SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
Son of Fulgence Bunani, Hutu prisoner
The release from prison in 2003, that remarkable year, I remember. It was the dry season. A gentleman came and set down his bundle on the last step of a two-day journey. He gave hugs and kisses all around. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short, either. We didn’t see him as someone special. At first I thought that he was simply paying the family a visit, because I had no idea who he was. I had never been taken to Rilima, even though I was already seven years old. It was a tidy sum for a child to rent a bicycle. My mama told us that the man was our papa. She said that all the prisoners had been granted pardons and that we were going to live as a family again. My papa was given a warm welcome. His clothes weren’t made of handsome fabric, his shoes had no laces. He sat down with us, he shared the bottle, and he spoke comforting words. He was glad just giving compliments, I think.
You could tell that his eyes were sorry to see the holes in the house’s metal siding and the dry banana trees. He held back his reprimands. I was happy to know that he was my papa. Neighbors stood in line to greet him and, of course, to have a taste of drink for free. They stayed late to talk. Mama decided against killing a kid goat, so as not to appear proud in the neighbors’ eyes. We still ate brochettes, and we tapped urwagwa from the jerry cans. It was the first celebration we had had in a very long time. Papa relaxed at home the whole day long without walking off to town. Mama was full of life and laughter. She was festive, and didn’t skimp on the jugs of drink.
Papa and Mama took up their tools before sunrise and worked in the field until nightfall. They did the same the next day. Papa left every morning without saying a word. He uprooted the stumps of a seven-year-old jungle. He sowed tomato plants in the low valley, near the river. We were no longer accustomed to such fancy crops; we had gotten by with beans. It made us admire him. He built a picket fence for the small livestock, and he dug a watertight pit for the urwagwa. A normal family existence offered itself to us. Good fortune stopped turning its back. Papa set about building a new house, he added a brick veranda, he opened a drink business. People congratulated him.
Then, at seven years old, I was given my first schoolbag. There was no more teasing on the walk to school—no Tutsi kids went that way anymore. Each year I climbed straight into the next grade. The teacher was strict with everyone. I enjoyed learning. My exams ranked me at the top of the class, where I really excelled. I showed off in ball games with classmates. Soccer was my joy. In the evenings, I fetched water from the river, like so many others, and I cut feed for our animals. At that age, you don’t yet raise the hoe.
Our plot gave in abundance, and the banana grove grew strong. We cleared fertile land along the marshes and harvested beans in quantities large enough to sell. Two mother sows added to the pig farm. Many neighbors came to sit on the veranda to drink our banana beer. You could see that they liked the taste. We got used to the good life again. I sometimes went with my papa to the Nyamata market, where we could sell at better prices. On Sundays, we walked as a family to our church in Kibungo. At mass, Papa often presided as God’s servant—they dressed him in a white chasuble, just like before the genocide. After the service, everyone broke into groups of acquaintances. If a soccer game was starting, I hurried off to the field. I loved nothing better than soccer. I sometimes got to watch televised games in downtown Nyarunazi. Me, I root for Real Madrid. I don’t know why—the team just makes me happy.
Papa lasted for seven years at home. He described the journey to Congo and life in prison. I didn’t ask him questions. I never asked him why. No, not a single question about the killings. I felt too little to ask him personal questions about his bad behavior. The traditional respect a child has for his papa is the same as trepidation. No questions for my mama, either, because she was blessed to be busy by her husband’s side. And none for my older brother, Idelphonse, for fear of being scolded.
Papa’s freedom made me glad, and I thanked God for it. On the hill, there were plenty of good friends whose papas had been released in the same line of prisoners. We talked about it among ourselves. We said that our papas had had a hand in the genocide and that they had truly confessed their mistakes. We counted ourselves lucky. We discussed the situation without singling out the details of any particular misdeeds. We didn’t linger over rumors; we kept clear of them. We avoided them because deep down they made us uneasy.
