Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (31 page)

“My name is Immaculée Ilibagiza.”

“I am Rwandan.”

“I studied science at the university in Butare.”

“I am looking for a job.”

Oh, how thrilling! I was speaking real English sentences, and tomorrow I’d have a real conversation in the new language . . . and by the end of the day I could be working at my new job! Praise God!

I was standing in front of the gate of the UN building at 8 A.M. sharp. A Ghanaian guard greeted me warmly in what sounded like English. I’m sure he said something like “Good morning, how can I help you?” But what I heard was “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah?” I didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but pretended I did. I held my head up, stuck my chin out, and said, “How do you do? My name is Immaculée Ilibagiza. I am looking for a job.”

Ouch.
The look in his eyes told me how ridiculous I must have sounded. Nevertheless, I tried again. I hadn’t come this far to be turned away. “How do you do? My name is Immaculée. I am looking for a job.”

“Ah! You’re Rwandan . . . you must speak French,” he said. I smiled and nodded. He opened the gate, and another guard escorted me to a small waiting room, where I filled out a lot of forms and was told to wait. So I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. When the UN employees started leaving at the end of the day, I asked the receptionist how much longer I’d have to wait to get my job.

“You’ll be waiting a long time, dear. There are no jobs.”

I went home disappointed but not discouraged. It was my destiny to work at the UN—I had envisioned it and I was determined. If God wanted me to work there, nothing could stop me from reaching my goal.

I returned the next day, filled out the same forms, and again waited all afternoon. I did the same thing the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that. I spent more than two weeks filling out forms and waiting. Every day the receptionist told me as I left, “I wouldn’t bother coming back if I were you, dear. There are no jobs.”

By the end of the second week, I
was
getting discouraged. I dreaded going back to Aloise’s without a job, so I wandered the battered streets of our Kigali neighborhood feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to sit in quiet communication with God to focus my energies, but Aloise’s house was too noisy for me to meditate. Believe it or not, I actually longed for the days in the pastor’s bathroom, when I could talk to God for hours without interruption. I remembered the joy and peace He filled my heart with during those long stretches of silent prayer, along with the mental clarity I enjoyed afterward.

Two blocks from Aloise’s, I walked into the shell of a burned-out house, dropped to my knees on top of the charred rubble and broken glass, and began to pray: “Dear God, in the Bible, Peter was discouraged after fishing all night and catching nothing, but You told him to go fish again in the same spot—and he caught so many fish! He was so happy! Well, You guided me to the UN, and I’ve been ‘fishing’ for a job for days . . . but there are no fish here. God, I don’t know what to do. I have no money, my clothes are falling apart, and they won’t give me a job. So I need Your help. Let’s make these UN people notice me and give me a good office job; You know how badly I need it. Help me, and I will help myself! Amen.”

I BRUSHED MYSELF OFF AND LEFT THE RUINED HOME with renewed confidence. I’d asked God for His help, and now I knew it was up to me to make it happen. I began visualizing that I was already working at the UN, taking notes, answering phones, and helping make important decisions.

As I walked home, I thought about the things I’d need once the UN job was offered to me. I’d have to get some presentable clothes, and I’d definitely need my high school diploma and proof that I’d attended university for three years. Unfortunately, all my belongings were in my dorm room in Butare, which was a four-hour drive away, and I obviously had no money to pay for a taxi to take me there.

Since I was so lost in thought, I almost didn’t notice a car pulling up beside me and the driver calling out my name. It was Dr. Abel, a professor from my university in Butare. “I hardly recognized you, Immaculée,” he said. “You’re so skinny! I’m so happy you’ve survived . . . but are you eating, and do you have a place to live?”

Dr. Abel was a medical doctor, so he asked me all sorts of questions about what I’d been through and about my health. He invited me to come live with his wife and family in Butare so that I could build up my strength. I thanked him, but explained that I already had a family to stay with. But if he were driving to Butare in the near future, I’d gladly accept a lift.

