Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (24 page)

We could hardly believe our ears—we were finally going to leave the bathroom! “Thank God,” we whispered simultaneously.

But the pastor immediately dampened our spirits. “Yes, thank God,” he said. “I just hope it isn’t going to be too late for you. After I left the soldiers, I met a friend who told me that the killers are coming back to search my house. They will be here either tonight or tomorrow morning—pray that it is tomorrow.”

We prayed very hard.

WE DIDN’T HAVE ANY LUGGAGE TO PACK—all we had were the clothes we’d been wearing every day for three months. Showering was still out of the question, so we contented ourselves with braiding each other’s hair. We wanted to be as pretty and presentable as possible for our meeting with the French soldiers. We didn’t quite understand that making ourselves look nice was
not
possible at this point.

Pastor Murinzi came at 2 A.M. and told us to wait in his bedroom while he woke his children and told them about us. While we were waiting, we looked at ourselves in his bedroom mirror. It was the first time we’d seen our reflection since we arrived, and the shock almost killed us—we looked like the living dead. Our cheeks had collapsed, and our eyes were set so far back in their sockets that our heads looked like empty skulls. Our rib cages jutted out, and our clothes hung from us as though they’d been draped over a broom handle. I’d weighed 115 pounds when I went into the bathroom; I was 65 pounds when I came out. We all wanted to cry.

When the pastor returned with his ten children, all of them (except Lechim and Dusenge) quickly backed away. They were genuinely shocked and completely confused. The girls began crying; one of them even ran out of the room yelling, “Ghosts! Tutsi ghosts! They’ve come back from the dead to kill us!” The pastor told her to keep quiet and settle down, and then he explained to them who we were.

None of them could believe that we’d been in the house for so long without them knowing. They touched us—feeling our cheekbones, ribs, and arms—in an attempt to convince themselves that we were really human. They had a hundred questions: “Where have you been? How could you all fit in there? What did you eat? How long have you been here? How could you be so quiet? Did you shower? Didn’t you talk? How could you sleep sitting up?”

We tried to answer them, but were exhausted from standing; our muscles and joints were screaming at us for being upright after so many months on the floor.

The pastor told his children to take a good look at us. “There, but for the grace of God, go any one of you,” he reminded them. “If you have a chance to help unfortunates like these ladies in times of trouble, make sure you do it—even if it means putting your own life at risk. This is how God wants us to live.”

My heart softened toward the pastor. Sure, there had been many times during the past few months I’d been furious with his behavior, and some of the things he’d said were insensitive, ignorant, and cruel . . . but he had risked everything for us, and he had saved our lives. As I stood there waiting to begin the next chapter of my life, I was very thankful. I asked God to watch over this man after we were gone.

All of the pastor’s children looked at him with pride, and then looked at us with compassion—all of them except Sembeba, that is. Sembeba was the son we’d overheard weeks before telling his father that Tutsis deserved to be killed, and now he stood in the corner, scowling at the floor. I prayed that one day he would find God’s truth and forgiveness, and that he wouldn’t tell the killers about us before we got away.

Shimwe, the pastor’s daughter who had run out of the room when she first saw us, gave me a towel and one of her own pullovers to wear. She hugged me as hard as she could and told me that she’d pray for me. After so much isolation and depravation, that moment of tender human contact moved me beyond words.

The eight of us said good-bye to the rest of the pastor’s children, and then he led us away from the bathroom and into the fresh night air.

CHAPTER 17

The Pain of Freedom

T
he sensations of the night overwhelmed me. The coolness of the air against my skin; the crispness in my lungs; and the brilliant, hypnotic beauty of the billions of stars dancing in my eyes made my soul sing out, “Praise God!”

“What are you staring at? Let’s go—we must leave now!” Pastor Murinzi said impatiently as I drank in my first taste of freedom. He was waiting by the gate with the other ladies and John, who wanted to escort us to the French camp. It was a nice gesture, but it came too late. I didn’t know if I would survive the genocide—or even live to see the dawn—but I did know that our relationship was dead.

The pastor opened the gate, and his sons (with the exception of Sembeba), burst from the house carrying spears, knives, and clubs. They formed a tight circle around us as we passed through the gate, shielding us from the dangerous eyes of suspicious houseboys and malicious neighbors.

And then we were in the open, walking quickly along the dirt road that had brought me to the bathroom three months earlier. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that both Pastor Murinzi and John were armed: John carried a long spear, and the pastor had that rifle of his slung over his shoulder. I wondered what they’d do if we came across a gang of killers. I soon found out.

We didn’t see them coming—they appeared out of the night, coming over a small rise in the road. Perhaps 60 Interahamwe were marching in a double line, and while they weren’t wearing their frightening uniforms, it was still a terrifying sight. They were heavily armed and moving fast, coming toward us carrying machetes, guns, grenades, spears, and long butcher knives—one of them even had a bow and arrow.

We passed by them so closely that I could smell their body odor and the alcohol on their breath. Remarkably, I was less afraid walking next to them than I’d been hiding from them in the bathroom. Still, I called on God to keep us safe and quell my fear.

