Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (6 page)

In Rwanda, every family member has a different last name. Parents give each child a unique surname at birth, one that reflects the feelings of the mother or father at the moment they first lay eyes on their new baby. In Kinyarwanda, the native language of Rwanda, my name (Ilibagiza) means “shining and beautiful in body and soul.” My dad chose my name, which will always remind me how much he loved me from the moment I was born.

My father’s name was Leonard Ukulikiyinkindi, and my mother’s was Marie Rose Kankindi, but her friends called her Rose. They met at one of my cousin’s homes in the summer of 1963 while traveling to a mutual friend’s wedding. As they were introduced, Mom gave Dad the once-over, clucking her tongue at his shaggy hair.

“You’re going to a wedding with that hair?”

My father shrugged, claiming that he couldn’t find a barber. Mom found a pair of scissors, sat him down, and went to work—right then and there. She must have done a good job, because they became inseparable. They married within the year, and Dad never let anyone but Mom cut his hair again.

My parents managed to save a little money by holding down teaching jobs and farming the land my grandfather had given them (they grew and sold beans, bananas, and coffee). Dad designed and built our house, which, while extremely modest by Western standards, was considered quite luxurious in our village. We had a kitchen, a dining area, a living room, our own bedrooms, a guest room, and Dad even had a study. A gated courtyard led to a small annex where day workers stayed, and—thankfully—we had a separate pen for the animals, so the cows didn’t sleep in the house with us. Dad put a cistern on the roof to catch rainfall so that we wouldn’t have to haul water up from Lake Kivu, and the solar panels he installed provided us with about an hour of electricity on sunny days.

We had two vehicles, which was practically unheard of in our part of Rwanda. We had a yellow cross-country motorcycle that Dad used to visit schools in the remote mountain villages, and we also had a little car that we used on weekends to go to church and visit relatives. Some villagers thought that we were wealthy, which we weren’t, and they called my Dad
Muzungu,
meaning “white man” or “rich person,” which to most Rwandans meant the same thing.

No one else in our village had a motorcycle, and Mom always worried that Dad would be waylaid by bandits on a lonely mountain pass. Fretting about her family was a preoccupation with my mother, to the point that whenever any of us was away from home for more than a night, she’d listen to the obituaries announced on the radio every evening.

“Mom, think of all the good things that could happen to us instead of dwelling on what might go wrong,” I urged her unsuccessfully.

“Oh, Immaculée, I couldn’t bear it if someone knocked on the door with bad news about one of my children or your father. I just pray that I die before any of you do.” She prayed incessantly for our health, safety, and well-being.

My parents were devout Roman Catholics and passed on their beliefs to us. Mass was mandatory on Sundays, as were evening prayers with the family at home. I loved praying, going to church, and everything else to do with God. I especially loved the Virgin Mary, believing that she was my second mom, watching out for me from heaven. I didn’t know why, but praying made me feel warm and happy. In fact, it made me so happy that when I was ten years old, I snuck away from school one day with my friend Jeanette to pay a visit to Father Clement, a wise, elderly priest who was a good friend of the family and like a grandpa to me.

Jeanette and I hiked through seven miles of fields and forests and waded across a river to reach Father Clement. He greeted us warmly, but was concerned because we arrived at his presbytery exhausted, panting, soaking wet, and more than a little dirty. He looked like a saint, standing over us in his flowing white robe, his arms opened in welcome, a beautiful rosary hanging from his neck. “What is it, girls? How can I help you?” he asked.

“Father, we want to dedicate our lives to God,” Jeanette said solemnly.

“That’s right, Father,” I agreed. “We have thought it over, and we want to become nuns.”

“Nuns? I see,” he said, nodding seriously, although I’m sure he must have been hiding a big grin. He placed his hands on our heads and gave us a special blessing: “God, bless these dear children, keep them safe, and watch over them all their days.” Then he looked at us and said, “Now, you two go home. Come back to see me after your 18th birthdays, and if you still want to be nuns then, we’ll talk.”

