Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (9 page)

Not all the tension in the school was in our imaginations, though. One afternoon we all went out for a picnic and were passing a group of local Hutus. One of the men was holding a big knife and waved it at me. “Look at how tall this one is,” he growled. “We’ll kill you first. We’ll make you pay for what your rebel brothers are doing!”

My stomach churned, and I thought I was about to throw up. It was the first time anyone had threatened me with violence, and I didn’t know how to react. I ran back to my dorm, swearing that I’d never go on a school outing again. I cursed my height and wondered why being tall was such a crime in my country. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t stop being tall, and I couldn’t stop being a Tutsi!

Clementine came up to me between classes the next day and whispered in my ear, “Come with me, Immaculée. I want to show you what we should do when people like that man with the knife come looking for us.”

She led me to a room in a restricted utility building and opened a high-voltage electrical box. “There’s more than 1,500 volts of electricity in here,” she explained. “If Hutu extremists invade the school and we have no way to escape, we can come here, pull down this lever, and stick our hands in. We’ll die immediately—it’s better to be electrocuted than be tortured, raped, and murdered. I don’t intend to let savages play with my body before they kill me. Don’t look so surprised—I’ve heard too many stories of Tutsi women being raped and abused during bad times not to have an escape plan.”

I nodded in agreement. It was strange to talk about ending our lives when we were just 19 years old, but it seemed better than the alternative. Clementine and I made a pact and swore that we’d tell no one else in case the school authorities got wind of our scheme and locked up the electrical box.

WE CONTINUED TO LISTEN TO THE RADIO FOR NEWS, but the government station was notorious for its misinformation. We heard that the RPF had fought all the way to Kigali and attacked the presidential palace. The president went on national radio and warned people to stay in their houses until the army had killed all the “cockroach” invaders. Later we learned from the BBC that there hadn’t been any RPF soldiers within miles of the capital—President Habyarimana had invented the attack and lied on the radio in order to have an excuse for arresting thousands of Tutsis, simply because they had relatives living outside the country. The president seemed paranoid, convinced that any Tutsi with a cousin in Uganda must be collaborating with the rebels.

The BBC reported that so many innocent Tutsis had been arrested that all the jails in Rwanda were overflowing and there was no room left for the criminals. It was said that many of the Tutsi prisoners were being starved and tortured, and that some of them had been killed.

When I went home at Christmas, I learned that my own father had been one of those arrested. As I stepped off the bus in Mataba, I bumped into Madame Sirake, one of our longtime neighbors and a legendary gossip. “Come and hug me, my child!” she cried. “It is so good to see you! You’re skin and bones, though—aren’t those nuns feeding you?”

“Oh, they feed us well. But I’m looking forward to a good family dinner.”

“And I’m sure your father will be especially happy to see you after all that’s happened to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard, child?”

My heart raced. I hadn’t seen my parents since the war began and hadn’t had much news from home in weeks.

“I thought surely you would know,” Madame Sirake said. “Your dad was in prison.”

I sat down heavily on a tree trunk. I couldn’t imagine what my father could have done to end up in jail . . . other than being Tutsi. I worried about my mother’s health, as the stress of Dad being arrested could easily have triggered another serious asthma attack. I made the 30-minute walk home in record time and found my mother waiting for me at the door.

“How are you, sweetheart?” she asked as she enveloped me in a huge hug. She made no mention of my father’s arrest—she always shielded us from unpleasantness, and I could see that she would never change.

“You must be hungry, Immaculée. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll make you something to eat? Damascene and Vianney are out together somewhere, and Aimable isn’t back from university yet. Your father’s at work, but I know he’s anxious to see you.”

“Is everyone okay? Has anything happened to anyone?”

“Everyone is just fine.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mom! I already know that Dad was in prison, so stop pretending and tell me what happened.”

My mother was so relieved she didn’t have to break the bad news to me that she sat right down and told me the whole story.

Shortly after the war began, four government soldiers pushed their way into my father’s workplace, tied his arms behind his back, and hauled him off to the Kibuye town jail, locking him up along with half a dozen of his Tutsi friends. The guards were ordered not to feed them or give them water for several days. Eventually, Dad managed to bribe the Hutu guard to take a message to my aunt Cecile, who lived nearby. Cecile brought food to the jail and paid the guard to slip it to my father and his friends.

Two weeks later, my father found out that his arrest was ordered by his old friend Kabayi, a Hutu who had become the district burgomaster (a kind of regional “super mayor,” and a very powerful politician). Kabayi and my dad had attended school together and were best friends as children. It was only after President Habyarimana bowed to international pressure and agreed to release thousands of wrongly imprisoned Tutsi prisoners that Kabayi went to the jail and ordered the guards to free Dad and his friends. Kabayi had told the guards not to feed my dad, so he was shocked to see that he was still alive. But he pretended to be upset and apologized profusely, claiming that it had been a terrible misunderstanding.

Later that night, while we were sitting around after dinner, I tried to discuss what had happened with my father, and he said, “It was a mix-up. Kabayi was just acting on orders; it wasn’t anything personal. These things are very political, and it’s best you kids don’t get mixed up in them. Let’s forget about the whole thing.”

My brothers couldn’t believe that our father was so forgiving. They’d known Kabayi their entire lives and were outraged that he’d turned on our dad.

“Kabayi was your friend, Dad. Imagine what might have happened if he were your enemy! Why are you sticking up for him? These people you’re defending want to kill you! We should leave the country until the war is over. At the very least, we should get Mom and Immaculée away from here—I’m worried about them,” Aimable said.

