Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (21 page)

My heart broke. There were not that many young Tutsi men in the area who’d earned a master’s degree . . . I was sure that they were talking about my brother Damascene!

Oh, God, please don’t let it be him,
I prayed. I tried to calm down, telling myself that I couldn’t be certain they were talking about Damascene. I kept praying that it wasn’t my brother and waited for Pastor Murinzi to come with our food. When he finally opened the door hours later, I told him what I’d heard and asked him point-blank if the people had been talking about Damascene’s murder.

I’d surprised him with my question and noticed that his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “No, no, not at all,” he said. “They’ve been killing many young men, so there’s no reason to think that they meant your brother. I haven’t heard anything about any of your brothers, Immaculée.”

Oh, Pastor,
I thought,
I wish you were a better liar!
The expression on his face told me that Damascene was dead . . . but how could I be sure? I bit my lip and thanked him for keeping me informed and for protecting all of us. He nodded and left in a big hurry.

The other women told me not to worry, that my brother was all right, and that there was no way of knowing whom the men had been talking about. I smiled a little, outwardly agreeing with them. After all, there was still a good chance that my beautiful Damascene was alive, and I’d soon see his smiling face again and laugh at his silly jokes.

But my heart wouldn’t listen to my head. I began weeping, softly at first, but soon I was sobbing inconsolably. I slapped my face and pinched myself hard all over, hoping that the pain would distract me and stop my tears. But nothing worked. I knew that the other women were panicking, afraid that I’d be overheard, but I couldn’t stop myself. I bit my hand to stifle my crying, but the tears kept pouring down my face, and my sobbing grew louder. To make matters worse, the younger girls began crying, too. The older ladies were waving their hands in the air, silently begging me to stop my bawling.

An hour later I did stop. And I never cried in that bathroom again.

CHAPTER 14

The Gift of Tongues

S
even weeks in the bathroom had left us all frighteningly gaunt—our bones pushed into our flesh, and our skin sagged. Sitting on the hard floor became increasingly uncomfortable as our muscle and fat disappeared, leaving us with no padding on our bottoms. Despite having two additional women with us, the bathroom grew roomier every day. We were shrinking, and our starvation diet left us weak and light-headed much of the time. I could tell by my clothes that I’d lost at least 40 pounds (and I was only about 115 pounds to begin with).

Our skin was pale, our lips were cracked, and our gums were swollen and sore. To make matters worse, since we hadn’t showered or changed clothes since we’d arrived, we were plagued by a vicious infestation of body lice. Sometimes the tiny bugs grew so engorged with our blood that we could see them marching across our faces.

We may not have been a pretty sight, but I’d never felt more beautiful. Each day I awoke and thanked God for giving me life, and each morning He made me feel loved and cherished. I knew that He hadn’t kept me alive so long and through so much suffering just to let me be killed beneath the machete of a blood-drunk killer! And I knew that He wouldn’t let me die from some silly everyday ailment. I was sick twice in the bathroom with illnesses that I could have taken care of in a day with a couple of pills . . . if we’d had any. The first sickness came with a 105-degree fever that left me shaking and delirious. The second was a nasty urinary-tract infection, which was one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever endured. The only thing the pastor had to offer me was a thermometer and his best wishes—he had no medication to spare.

All I could do was pray, so that’s what I did. When the pain and fever became too much to bear, I asked God to lay His healing hands on me while I slept. Both times I awoke refreshed and well, without fever or pain. I’d been cured by the power of His love.

No, illness wasn’t going to take me. I was certain that God had a greater purpose for me, and I prayed every day for Him to reveal it to me. At first I was expecting Him to show me my entire future all at once—maybe with a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder thrown in for good measure. But I came to learn that God never shows us something we aren’t ready to understand. Instead, He lets us see what we need to see, when we need to see it. He’ll wait until our eyes and hearts are open to Him, and then when we’re ready, He will plant our feet on the path that’s best for us . . . but it’s up to us to do the walking.

GOD PUT MY FEET ON THE RIGHT PATH WHILE I WAS LISTENING to Pastor Murinzi talk about the war one day. The pastor was excited because the United Nations was considering sending peacekeeping troops to Rwanda, which he thought might hasten an end to the war. The UN had pulled most of its soldiers out after ten Belgian peacekeepers were murdered by Hutu soldiers on the first day of the genocide. In fact, every Western country had evacuated its citizens from Rwanda when the killing started, leaving the Tutsis to face their fate alone. There had been virtually no outsiders in the country since the genocide began—that had sent a signal to our government that the world didn’t care if it were committing genocide, and that the lives of Tutsis didn’t matter, so the killing continued.

Even the mere possibility of the UN sending new troops meant a lot . . . it could even stop the genocide! But the pastor said that there was a problem. “The Tutsis in the RPF don’t want the UN to send troops because they want to keep the war going. They think they can win the war and take over!” he snorted. “They are so arrogant. They are demanding that if the UN does send troops, they had better be English-speaking troops . . . such nerve!”

The pastor told us that most soldiers in the RPF had grown up in exile in Uganda, which was colonized by Britain, so they spoke English. This contrasted with Rwanda, which had been colonized by Belgium, where French was spoken—so in high school many of us were taught French as a second language.

“The RPF would refuse to speak French, even if they knew how,” Pastor Murinzi added. “They claim that the French military trained the Interahamwe killers. They hate the French . . . if the RPF were to win the war, they would probably make us all speak English!”

God turned on a light in my brain.