The ladies and I stayed in the center of our group escort with our heads down, hoping that the Interahamwe wouldn’t notice that we were women. We passed without incident—a few of the killers even said hello and wished John and the pastor good luck as they went by. Either they assumed that we were fellow killers on a late-night hunt, or God had blinded them . . . I thought it was likely both. Besides, at this point in the genocide they wouldn’t have expected, or believed, that so many Tutsis could still be alive in one place. They had good reason to think that way, since there were dead bodies everywhere along the road.

God had answered my prayer and had taken away my fear of the killers, but apparently He hadn’t extended the same blessing to John and Pastor Murinzi. Both were visibly shaken by our encounter with the Interahamwe. As soon as they were out of view, John and the pastor reassessed their situation.

“You ladies will have to go on from here on your own,” the pastor said. “The French are close by . . . go ahead, we’ll watch until you’re out of sight.”

I shook the pastor’s hand quickly, and then he, his sons, and John hurried from the road to hide in the bushes. The other women and I were now completely exposed and had no time to waste. The French camp was about 500 yards away, and we ran as fast as our weak legs would carry us.

My heart was pounding when we reached the camp, which was set up on the grounds of an abandoned Protestant nunnery. The rest of the group huddled in front of the gate, looking very frightened, while I rattled it and called out as loudly as I could, “Please help us! Please, we need help!”

It had been so long since I’d spoken above a whisper that my throat ached from trying to shout. My voice was hoarse, and so low that it was nearly inaudible. The ladies panicked when we saw no one waiting to save us, and they started to wail. A few seconds later, six or seven soldiers appeared on the other side of the fence with their machine guns trained on us. I shushed my companions, and because I was the only one who spoke French, told the soldiers who we were and where we’d come from.

The soldiers looked at us skeptically, and their guns were raised and ready.

“It’s true! Everything I told you is true . . . we’ve been waiting for you to save us,” I said desperately.

The smallest soldier in the group—a grim-looking, light-skinned man with a shaved head—came to the gate and shone a flashlight in our faces. It was obvious that he was inspecting the shape of our noses. The old myth was that Hutus had flat, broad noses and Tutsi noses were long and narrow. Apparently we passed the test because he opened the gate and let us in. However, he didn’t lower his gun while asking to see our identity cards.

I could hear the ladies’ breathing quicken—none of them had their identity cards, and they thought that the French were going to shoot them on the spot. Luckily, I’d put mine in my back pocket when I left home three months earlier. The soldier examined my card, which had the word
Tutsi
stamped across it, and then nodded in approval. I immediately vouched for the other women and told them, “I think we’re going to be okay.”

An emotional dam burst in us as months of pent-up fear, frustration, and anxiety flooded from our souls, and a few of the ladies began to sob uncontrollably. The demeanor of the soldiers changed immediately—they lowered their weapons and spoke gently, their voices filled with kindness and concern. We were given water and cheese, the first palatable food we’d seen in months. We ate greedily, realizing that the French were not going to kill us, as the pastor had predicted.

“It’s all right, ladies, it’s all right,” the small soldier said. “You don’t have to worry anymore . . . your nightmare is over. We won’t let anyone hurt you. Do you understand? You’re safe now; we’re going to take care of you.”

I translated for the others, and soon we were all crying. It seemed impossible that it was over, but here we were, surrounded by trained soldiers with big guns who were promising not to let the killers get near us ever again.

When we settled down, our rescuers explained that we were in a field encampment and that they’d radio for a truck to transfer us to their base camp ten miles away. They told us that we should get some sleep while we waited.

I wandered away from the others, feeling a desperate need for something I’d been missing for so long—a moment of privacy. I lay down on the ground, absorbing everything around me: the rocks digging into my back, the damp earth in my fingers, the dried leaves scratching my cheek, and the sounds of animals scurrying through the darkness. I was alive, and it felt wonderful.

Staring into the night sky, I was again transfixed by the breathtaking beauty of the milky illumination cast by God’s countless stars. The starlight was so intense that I could easily see the road we’d arrived on, the same one that led to my home—that is, if I still had a home. I wondered if my family was safe and hiding somewhere nearby . . . or if they’d crossed over to the next life and now existed somewhere on the other side of the eternal galaxies above me.

My gaze returned to the road. I thought about how my brothers and I had followed it wherever we went. Whether it was to Lake Kivu for the morning swims of our childhood, to school every morning, to church on Sundays, to visit friends and family, or to head off on some wonderful adventure during summer vacations, that road had taken me everywhere I loved. It had run through my life, but that life was gone. The road existed now only as a highway for killers and rapists. I was filled with a deep sadness as it slowly dawned on me that, no matter what happened in the hours and days ahead, things would never be the same.

I closed my eyes and told God that it was up to Him to find me a new road to travel.

I SHIVERED. THE COOL AIR BROUGHT GOOSE BUMPS to my skin, reminding me that I was no longer in the cramped, humid bathroom. I stood up, stretched toward the sky, and then walked about the camp. I was completely unafraid, even when I stumbled across two men sitting in the shadows.

I startled them, and one jumped to his feet. After a second, he cried, “Immaculée, is it you?”

“Jean Paul?”

“How is it you’re alive?”