, I asked him to turn on the radio in his room so that we could listen to news reports. He agreed and shut the door.

A few minutes later we heard a government minister speaking on the national radio station: “I am appealing to all Hutus in Rwanda . . . it’s time to stand together to fight our common enemy. Let’s put aside political differences and defend ourselves. These Tutsi snakes are trying to kill us . . . we must kill them first. Kill the Tutsis wherever you find them—don’t spare a single one. Kill the very old and kill the babies—they’re all snakes. If the RPF rebels come back to our country, let them find only the corpses of their families. I urge all Hutus to do your duty and kill all our Tutsi enemies.”

Now I knew for certain that the pastor hadn’t been lying. I also knew that my father had been wrong to trust the government. The people he believed in had planned the genocide and were now calling on ordinary Rwandans to make it happen. There is a culture of obedience in Rwanda, and I knew that when many otherwise peaceful Hutus heard their leaders on the radio telling them to kill Tutsis, they’d dutifully pick up their machetes.

About an hour later, the pastor tuned in to the BBC news, and we heard a report saying that the RPF (the Tutsi rebel soldiers) had successfully fought their way from the far north of the country down to the capital, Kigali. The report said that the extremist Hutu government behind the genocide was in danger of collapsing. That news made our hearts leap—if the RPF reached Kigali, they should be able to fight their way south to our province in a few weeks! Sooner or later, they’d reach our little village and rescue us.

I just hoped that it was sooner, as later would probably be too late for us.

CHAPTER 11

Struggling to Forgive

I
was deep in prayer when the killers came to search the house a second time.