Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (32 page)

I LOVED MY NEW JOB; EACH DAY WAS MORE EXCITING THAN THE LAST. There were so many nationalities at the UN that I felt like a tourist in my own country. I was continually learning new skills, meeting new people, and honing my English.

And not only was I rich in God’s blessings, but I was getting a paycheck, too! Soon I was able to send money to my aunts and buy food and new clothes for Aloise and her kids to thank them for all they’d done for me. They’d given me a home and a family when I needed one most . . . but I also knew that the time had come to leave.

By early October all my friends from the French camp had left Aloise’s, and everything around me was starting to change. More than a million Tutsi refugees from the 1959 and 1973 genocides were returning to Rwanda from around the world, bringing children, grandchildren, and all manner of new cultural heritage and strange languages with them. They were changing the sound and look of the country. A million exiles returned, which was also the same number of Tutsis murdered in the genocide—a number beyond my comprehension.

As the Tutsis returned, more than two million Hutus fled Rwanda fearing vengeance killings. Most of them ended up living in squalid refugee camps in other countries, while many died of disease and malnutrition. There was suffering everywere. One day, when I’d learned more and saved enough money, I would leave the sadness of my country far behind me. But for now, I had small changes to make. Life in Rwanda was shifting, and I was shifting with it.

I asked God to find me a new home where I would be surrounded with love and positive feelings. This time He let me answer my own prayers when I opened up Aloise’s front door. Standing on the doorstep, weeping with joy at having found me, was my dear friend and college roommate, Sarah. She’d managed to track me down, and we both screamed and threw our arms around each other. We spent hours catching up and shedding many tears. My heart broke all over again when I told her how the pastor had sent our brothers Augustine and Vianney out into the night—and how they’d died together. We cried for the boys we’d loved so much, and for the rest of my family—Sarah had known and loved them all.

“You will always have a family with us,” Sarah said. “Come live at my house . . . we’ll be sisters again!”

Sarah was so special to me, and her offer so generous and inviting, that I accepted on the spot. I packed my things and moved into her parents’ house that very day. Aloise didn’t mind too much since Sarah’s home was five minutes away, and I promised to visit her often.

I couldn’t have asked for a more peaceful and loving home than Sarah’s. Her elderly parents had been married 55 years, but they still teased and cherished each other like teenagers. They were devout Christians, went to church every morning, and prayed together every evening. It was the perfect place for me to reestablish my close personal connection with God . . . and the perfect place for me to mourn my family and begin to heal.

At Sarah’s, my wounded heart slowly became strong enough for me to put the words I still could barely speak down on paper. The time had come for me to write my brother Aimable, who was still in Senegal and didn’t even know I was alive. I’d put off this painful task, partly because there had been no mail service, but more in the hopes that if I didn’t see the words, then the painful events hadn’t really happened. But they
did
happen—they were real, and I was finally beginning to accept it.

I placed my father’s rosary on the table beside me and began to write:
My dearest Aimable, this is the saddest letter I have ever written,
the saddest letter you will ever receive. . . .

CHAPTER 23

Burying the Dead

“
W
here are your parents living?” This question was put to me a few months after I’d started my job at the United Nations.

“They’re not living, except in my heart,” I answered patiently. “They were killed in the genocide.”

The UN was not the easiest place to ignore my sorrow. Most of the people working there were from outside the country, and when they learned about the fate of my family, they were very curious about how I’d survived when the vast majority of my tribespeople had been murdered.

“I’m so sorry,” the person speaking to me said now. “I didn’t know. I hope I haven’t upset you.” His name was Colonel Gueye, and he was a Senegalese officer responsible for a number of the UN peacekeepers who’d come to Rwanda to help stabilize the county.

I told the colonel not to worry about upsetting me. After all I’d been through, questions were the least of my worries. I let him know that I still had aunts and an uncle living in my home province of Kibuye, although I hadn’t seen them since the war.

“Ah, Kibuye . . . I have quite a few soldiers stationed there,” he said. “If you ever want to visit your relatives, I’d be happy to give you a lift and escort you myself. You can even bring a friend.”

It was a great offer, as travel around the country was still difficult and unsafe.

“Really? You just tell me when, and I’ll be ready, Colonel.”

Two weeks later Sarah and I were strapped into a helicopter and soaring above the green hills of Rwanda, holding each other’s hands and giggling with wild excitement. Neither of us had ever flown before, so we had no idea that when the colonel offered to give us a lift, he’d meant it literally!

Looking down at my beautiful country, it was hard to believe the ugly truth of the genocide. How many times had I wished during those dark days that I’d been born a bird? How many times had I dreamed about flying away from my bathroom cell and above the relentless horror? And now here I was, flying back to visit the scene of the crime. It had taken a lifetime for me to escape from Mataba and get to Kigali—and it took only 30 minutes to return.

I wished that Aimable could have been with me, but it was impossible. The mail was still slow, and it had taken me weeks to finally get a return letter from him. He’d written that he was so happy to hear from me that he couldn’t find words to express his emotions. He’d watched the news reports during the genocide and had resigned himself to the fact that our entire family had perished, along with almost every other Tutsi in Rwanda. There was no way he could have returned to the country during the holocaust without being murdered himself.

Unfortunately, he just couldn’t afford to come home at the moment. He was a student, had no income, and lived 3,000 miles away in Senegal. The airfare alone would cost 2,000 American dollars, which was an unimaginable sum! The European organization that was funding his scholarship refused to pay for him to travel to Rwanda, saying that it was still a war zone and far too dangerous. My brother wanted to quit school and come live with me, but I told him that the best way for him to honor Mom and Dad was to finish his studies with top marks. We agreed to write each other every week and put money aside for a future visit. And now, thanks to the free lift to Mataba, I’d be visiting our old home without my only remaining brother.

