Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (28 page)

But when would the war be over? The French didn’t share news with us, and we had no radio we could listen to. The only news we received came from new arrivals to our increasingly crowded camp.

Toward the end of July, I did learn that the Tutsi rebels of the RPF had claimed victory in the north, but that fighting continued in the east and south. The French had control of western Rwanda, where we were, including the shore of Lake Kivu and the border of Zaire. It was good news for us, but the situation was still extremely dangerous. Hundreds of thousands of Hutu refugees were in our area trying to reach Lake Kivu and escape to Zaire.

Each day new Tutsi survivors were dropped at our gates. In the three weeks since I’d arrived at the camp, our number had grown from a couple dozen to nearly 150—and I continued to record their stories and medical conditions. Many of the refugees were severely wounded, missing limbs or maimed from other types of torture. Often their wounds had become badly infected, and I knew that they wouldn’t survive. And those who hadn’t lost limbs had often lost their minds, driven mad by loss, grief, and the horror locked in their memory.

Among the most difficult things for me to deal with at the camp were the orphans. For example, I’ll never forget the two brothers, ages three and four, who came to us from Kigali. Their parents had hidden them in the ceiling of their house when killers arrived at their door. The parents were murdered, and the boys were retrieved a few days later by kindhearted Hutu neighbors who brought them south when they fled the capital to escape the fighting. They delivered the boys to some French soldiers, explaining that they were about to cross into Zaire, which was too perilous a journey for the children.

For some reason the soldiers hadn’t taken down the names of the children or the neighbors. In addition, both boys were running high fevers when they arrived at our camp. They were the youngest children in the camp, with no parent or relative to mind them, so I temporarily adopted and cared for them. With the French captain’s help, I set up a bed for them inside the schoolhouse and got medicine to bring their fever down.

It broke my heart to listen to them talk. They’d seen their parents’ corpses but were too young to understand the permanence of death. The older boy tried to take care of his younger brother by reminding him to be polite to strangers. The three-year-old kept pestering his big brother for French fries and soda, and the big brother would always reply with gentle patience.

“You have to remember that we’re not home . . . we can’t get French fries or soda here. We have to wait for Mommy and Daddy to come get us—then we can have treats again. We can’t act spoiled, or more bad things will happen.” When his little brother cried, he cradled him, saying, “Don’t cry . . . Mommy and Daddy will be here soon, and then you can have all the French fries you want. We have to wait, but Mommy and Daddy will make everything okay.”

I knew that those boys would never see their parents again, and that in all likelihood,
all
their relatives were dead. I feared that their future would be filled with sadness, abuse, and denied opportunities —the kind of lives where bitterness and hatred easily take root.

I saw the circle of hatred and mistrust forming in those innocent eyes, and I knew that God was showing me another reason He’d spared me. I vowed that one day, when I was strong and capable enough, I would do everything I could to help the children orphaned by the genocide. I would try to bring hope and happiness to their lives, and to steer them away from embracing the hatred that had robbed them of their parents, and of a family’s love.

AT THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST, THE CAPTAIN TOLD ME the camp was so full that he was going to move the majority of the refugees. The new camp was indoors, in a high school in Kibuye town, with running water, better food, and real beds. I made sure “my” boys were the first to go so that they could be more comfortable. I also made sure that my aunts and cousins were transferred—yes, they were doing better, but they needed a roof over their heads, and walls around them, to make them feel more secure. I was planning to go myself and take care of everybody, but the captain begged me to remain behind and help run the camp. They still needed a translator, and there were new survivors coming in all the time.

“You’ll help save lives if you stay,” he told me. How could I refuse? I stayed on at the camp, and I never saw the little brothers again. But I didn’t forget my promise to take care of other children orphaned by violence, which there was never any shortage of in Rwanda.

About 30 refugees remained in the old camp, including 8 friends I’d made, such as Florence and Jean Paul. Our small group had become quite close and felt like a little family. In fact, our bond was so tight that all nine of us refused to be transferred from the camp unless we were allowed to leave as a group.

We continued to receive Tutsi refugees, but the camp was now running like a transit station. I registered survivors, and within a day or two they were transferred to the larger camp in town. And then, in early August I was privy to something I hadn’t heard in months: deep, rumbling, hearty laughter. It was coming from a woman who’d arrived with the new batch of refugees. She was sitting in a wheelchair, and the soldiers were lifting her down from the truck. She was a heavy woman, and her legs were so withered that I could see she’d never be able to walk. I wondered what on earth she had to laugh about in the midst of so much sadness. As it turned out, she was laughing at the joy of being alive.

I watched as the soldiers carefully set her wheelchair on the ground and then handed her two young children. The kids kissed her all over her face, and she began laughing again—and it echoed through the camp.

“That’s Aloise,” said Jean Paul. “We have a celebrity in the camp.”

Indeed, I’d heard of Aloise. My parents had spoken highly of her to me when I was a child as an example of how far a person can go in life with hard work and determination. They’d told me that Aloise had contracted polio when she was nine and had never walked again, but she’d maintained high grades in school and was considered to be one of the brightest students in Rwanda. That was all I could remember hearing about her, but apparently she’d become quite famous in the country—many people in the camp had heard of her.

Jean Paul told me that her husband worked at the United Nations in Kigali, and Aloise had gotten to know all the diplomats and ambassadors. “She’s connected to everyone and can get anyone a good job,” he said with admiration. “People say that if she wasn’t handicapped, she’d have become prime minister. I know she’s a Tutsi, but she bought a Hutu identity card years ago so that she could get government contracts . . . she’s a very smart lady.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go and register our famous guest,” I said, and headed over to the truck with my notebook.