“Of course. In fact, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Again, I saw God’s hand at work in what I’d thought was a chance encounter. The next day Dr. Abel dropped me off at the front gate of my old university. The school had been looted, and soldiers were posted at the gate. They refused to let me go to my room, saying, “The school is off limits indefinitely.” Then they told me to go back to Kigali.

I sat at the side of the road and prayed with my father’s rosary, waiting for God to show me how He was going to get me onto campus. Within ten minutes a car carrying an army colonel stopped at the gate. While the soldiers fell over each other trying to salute him, I walked up to the car and introduced myself.

“What are you doing here, little girl?” he replied. “Where are your parents? It’s dangerous for you to be out here by yourself.”

I was 24, but I’d lost so much weight that I looked more like a 12year-old.

“My parents are dead, sir. They were killed with the rest of my family in the genocide. All I have left in the world is in my dorm room, but your soldiers won’t let me into the school. Will you help me?” I asked as sweetly as possible.

The colonel opened the door, and I got in along with one of the soldiers. We drove through the gate and made the short, depressing drive to my dorm.

The beautiful campus where I’d formed so many wonderful memories and loving friendships was no more. There was garbage everywhere, and many of the buildings were charred and crumbling. Student records blew across the campus like tumbleweeds, and after all these weeks, there were still so many bodies on the ground. I couldn’t bear to look, fearing that I’d see the corpse of Sarah or one of my other dear girlfriends. I tried to conjure the memory of the school dances I’d enjoyed, the plays I’d performed in, the romantic walks I’d taken with John . . . but all were obliterated by the devastation I saw before me.

The colonel dropped me at my dorm, and the soldier followed me to my room, which had been thoroughly plundered. The door had been smashed in with an ax, and everything I owned was gone—my suitcases, clothes, shoes, and even my mattress were all stolen. Thankfully, a few pictures of my parents were still hanging on the walls—my only mementos of our life together. I picked up a few scattered envelopes from the floor, but the soldier grabbed them from my hands and began reading them. He slung his rifle off his shoulder and demanded rather menacingly, “Who’s Aimable?”

To his surprise, I started laughing. It struck me as funny that I’d survived the genocide, but could end up being shot by a Tutsi soldier for looting my empty dorm room.

“Aimable is my brother. That letter was mailed from Senegal, where he’s studying,” I said. The soldier grunted and stepped into the hall to continue reading my private letters.

I sorted through some of the other papers on the floor, and I couldn’t believe what I saw. There, in one big envelope, was my high school diploma, my university progress report, and nearly $30 of my scholarship money that I’d tucked away. Suddenly I was rich . . . and could prove that I was educated!

I left campus right away and used one of my American dollars to pay for a taxi back to Kigali, thanking God all the way home for answering yet another prayer. He truly was keeping His promise and watching over me like His own daughter.

A few shops had reopened in the city, and I bought some secondhand clothes, new shoes, perfume, and deodorant. Then I had my hair done for the first time in five months. I went home feeling like a lady again. Aloise almost had a heart attack when she saw me emerge from my room, dressed up and looking beautiful.

“Whatever it is you pray for, pray I get some, too,” she said, laughing her big-hearted guffaw. She laughed even harder when I showed her all the groceries I’d bought with the money I had left over—enough to last us another month!

THE NEXT MORNING I HEADED OFF TO THE UN to resume my job hunt. I looked good, I smelled good, I had my diploma, and I felt fit and confident—I was a young career woman ready to take her place in the world.

The Ghanaian security guard didn’t question me at the gate this time; in fact, I don’t think he even recognized me because he buzzed me in without question, smiling as I passed. As soon as I was in the building, I found my way to the personnel director’s office and knocked on the door, interrupting the director in the middle of a conversation.

“How can I help you, miss?” he asked in French.

“I need a job, sir,” I said in English . . . or at least I thought I did.

He looked confused. “Are you trying to say that you need a job?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right—I need a job,” I answered in French. It was obvious that my English was going to need some work.

“I see . . . wait here,” he said, and disappeared into his office. A few minutes later his secretary came to talk to me and thoroughly looked me up and down. She was Rwandan, and for some reason disliked me instantly. “How did you get into the building? What are you looking for?” she asked in Kinyarwanda.