WHILE MY PARENTS WERE ARDENT CATHOLICS, they were Christians in the broadest sense of the word. They believed in the Golden Rule and taught us to treat our neighbors with kindness and respect. They felt strongly connected to their village and dedicated themselves to creating a prosperous, harmonious community. Dad spent many weekends doing volunteer work, such as building a nondenominational chapel and paying for most of the construction costs out of his own pocket. He also set up a scholarship fund for poorer kids by establishing one of Rwanda’s few coffee cooperatives, allowing a dozen coffee growers to plant on his land rent free if they promised to donate a little of their profits to the fund. The program was so successful that he was able to use some of the money to build a community center, a soccer field for teens, and a new roof for the school.

Mom was also known for her many good works. She could never turn away anyone in need, so we often had another family living with us because they’d fallen on hard times and needed a place to stay until they got back on their feet.

After finishing work, my mother often volunteered her time to tutor students, and she was forever buying material to sew new uniforms for local schoolgirls. And once I overheard her talking to a neighbor who was distraught because she couldn’t afford to buy her daughter a wedding dress.

“Rose, what kind of mother am I to send my own daughter to her new life in old clothes?” the woman asked. “If only we had a goat to sell, I could dress her in the way she should be dressed on her wedding day.”

My mother told her not to worry—if she had faith in God, He would provide. The next day I saw Mom counting out the money she’d saved from her monthly teacher’s salary. Then she walked to the village, coming home with her arms full of brightly colored fabrics. She sat up all night sewing dresses for the woman’s daughter and all the bridesmaids.

Mom and Dad treated the village as our extended family, and the villagers often treated them like surrogate parents. For example, Dad had a reputation across the region as an educated, enlightened, and fair-minded man. Consequently, people traveled for miles seeking his counsel on family problems, money woes, and business ventures. He was often called upon to settle local squabbles and discipline unruly children.

A crisis in the village was usually followed by a knock on our door and this plea: “Leonard! Can you help us out? We need your advice. What should we do, Leonard?”

Dad invited people into the house at all hours and would discuss their problems until they found a solution. He was a good diplomat and always made people feel as if they’d resolved their own difficulties.

My mother was also sought out for her advice, especially by women having difficulties with their husbands. Over the years, so many of our neighbors had once been Mother’s students that most villagers just called her Teacher.

But while they were certainly dedicated to our village, my parents were devoted to their kids, spending as much time with us as possible.

Once in a while, when he worked late and went for beers with his friends afterward, Dad got home well after we’d already gone to bed. “Where are my little ones? Where are my darling children?” he’d ask, a little tipsy but full of affection.

Mother would scold him: “They’re sleeping, Leonard, as they should be. If you want to see them, you should come home earlier.”

“Well, I can’t eat dinner alone,” he’d say, and gently get us all out of bed. We’d sit around the table in our pajamas while he ate dinner and told us about his day. We loved every minute of it.

After he finished eating, Dad would make us all kneel down in the living room and recite our evening prayers.

“They’ve already said their prayers, Leonard. They have school tomorrow!”

“Well, Rose, I have to work tomorrow. And you can never say too many prayers. Right, Immaculée?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I’d answer shyly. I idolized my dad and was delighted that he’d ask me such an important question.

Those were magical moments—when my father’s stern facade was lifted, his love for us was easy to see.

THERE WERE FOUR KIDS IN THE FAMILY: myself and my three brothers. The eldest was Aimable Ntukanyagwe, who was born in 1965, a year after my parents were married. Even as a child, Aimable was the most serious member of the family. He was so quiet and introspective that we joked he was the family priest. Mom doted on him because he was her firstborn and her favorite, but Aimable was humble, shy, and embarrassed by the extra attention she paid him. He was also sweet-natured and detested violence. When the other boys roughhoused or fought with each other, he would step between them and make the peace.

When Dad was away, Aimable took his place, making sure that we finished our homework, said our evening prayers, and got to bed on time. Then he would stay up late, ensuring that the doors were locked and the house was secure for the night. He seemed so much older than his years, but he was a loving brother to me, never failing to ask about my day, how my studies were going, and if my friends were treating me well. There was a five-year age difference between Aimable and me, which, as kids, made it difficult to get to know each other.

