My father owned eight cows, but he pulled me out of primary school because I was his fourth daughter. So before the war, I was used here, there, and everywhere, for cleaning or work in the fields.
There had always been killings and house-burnings in the region, but each time we told ourselves that it would end no worse than usual. In 1994, the atmosphere changed. At the time of the first rains, we grew alarmed about the war, because our Hutu neighbors no longer returned our greetings when we met along the paths. They kept shouting threats at us: “Tutsis who see far must walk far, because soon all the Tutsis here will be killed!” In the evening, we talked cautiously about this at home, but my father refused to leave the hill, because he could not envision any future without his cows. Myself, I had found a quiet job in our capital, Kigali.
When the plane came down, I was a boyeste11 in Nyakabanda, a good neighborhood in Kigali. Gloria, the mistress of the house, was a Tutsi. The husband, Joseph, was a very nice Hutu merchant. One day during the genocide, some interahamwe burst into the living room. The husband was off in Kenya on a business trip, and his brother was not able to plead successfully for the lady. The interahamwe killed the family right on the carpets. Me, I was lying hidden flat on my stomach in a little room. They didn’t insist on looting because they had simply wanted to get rid of the lady and her children while the husband was gone, and that satisfied them.
An hour later, looters appeared and caught me in the house. They were getting ready to cut me up on the spot, but one of them, named Callixte, protected me from his colleagues. He was the leader, he carried a gun. He took me to be his wife because he did not have one anymore.
In his house, I would hear through the doors that the schedule of killings was going well in all the prefectures, and that there would not be a single Tutsi child left standing by the dry season. So then I told myself that if God had allowed me to keep my life in hiding so far, I shouldn’t waste it. Reason why I never tried to run away at the risk of dying among the other Tutsis.
I lived in Callixte’s home until the inkotanyi arrived in July. Afterward, he took me along in the panicky flight toward Congo, which you have heard much about. We lived first in Gisenyi, protected by the turquoise soldiers,12 with some of Callixte’s relatives. Then we traveled to Congo. We spent a year and a half in the camp at Mugunga. I was troubled by too many gruesome rumors, and I thought that from then on, I should expect nothing from life. We lived in a tent. I acted as wife to Callixte, who was never mean to me. The others in the camp knew I was Tutsi. They didn’t dare say anything in front of Callixte, because he was an interahamwe of great importance, but when he went off on a round of meetings, I would suddenly hear worrisome and malicious gossip. One November day in 1996, I went over to a group of white trucks belonging to a humanitarian organization. Some Whites were saying that anyone who wanted to go back to Rwanda had only to get in, without paying. Callixte was off on a tour; I climbed into the back of the truck with many others. The vehicle drove to the border. Other white trucks were waiting for us behind the barriers, and that’s how I retraced my way back to Nyamata.
I returned to our family land on Kanazi. Our house had been burned. Neighbors told me that there was not a single person left from my family. I learned from hearsay that Papa died not far from the house. Mama died from a spear thrown along an escape route to Burundi. I found two sisters dead in the fields. As for the others, I’ve heard no news about how they were killed.
The only thing I knew how to do was farming, but the land had become more stubborn while I was away. I felt too shaky and weak to plant beans. I was beyond discouraged. Hearing spiteful things behind my back about my journey to Congo, I had no idea where to turn to ask for a little help. That’s why I moved to Nyamata, to a woman friend’s place.
One day I heard that the rains were going to wash away the bones of those buried by the Caterpillars near the church. I joined a team to dig up the bones and put them safely away somewhere. I was looking for a little company, I wanted to seem presentable to other people. Some sympathetic residents brought bags of cement and we built the Memorial. Now I try to work as a bricklayer’s helper wherever I can. When I earn a few coins, I buy yams and sorghum, and happiness returns for a moment. If not, I go visit a neighbor-lady friend, or I wait for a little luck to come my way.
I feel disoriented being the sole survivor in my family. I can’t see in which direction to point my life anymore. I have a three-year-old boy, his name is Uwimana, and a three-month-old baby. They do not have Christian names13 because they have no papa. Since the genocide, lots of girls have caught children on the fly, because there are many men moving from place to place who no longer have living wives, and they know about our money troubles.
The truth is that our minds are quite disturbed by the loss of our parents and families. We have no one to obey, no one to look after, no one to confide in or consult for advice. We never get scolded or encouraged anymore. We find ourselves without anyone with whom to imagine a future, without a shoulder where we can rest a heavy head on evenings of sadness. It is a terrible burden to live as a forlorn woman, a great distress. And loneliness may turn into suspicion. In Africa, even if you no longer have a house, or any family, or even if you can’t raise a hoe anymore, you must at least feed the children. Or else you quickly lose your worth in the eyes of others.
At night I think of my family with regret. We had beautiful cows, we never lacked for clothes, there were many of us to farm and eat as a family and we felt the comfort of togetherness. Today there is too much emptiness, too much pain to survive properly. In the evening, I sit with survivors who live nearby and we talk about the genocide. We fill in what happened, since each one lived it in different places. Myself, I feel wary of relating my bad life in Congo, that’s why I make little arrangements with the truth, as you know. Still, the more I hear my companions speak of the slaughters in the district, the more worried I am. Hutus accuse Tutsis of being too arrogant and too tall, but these are only the words of hidden envy. On Kanazi, the Tutsis were not richer, more proud, or better schooled than the Hutus; their plots of land were the same size. It’s just that the Tutsis were closer from family to family. But that is traditional, we prefer our own company. The importance Hutus give to ethnic groups is only a pretext for jealousy and greed.
When I go over to Kanazi, I see interahamwe from Congo back on their land. I know that a small crowd of killers will be getting out of prison. Many of them will never confess, they will want to try all over again one day as soon as they have regained their strength. I heard too much boasting and vengeful talk in the camps. I know that the minds of the Hutu farmers are dominated by the interahamwe, who promise them our lands, and mark our faces for death.
Time passes without hardly wanting to change a thing. I don’t know why God lets a curse linger on the heads of the Tutsis, but whenever I think about that, the ideas won’t fit together in my mind.