“I’m looking for a job.”

“What experience do you have?”

“I’ve been to university, where I studied electronic engineering and math.”

“The jobs here are secretarial—that is, when we have jobs. Can you use a computer or speak English?”

“I’ve never done secretarial work, but I have a little English.”

“I see,” she said brusquely. “Well, we don’t have anything—maybe in three or four months. But with the skills you have, I doubt we’ll find you anything. Please shut the door on your way out.”

I was so upset when I left the office that I ran down the back stairs so no one would see me crying. Halfway down the steps a middleaged gentleman called out to me in French: “Wait! Wait a minute, young lady! Can I talk to you?”

I wanted to keep running, but respect for my elders compelled me to answer. I quickly wiped away my tears. “Yes, sir?”

The man looked at me like he’d seen a ghost. “Um . . . um . . . I was wondering, why are you here?”

I worried that he was going to call security, yet I replied, “A job, sir . . . I’m looking for a job.”

“Oh, have you seen the personnel director?”

The stairwell interrogation annoyed me, but again I answered out of respect. “Yes, sir, I saw him. But I was told that there are no jobs.”

“Oh well, then.” He scribbled something on a business card and handed it to me. “Show this at the gate tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll expect you in my office at 10 A.M. We’ll see what we can do about getting you a job.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just stared at the card as he continued up the stairs. It read:

PIERRE MEHU
SPOKESMAN, UNAMIR
UNITED NATIONS ASSISTANCE MISSION FOR RWANDA

I had no idea what a spokesman was, but it sounded important. And UNAMIR had been set up before the war to help bring a fairer government to Rwanda. Maybe I would be part of it!

When I met with Mr. Mehu the next morning, he told me that when he saw me on the stairs he’d mistaken me for a young Rwandan woman who’d worked for him before the war. He was very fond of her, and she’d been killed with her family during the genocide. He then asked me to tell him my story, which I did.

“What is your monthly income?” he asked.

“My what?”

“How much money do you earn in a month?”

“Nothing, zero. That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, we can’t have that! I’m going to help you get a job. Your parents obviously did a good job raising you, and I want you to know that you’ll only be an orphan if you want to be. From now on the UN will be a home for you, and you can talk to me like I’m your dad.”

I smiled until it hurt—God truly was keeping His promise by sending angels to look out for me.

“You’ll have to do all the tests, of course,” Mr. Mehu continued, “but with your education, that shouldn’t be a problem. How are your typing and English skills?”

“I can’t really type, and I taught myself English while hiding in the bathroom.”

“Well, then . . . sounds like you need a crash course.”

Mr. Mehu introduced me to his secretary, Jeanne, and she spent the day showing me how to use the computer and write memos, along with the ins and outs of their filing system. I memorized every function of every button on the computer, and then I drew an exact replica of the keyboard on a piece of cardboard. I spent three days working on the computer, and stayed up three entire nights practicing, typing on my hand-drawn keyboard.

God must have been guiding my fingers, because on the fourth day I passed the UN typing test with a perfect score. A few days later I passed an English test and was declared qualified to work at the United Nations. I envisioned it, I dreamed it, I prayed for it, and now I had it!

Before I knew it, I was working as a clerk, and soon I was responsible for tracking all UN supplies coming into Rwanda from abroad—from new Jeeps to cargo containers of food. It was an important job, and I couldn’t get over the fact that only a couple months earlier I’d been crouching in someone’s tiny bathroom, not knowing if I’d live or die.

I was living proof of the power of prayer and positive thinking, which really are almost the same thing. God is the source of all positive energy, and prayer is the best way to tap in to His power.

God had brought me a long way from the bathroom, and He’d walked with me every step of the way: saving me from the killers; filling my heart with forgiveness; helping me learn English; delivering me to safety; providing me with friendship, shelter, and food; and finally, introducing me to Mr. Mehu and my dream job. No matter what I’d been through in the past several months, God had never left my side; I’d never been alone.