AFTER THE HELICOPTER LANDED, COLONEL GUEYE LEFT US at the soldiers’ camp in the capable hands of a young captain named Traore, who introduced us to everyone as Colonel Gueye’s daughters. Unlike my earlier stays in military compounds, here Sarah and I had our own room, beds to sleep in, delicious food, and the respect and goodwill of each and every soldier. We even sat up with them until the wee hours as they sang traditional Senegalese songs and shared jokes with each other. Sarah felt welcome and safe, and I was happy that I’d come home.

The next day we were preparing to leave for the five-mile hike to my village, when Captain Traore expressed concern about our safety. The genocide was over, but a palpable current of hostility ran through the country, and killing was still commonplace. The captain insisted on sending us with an armed escort—which consisted of no less than two dozen soldiers and five armored vehicles. We wouldn’t be slinking into Mataba as returning refugees; instead, we’d enter with the pride of warriors. I had cowered too long in that village, and it felt good to go back with my head held high.

My mood quickly dissolved into morbid sadness as we drove beneath the familiar sky of my childhood. I began weeping as we turned onto the road where my brothers and I had walked so often, then passed my mom’s now-deserted schoolhouse, and rolled by the path we’d followed my dad along to go for our morning swims in Lake Kivu.

Sarah put her arm around my shoulders to console me, but it was no good—I was inconsolable. I also saw shadowy faces peering at us through shuttered windows and closed gates . . . faces that belonged to the extremist Hutus who’d hunted and killed so many of my people. They owned the only houses still standing after they themselves had burned most of the Tutsi homes.

And then we reached my family’s house.

It was completely destroyed: no roof, no windows, no doors. A few partial walls stood watch over the scorched earth where we’d spent days listening to the radio while the killers prepared their massacre. I wandered through the stone skeleton, visiting the vacant rooms that had once formed my parents’ dream home. There were no remnants of destroyed furniture or burnt clothing—our belongings had obviously been pilfered before the house was torched.

Several of my surviving Tutsi neighbors saw our military escort and came out to greet me. They informed me of the grim events that had transpired while I was in hiding, telling me how my mother had been murdered and where her remains had been buried.

Some of Damascene’s friends took me to the shallow grave where they’d hastily buried what was left of him. Karubu, our housekeeper, had witnessed my beloved brother’s execution and gave me a word-for-word, blow-by-blow account.

The heartrending memories and the gory, gruesome details were all too much for me. I’d just begun to heal, and now I felt my wounds forced open again by the onslaught of brutal reality. I wanted to ask my neighbors and the soldiers to help me give my mother and brother a proper burial, but I couldn’t speak. The lump growing in my throat stopped my voice, so I waved for the soldiers to take me back to the camp.

As we drove away from my home, past the unmarked mounds of dirt that covered Mother and Damascene, I felt the bitter, dirty taste of hatred in my mouth. On the return trip I looked at the faces peering at us as we passed, and I knew with all my heart that those people had blood on their hands—their neighbors’ blood . . .
my family’s
blood. I wanted the soldiers to douse Mataba in gasoline and let me light the match that would reduce it to ashes.

I went straight to bed when we arrived at the camp without talking to anyone. My soul was at war with itself. I’d struggled so hard to forgive but now felt duped for having done so; I had no clemency left in me. Seeing my home in ruins and visiting the lonely, forgotten graves of my loved ones had choked the life out of my forgiving spirit. When my neighbors whispered the stories of my family’s sadistic murders in my ear, the feelings of hatred that I thought I’d banished from my soul sprang violently from the depths of my being with renewed vigor. My heart hungered for revenge, and I raged inside myself.
Those
bloody animals! They are animals, animals, animals!

I tossed and turned for hours. I knew the devil was tempting me—that he was leading me away from the light of God, from the freedom of His forgiveness. I could feel the weight of my negative thoughts dragging me away from the one light that had guided me through the darkness. I never felt lonelier than I did that night. God was my truest friend, and these feelings were a wall between us. I knew that my thoughts caused Him pain, and that knowledge tortured me.

I rolled out of bed and got down on my knees. “Forgive my evil thoughts, God,” I prayed. “Please . . . as You always have, take this pain from me and cleanse my heart. Fill me with the power of Your love and forgiveness. Those who did these horrible things are still Your children, so let me help them, and help me to forgive them. Oh, God, help me to
love
them.”

A sudden rush of air flooded my lungs. I heaved a heavy sigh of relief, and my head dropped back on the pillow. I was at peace again. Yes, I was sad—deeply sad—but my sadness felt good. I let it embrace me and found that it was clean, with no tinge of bitterness or hatred. I missed my family desperately, but the anger that had gripped me like a returning malignancy was gone.

The people who’d hurt my family had hurt themselves even more, and they deserved my pity. There was no doubt that they had to be punished for their crimes against humanity and against God. There was already talk at the UN about creating an international tribunal to capture those responsible, and I prayed that it would happen. But I prayed for compassion as well. I asked God for the forgiveness that would end the cycle of hatred—hatred that was always dangerously close to the surface.

I knew that my heart and mind would always be tempted to feel anger—to find blame and hate. But I resolved that when the negative feelings came upon me, I wouldn’t wait for them to grow or fester. I would always turn immediately to the Source of all true power: I would turn to God and let His love and forgiveness protect and save me.