“No, no, you’re overreacting—everyone is safe. Things are better than they used to be, and this is just politics. Don’t you kids worry. Everything will be fine, you’ll see,” Dad assured us.

My mother pleaded with my brothers not to sneak off and join the RPF rebels as so many other young Tutsi men were doing: “If any of you boys go off to fight with the rebels, I want you to know it would kill me,
it would kill me!
If you don’t mind killing your mother, then go right ahead, join the rebels. But if you love me, you’ll each promise me right now that you won’t disappear and leave me in agony. Now do it—promise me!”

Mom had worked herself into such a state that my brothers promised her over and over that they wouldn’t join the rebels.

I went back to Lycée, finished my last few months of high school, and wrote the university entrance exam. Once again, I had excellent marks and aced the test, but I held little hope of getting in. The ethnic balance was one of the things RPF was fighting to end, but at the moment it looked as though it would put an end to my academic career.

I said good-bye to my wonderful friends at Lycée and headed home for the summer to wait and see where fate would lead me. The war was intensifying; the rebels were winning more battles and pressuring the government to allow exiled Rwandans to return to the country and share power with the Hutus.

My mother was becoming so traumatized by what was happening that she began consulting psychics. I remember one coming to the house and sitting with Mom in the kitchen. My mother asked her if the war would end and if we’d have peace again.

“I see thunderstorms around us now, but these are just baby storms,” the psychic told her. “The mother storm is coming. When she arrives, her lightning will scorch the land, her thunder will deafen us, and her heavy rain will drown us all. The storm will last for three months and many will die. Those who escape will find no one to turn to—every friendly face will have perished.”

CHAPTER 4

Off to University

L
ate in the summer of 1991, the impossible happened: I was awarded a scholarship to the National University in Butare. I had dreamed of going to university my entire life, and suddenly it was a reality, despite all the obstacles placed in front of me.

When my parents heard the news, they were so excited that they couldn’t sit still. They rushed around preparing food and drinks so that we could celebrate in proper Rwandan style—with a feast!

“You are the first girl in the family to go to university, so we have to let everyone know about this right away!” Dad shouted, bursting with pride. He arranged for me to go on a long road trip the next day so that I could share the news with my grandmother, aunts and uncles, and all the cousins living in the surrounding villages.

We stayed up all evening laughing, eating, and talking about all the good things that lay ahead. My parents seemed very young to me that night, as though a weight had been lifted from their shoulders.

My mother was beaming. “Everything is looking bright for you, Immaculée,” she said. “You will always be able to make your own way now, hold your head high, and never be forced to rely on someone else to put food on your table.”

Dad toasted me and offered plenty of fatherly advice: “It’s mostly men studying at university, and they won’t expect you to be as smart as they are. But I know that you can do as well as, or better than, any man. Because you are Tutsi, getting to university has been a battle, but the hard part is over. Now it’s up to you—study hard and pray; and be the disciplined, kind, beautiful daughter we’ve had the pleasure of watching grow up.”

My heart swelled at his sweet, tender words. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “I won’t let you or Mom down. I’ll make you proud.”

I wanted to study psychology and philosophy so that I could learn about the inner workings of the human heart and mind, but the scholarships were limited to open spaces in specific programs, and I wasn’t allowed to choose my own major. The government assigned me to the applied science program, which was fine. I’d pushed myself at Lycée to excel in math and physics to show up my brothers, and now it would pay off. I packed my bags and was soon off to Butare, four hours southeast of my village, and a whole new life away.

WHEN I ARRIVED ON CAMPUS, I discovered that six of my girlfriends from Lycée, including Clementine, had also been awarded scholarships. My friend Sarah had already been studying there for a year and had been waiting for me so that we could be roommates. After all those years of sleeping in crowded dorms, it was a treat to share a room with only one other girl. Clementine visited our room often, and we’d joke about how lucky we were not to have carried out our plan to electrocute ourselves during the early days of the war; otherwise, we’d have missed all the excitement of university.

I loved my classes and studied hard, but I also enjoyed the fun and freedom of being at university. My scholarship included a monthly allowance, which was the equivalent of 30 American dollars—a fortune to me. For the first time in my life I felt independent, like a grown-up. I didn’t have to wear a school uniform anymore and could afford to go to town and shop for pretty clothes with my friends. It was exhilarating!

My social life was very active, including gatherings at coffee shops, movies on the weekends, and campus dances every other Saturday night. I joined the drama club, singing and dancing in all the productions, which were often attended by the mayor of Butare. My favorite roles were the religious ones, and once I even got to portray my favorite saint, the Virgin Mary. And I always made time to pray. More and more I found that devotion and meditation balanced me and helped me focus. I attended church several times a week and formed a prayer group with my girlfriends.

I was too busy to be homesick, but lonely letters from my father made me realize that I had to visit more often. Vianney was now away at boarding school, and my parents were having a hard time adjusting. “It’s just not the same without any of my children around,” Dad wrote. “The house is so empty. Sometimes your mother and I look at each other and wonder, ‘Where did all the laughter go?’ When you have children of your own, Immaculée, make sure that you enjoy every minute because they’re gone too soon. . . .”

I also met a fellow student named John, who knew some of my friends in Mataba. He was three years older than I was, and had a strange habit of “accidentally” bumping into me every day. He started carrying my books, showing me around campus, and introducing me to his friends. He was a nice-looking young man, and very polite and thoughtful. We went for long walks through the forest together and talked about what was important to us: God, family, and a good education. We started dating, and over the next couple of years became quite serious about each other. John was Hutu, but it was never an issue. My father was more concerned that John was a Protestant and the son of a minister.