ALPHONSE: In the evenings old folks would ask quietly, “Why don’t we simply kill the trampling cows, take some prime fields, and still leave plenty of Tutsis alive?” The leader would reply, “No. Their tradition is too ancient. Tutsis have been trailing after their cattle for too long, they will start over again with new cows. Slaughtering cows and Tutsis, it’s the same task.”
When I get out of prison, I don’t know if I will learn to see cows in a favorable light. Hutus are not used to cows; encountering herds by the water or in the bush makes them uneasy. But as for the damage from their hoofs, we will work things out better than before, with the help of polite compensations like a sack of seed grain or a case of Primus. And we’ll put up euphorbia hedges around the planting fields. Slaughter and vengeance—for me, that is really over.
ÉLIE: In the camps many came to feel intimidated by what they had done, and others changed in prison, like me. I wrote short notes of apology to some families of victims I knew and had them delivered by visitors. I denounced myself and I spoke of my guilt to the families of people I killed. When I get out, I will take gifts, food and drink; I will offer enough Primus beer and brochettes for proper reconciliation gatherings.
After that, I’m going to take up ordinary life again, but this time with a good will. I’m going to turn a kind eye on my neighbors bright and early every morning. I want to sow my plot
of land, or weld, or saw wood, or do masonry; I’ll eagerly accept odd jobs. Or be a soldier if necessary in patriotic and dangerous situations, except without aiming or shooting a gun. From now on, I don’t want to kill even a highway robber anymore.
PIO: I think that if Providence helps me get out of prison, I won’t waste my days as I do now. I’ll go back to my hill and look for a good wife; because of the events, I am still a single man. I see nothing to keep me from a proper life. Anyway, I find no satisfaction in going somewhere else so as to hide from angry looks. A stained life is better than one that isn’t mine anymore.
If forgetting is merciful, I shall be grateful. If the opportunity arises, I shall express my regrets; if the opportunity returns, I shall apologize again. I shall make patience and shyness my companions. I am truly finished with playing the tough guy. If life in good company was possible before, it still ought to be, in spite of those stupid killings.
In any case, we must all get used to the evil we experienced, even if this wickedness took different forms for different people. Because we all had to bear it in our own way.
JOSEPH-DÉSIRÉ: Since I am condemned to die, I am condemned to grab hold of this life shadowed by sudden and unnatural death. In our courtyard, sixty of us are forced by fate to wait, to play igisoro, to keep an ear turned to what the outside world is saying, thanks to the radio. It is a different life from the one I used to lead, not at all like the one I chose. But it is still a life, which is mine, and if I do not take it, no one will offer me another.
FULGENCE: I believe the consequences have been most unfortunate for us all. The others have gathered in many dead. But we, too, have met with perilous hardships in the camps and a wretched
life in prison. In exile, sickness robbed me of two children, my mother, some compatriots, and I am suffering from this imprisonment.
Time has punished me for my misdeeds and can allow me to begin an ordinary life again when I leave here. After those killings and those ordeals, I no longer see Evil the way I used to: I am going to become a more normal person.
I don’t know how my neighbors will receive me, because I haven’t had a chance to speak with them. I think I will manage to convince them to live beside us as before, at least in appearance. I feel a great longing for the living, I am impatient to be among them.
PANCRACE: From now on, a huge wasteland separates the living and the dead. But the living must carry on in this world. Back on my hill, I am going to ask my neighbors to live once more in harmony. I will ask time to help me look for a good wife and find ways to make do with my plot of land. When work begins again in the fields, I will propose mutual assistance to the Tutsi neighbors. I don’t know if they will accept it as before, but I will offer it without restrictions to show my honest intentions.
Aside from the anguish of my years in prison, I do not see my life as harmed by all these regrettable events. Fortune and misfortune have not changed me. As for the others, it’s not for me to say; the matter is too delicate.
JEAN-BAPTISTE: I feel more at peace since I began to speak. After I have endured my punishment, I see nothing to prevent me from returning to my wife, my place in society, my six children, even if they have grown up without me and no longer recognize me. I must point out something, however: there is now a crack in my life. I don’t know about the others. I don’t know if it’s because of
my Tutsi wife. But I do know that the clemency of justice or the compassion of the stricken families can never fix this crack. Even the resurrection of the victims might not fix it. Perhaps not even my death will fix it.
IGNACE: I am a good farmer, and I no longer own even one basic tool. My children have scattered far and wide without sending me comforting words. I receive no news about the soundness of my house. I haven’t walked upon my hill since the killings. I am discouraged. Sometimes I feel terrified by the look in the eyes of the survivors who wait for me. I feel disappointed by all I have lost.
When I get out, I think I will manage for food. But comfort and respect, as before—I can tell already these are gone for good. My life zigzags in prison, always banging into things, and the only goal I can find for it is my field back home. I yearn to hold the hoe firmly in my own two hands, to bend to my work without hearing another word, except talk about crops.
FULGENCE: What we did goes beyond human imagination, so it is too difficult to judge us—too difficult for those who did not share our situation, in any case. Therefore I think we must be farmers like before, this time with good thoughts; we must show our regrets at all times; we must give a little something to those who have suffered. And leave to God the too-heavy task of our final punishment.
LÉOPORD: Someone who is touched by repentance for the blood he has shed, good fortune can take that person in hand, and he can start over again on his hill like before. Same for someone willing to speak without fear of being punished more, someone who tells the neighbors what he did with his machete.
But if he keeps saying he remembers nothing or only piddling things—that he wasn’t there and suchlike nonsense—if he bows down to lies in the hope of evading retribution and reproach, then he will be driven even farther from his home. There are many such liars.
In prison, most killers consider their failure the most important reason for their present misery. Same thing on the hills. They say they have come too far without the Tutsis to turn around now. They think they will never again find a worthwhile place alongside the Tutsis they did not completely weed out. They say they will be the rejects in the present situation.
They stew too much in vengeance to have any hope of hauling themselves out, looking around at the new developments on their hills, and accepting a normal life under the Tutsis’ watchful eye. They will always be spitters of wicked words.
ADALBERT: Back in Kibungo I will tend to my fields and my family. The killings and prison have aged me, they have tempered me. I don’t feel so hot-headed anymore. I’ve lost my taste for revelry and commotion.
With the survivors, I do not know what will happen. There are people in Kibungo who will be able to understand me, but only those who plied their machetes like me or more than me. The Tutsis, though—it’s unthinkable for them to learn and understand. You just can’t ask them to see our actions as we did. I believe their suffering will reject any kind of explanation. What we have done is unnatural to them. Perhaps patience and forgetting will win out; perhaps not.