Actually, it was more like a cannon going off. At that moment, I was absolutely convinced that the RPF would win the war. This meant that I would meet English-speaking people after the genocide and would have to tell them what had happened to us. I also had a premonition that I’d be working at the United Nations, where practically everybody spoke English. I suddenly knew with crystal clarity that I would spend the rest of my time in the bathroom learning the English language. I felt as if God had handed me the winning numbers to a big lottery . . . all I had to do was make sure that I was ready when the numbers were drawn. I had to prepare to meet my destiny!

I knew that learning a completely foreign language would require many hours of study, which would force me to cut back on my prayers. I worried that this would give the devil the opportunity he’d been waiting for: to jump back into my head, fill me with fear and doubt, and drag me down into darkness and despair.

I did the only thing I could. I asked God what to do.
Dear God, You
put this idea to learn English into my head, so You better help me keep the
devil away while I study! Now please show me how I’m supposed to learn
a new language while I’m stuck in this bathroom.

I didn’t bother informing the other ladies about my study plans—they already thought I was soft in the head for praying the way I did. If I told them that I intended to master a foreign language while we were fighting for our lives, they might have asked the pastor to pack me off to an Abashi tribesman right away. So I kept my dreams to myself.

The next day when the pastor brought us food, I asked him if he could lend me a French-English dictionary and any other books he might own written in English. He looked at me as though I’d just ordered a steak dinner.

“I only want to occupy my mind a little. We’ve been staring at the walls for nearly two months, and we can’t even talk to each other,” I whispered.

He shook his head, turning away as though he were dismissing a lunatic.

“If I learn English, I’ll be able to tell the UN peacekeepers after the war how bravely you acted to save our lives,” I quickly added.

Pastor Murinzi suddenly warmed up to the idea, promising to look through his collection. I was lucky: Very few Rwandans owned any English books, but the pastor found two, as well as a French-English dictionary.

“But I don’t have any English books for beginners, Immaculée. The books I do have would be very difficult for you,” he said.

I smiled up at him. I had no way of knowing how long the war would last, but I didn’t intend to take baby steps—I wanted to make giant strides toward my new life. “That’s okay, Pastor,” I responded. “I don’t want beginner books because I’m in a hurry. Please bring me the biggest, most difficult English book you have.”

The pastor became quite enthusiastic about my plan, even telling me how I’d be able to recognize the UN peacekeepers. “They are the only soldiers who wear blue hats,” he said, handing me the two thick English books and the dictionary.

I opened them immediately, feasting my eyes on the exotic-looking words. I held the books like they were pieces of gold—I felt as though I’d been awarded a scholarship to a fancy American university.

I took a deep breath and thanked God for answering my prayers and bringing me the tools I needed to learn English. Even though I’d be losing prayer time, I knew that God would be with me while I studied. He intended for me to learn this language, and I could feel the power of His intention coursing through me. I would not waste a minute of my time in self-pity or doubt. God had presented me with a gift, and my gift in return would be to make the most of His kindness. I opened the biggest book and began to read.

I DEDICATED THE REST OF MY STAY IN THE BATHROOM to praying, meditating on God, and studying as hard as I could. I learned English one word at a time: I’d see a new term in the English book, then use the dictionary to translate it into French and unlock its meaning. It was slow going at first, but it was fascinating . . . and fun!

The first thing I did was memorize the important words I knew I’d need as soon as I was back in the real world. I’d discovered that
I
meant “Je” in French, and realized that it was a very important word for me to remember. I needed to be able to say, “I am Tutsi, I need help,” “I have been in hiding for three months,” “I am looking for my family,” or “I want a job.”

At the end of my first day studying English, I’d read the first page of the first book many times. I wish I could remember the name of the work now, or even what it was about, but it’s a blur. What I do remember is holding it tightly to my chest when it became too dark to read and silently mouthing my first English sentence: “I am Immaculée.”
Thank You, God!

At the end of each day, I was exhausted but exhilarated. I knew that the new life God had planned for me would reveal itself in this language I couldn’t yet understand. As the days passed, I memorized many of the terms I’d need to tell my story in English.
Escape, hiding,
war, prayer, job,
and
God
became the cornerstones of my growing English vocabulary—and each new word was as precious as a jewel. I also committed the words
before
and
after
to memory because by then I knew that I’d always refer to my life in terms of before or after the holocaust.

While browsing the dictionary one morning, I discovered a section on English grammar. Rules! I was ecstatic—it was like manna from heaven! I’d found the keys that would unlock the mystery of English: verbs, nouns, and adjectives; conjugation; past, present, and future—it was wonderful! While the other ladies slept or stared into space, I explored a new universe. I said my prayers and read my books all day. I read until well past midnight beneath the faint light from the window, and I read until my eyes refused to stay open. And I thanked God for every second He granted me to study.

Three weeks after I started this endeavor, I’d already read the two books that the pastor had given me from cover to cover. I was ready to move on to the next level: to teach myself to write in English. I borrowed a pen and paper from the pastor and began composing a letter.

I wrote to a man who didn’t exist yet, but who was someone I believed in with all my heart—our rescuer. I was so convinced that we’d be rescued that I gave my imaginary hero all sorts of features and characteristics to make our future meeting seem more real. He was a tall, dark-skinned UN soldier with a small moustache and a thick British accent. He wore a clean, freshly pressed blue uniform with a blue beret pulled tightly down toward his right ear. He had a kind, open face; an honest smile; and warm brown eyes that filled with tears of compassion when he read my letter describing our tale of hardship. The image I had of him was exactly the opposite of one I’d formed of the killers.