Aloise looked up at me from her wheelchair. Her mirth stopped abruptly, and she burst into tears. “Oh, my God, I can see your mother’s face in yours . . . and your father’s, too. I always wanted to visit you and your family, but I couldn’t, not with these legs.”

I thought the woman was mad or had mistaken me for someone else. I’d never met her, so how could she know who I was?

“Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind, Immaculée Ilibagiza. I know very well who you are. Your parents—God rest their souls—were very good friends of mine.” Aloise set her children down, wiped away her tears, and held her arms out to me.

I approached her tentatively, offering my hand for her to shake, but she grabbed my arm, pulled me to her, and gave me a mighty squeeze. She wouldn’t let go. “Your mother saved my life—I bet you didn’t know that! When I was eight years old, your mom heard that I loved school but that my parents couldn’t afford to send me anymore. Well, she paid for my whole year’s schooling . . . and she kept paying, even after I got sick and couldn’t walk anymore. I was so grateful that I promised to make something of my life and studied harder than anyone I knew. Everything I have today I owe to your mother, Immaculée. She was a saint!”

Aloise finally released me from her long embrace, and I staggered backward. I was flabbergasted by my strange encounter with this overpowering woman, and I needed to step away to regain my composure. “Let me get some food and water for you and your children,” I said. “I’ll come right back, and then I can register you.”

As I was walking away, Aloise called out, “Immaculée, I think your mother’s spirit brought me here for you! I owe her a debt, and I’m going to repay it by helping you. Let me think about it . . . I’ll come up with a way to help you out.”

I waved at her and kept walking, wondering what a refugee in a wheelchair with two young children to care for could possibly do to help me. Once again, I was to learn that God moves in mysterious ways.

When I registered Aloise the next day, she told me that although she was legally a Hutu, her husband, Fari, was a Tutsi. That meant that her children, Sami and Kenza, were considered Tutsi as well. She feared for the children’s safety and fled their Kigali home to hide at her parents’ house. Her husband had been concealed in their ceiling when she left, and she had no idea if he was dead or alive.

“I’ve decided what I can do for you to repay your mother’s kindness,” Aloise said. “As soon as the fighting is completely over, I’m taking you home with me to Kigali. You can live with us like you’re our own daughter.”

There was something I didn’t quite trust about Aloise. I smiled at her and thanked her for the offer, but told her that I had a little family of friends in the camp and that we’d promised to stick together. She shrugged her shoulders and said that I was wise to stay with people I trusted. I thought that was the end of it, but the next day she came over to me while I was sitting with my friends.

“Immaculée, I’ve thought it over and decided that if you’re worried, I’m going to kidnap you; you can bring all your friends with you to Kigali. I’ll put all nine of you up at my house! It will be cozy, but we’ll make room.”

We looked at each other and laughed. We didn’t know how to reply to such a strange and generous offer.

“Think about it,” Aloise said, wheeling away in her chair. “I don’t know what else you think you can do after the war. You all must be traumatized . . . I can’t believe I have to beg you kids to come live in a nice house in the city. The war is almost over—start thinking about your future!”

Aloise was right. The capital had fallen to the rebels, and it was only a matter of time before the fighting ended. We’d all lost our families, our homes, even our clothes, and we didn’t have a penny among us. It didn’t take long for us to decide it was a good idea to accept Aloise’s offer. The next day, we went as a group to accept her offer and thank her.

“Don’t thank me, thank Immaculée’s mother,” she said. “I’m doing this for Rose, not for you!”

She began chuckling, and kept on until, once again, peals of happy, heartfelt laughter echoed throughout the camp.

CHAPTER 20

The Road to the Rebels

O
n a hot afternoon in late August, the French captain notified me that we were being evicted. Operation Turquoise was wrapping up, so the French were preparing to leave Rwanda. “We’re shutting down our camp today,” he said. “You have two hours to get everyone ready to leave.”

“Leave for where?” I asked. “There are 30 people here . . . where should I tell them to go? We have no homes!” I was stunned by the sudden news.

“We’re taking you all to stay with Tutsi soldiers. The RPF has moved into the area and set up camp a few miles down the road. We’ll take you there and hand you over to them. It will be better for you, since you’ll be with your own people.”

I was thrilled to hear that the Tutsi soldiers had finally fought their way to us and were chasing the Interahamwe right out of the country. I even heard that our hero, RPF leader Paul Kagame, had set up a new government in Kigali. Thank God, we were finally safe—the genocide must really be over!

I moved through the camp telling everyone that we were leaving. Some of the newest arrivals were dubious, saying that the French were not to be trusted and that they’d set up refugee camps as humanitarian fronts to help cover up their real mission: smuggling the Hutus who’d organized the genocide across Lake Kivu and safely out of Rwanda.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “The French have kept us safe for weeks, and they’re about to deliver us to freedom! They’ve done everything they said they would do.”

It didn’t take long to get ready, since we’d been prepared for a long time. No one owned anything, so we had no luggage to pack. I gathered up my meager belongings—the sweater and towel that Pastor Murinzi’s daughter had given me, two books from Pierre, and some extra soap and T-shirts from the soldiers—and put them into a plastic bag. But as I did, I thought of my mother packing her things in suitcases while the killers gathered near our home . . . and I decided that I didn’t want to drag things from my past into my new life. I wanted to make a clean break. I took the bag into the schoolhouse and left it in a corner, hoping that some other poor, homeless Tutsi would find it.