I was only seven when my brother went off to boarding school, and after that, we saw each other only on holidays and special get-togethers. Nevertheless, I developed a terrible stomachache the day he left. Although his school was in a nearby town, as far as I was concerned, my brother was moving to the moon. It was the first time I felt the physical pain of losing someone you love. When my father sat us kids down a few days later to write letters to Aimable, I could think of only two things to say. In large, looping letters, I wrote:

Dear Aimable,

I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you, I
miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love
you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you,
I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss you, I love you, I miss
you, I love you, I love you, I love you . . . and I miss you!!!!!

Love,

Immaculée

P.S. I miss you!

My father laughed when he read the letter. “You didn’t mention anything about visiting Grandma’s house, or how your other brothers are doing, Immaculée. Try writing again with a little more news and a few less ‘I love yous’ and ‘I miss yous.’”

“But that’s how I feel, Daddy.”

I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to love my brother less—and Dad never tired of teasing me about that letter.

Two years after Aimable was born, my other big brother came into the world. His name was Damascene Jean Muhirwa, and he was brilliant, mischievous, funny, generous, unbelievably kind, and irresistibly likable. He made me laugh every day, and he always knew how to stop my tears. Damascene . . . to this day I can’t say his name without smiling . . . or crying. He was three years my senior, but I felt as though he were my twin. He was my closest friend; he was my soul mate.

Whenever I was feeling low, Damascene would show up and boost my spirits—like the day I was furious at my mother for making me clean the yard while the boys played soccer. Damascene decided to skip the game, leave his pals, and come help me—wearing a skirt!

“A woman’s work is never done,” he sang out in a high-pitched voice, picking up a rake and making me laugh until it hurt. He spent all afternoon working with me.

Even if he behaved badly, which wasn’t often, things had a way of working out for the best. When he was 12 years old, he secretly “borrowed” Dad’s car to teach himself how to drive. Normally, my father would have punished him severely for such an offense, but when he found out, he just hugged Damascene. You see, Dad had been out of town on business when Mom suffered a serious asthma attack. She collapsed onto the floor, semiconscious and barely able to breathe. Damascene hoisted her onto his shoulder, carried her to the car, carefully loaded her onto the backseat, and drove nine miles to the nearest hospital. Mind you, he almost collided with two cows, three goats, and several of our neighbors along the way, but he arrived just in time. The doctor said that Mom would have died if she hadn’t gotten to the hospital when she did.

Almost everyone who met Damascene loved him—his easy smile and jovial nature were infectious. He was a class clown but also a brilliant scholar, consistently among the top students in his school—and he went on to become the youngest person in the entire region to earn a master’s degree. He studied constantly, but somehow managed to find time to earn a brown belt in karate, become captain of his high school and university basketball teams, and serve as chief altar boy at our church. I cried for a week when he left home for boarding school and felt like I’d never laugh again.

He was the light of my life.

The baby of the family was my little brother, John Marie Vianney Kazeneza, born three years after me. Vianney was a wide-eyed innocent who was lovable but pesky, as all younger brothers are, I suppose. He’d grow up to become a handsome, strapping young man who towered over me, but in my eyes Vianney was always my baby brother—I never stopped feeling like it was my responsibility to look out for him. He was a precious boy who followed me everywhere like a puppy dog. I became so accustomed to his constant companionship that I missed him when he wasn’t around pestering me.

I was the third child, and the only girl, which, in a male-dominated society, put extra pressure on me. In Rwandan culture, having a “good name” is everything, and my parents were vigilant in making sure that their only daughter maintained a spotless reputation. They were stricter with me than with my brothers, giving me more household chores and more rigid curfews, selecting my clothes, and approving or disapproving of my friends. My parents pushed me to succeed in school and to develop my mind, but as a young woman in a very conservative society, I was still expected to be seen and not heard.