Papa was sent back to prison in 2010. We were taken by surprise. It was a Sunday. Someone came looking for him to testify at the gaçaça court one last time. His swollen foot shot pain all the way up his thigh. I think he sent a messenger boy to present his excuse. He had already confessed to everything he was supposed to, so he wasn’t on his guard. He had spoken as he should during his first trial and they rewarded him with amnesty. He spoke at the gaçaças seven years later, he added details, and they thought he did well. Then, the final day, he stayed home to rest his foot. That evening, the chief of the mudugudu, along with some tough-looking men, came to take him away. They tied him up and dragged him off to the sector jail, then to Rilima the following day. I was fourteen years old. It wasn’t easy to understand what they might be accusing him of again. I could have asked for more information. Mama would have given me answers. I felt too confused by what was happening. I stayed out of it. I stopped school shortly afterward.
* * *
MY NAME: Jean-Damascène Ndayambaje. It means “pray to God.” I was born in Congo in 1996. I don’t know where. All I have been told is that that was where I came into the world. My father’s name is Fulgence Bunani. He is a farmer and merchant. He has a urwagwa business, but he currently lives in the penitentiary. My mama’s name is Jacqueline Mukamana. She farms our plot. I grew up in this house here in Kiganwa. I finished primary school in Kibungo, always at the top of the class. I was supposed to start secondary school in Kanzenze when my papa was sent back behind the high walls. I enrolled at the trade school in Nyamata. A humanitarian organization paid for tuition. Completing an apprenticeship can quickly prove its worth.
Me, I wanted to do auto mechanics. I was fond of engines and bodywork. Unfortunately, the organization didn’t approve; they gave me a choice between hospitality and tailoring. I learned tailoring, I felt more drawn to fabrics than to cabarets. Finishing pants and vests is something I find satisfying. Even though I prefer engines, I like to sew beautiful cloth. The training ended in success. I had to provide my own sewing machine to get a spot in a tailor’s shop—that’s the custom. The humanitarian organization promised me a Singer. I waited, but nothing came, so that’s how I ended up in my mama’s footsteps, back on the family land.
I get up at 5:30 and immediately leave for the field. Do I eat some porridge? Not every day. The parcel is near the river, less than an hour trek. Mama and I work in harmony, doing what the seasons demand. My brother, Idelphonse, goes on his own to fish and doesn’t take up the hoe until the afternoon. I come home at eleven o’clock to prepare the noon meal for the family. My mama takes care of it in the evening. I rest until three o’clock. I fetch water, gather firewood, then cut feed for the pigs. In the evenings, we eat, I can sell our drink to make a little money, or I take a walk in the neighborhood. If I am worn out from work, I go to bed earlier.
I don’t go down to the parcel very often on the weekends, only when the rain requires it. Saturday mornings, it’s laundry. I feed the animals so that I’m free in the afternoons. We fetch water, we have a meal. I go for a walk to visit friends—the children of neighboring farmers, former schoolmates, or people I like from church. We stroll around, we sit on a stone wall or in the shade of a tree if the sun is too hot, and we talk when we want. We catch up on unimportant news and crack jokes like people who haven’t seen each other for a long time. I go to Nyarunazi, the local center. I hang around late at the market. We sometimes have the chance to watch television or share a Primus beer. I don’t spend time in Nyamata. It’s too far and too costly. I go there to sell if we have a good harvest, or an animal, because prices run higher than here.
* * *
I HEARD TALK about the killings from early on in my childhood. Papa already lived at the penitentiary. It was on everyone’s lips. I heard memories in our cabaret. When men get drunk on Primus, the killings stream into the stories that come flowing out. Especially when someone lets fly with piercing words.
At the time, I heard these low voices but didn’t make much of them. I was too little to be interested in war and all that. Once, at the edge of the field, I heard farmworkers taking a break under a tree, day laborers from Ruhengeri. They started talking about Papa’s misdeeds. I secretly pricked up my ears. They spoke of Papa but also of his colleagues and prison. They discussed how the Rwandans had risen up against each other. That evening, I asked Mama about it. She replied that Papa was being punished, since he was in prison. She couldn’t find her way to a simple explanation why. In any case, it didn’t excite my curiosity. In Kiganwa, almost all the papas were in prison—not a single word was said against them. We children waited; things went smoothly.
Then Papa left Rilima. He told us about the terrible flight to Congo, the confessions at the trial, and the presidential pardon. He never tired of talking about God. He explained the evil tricks that Satan plays on people. As I said, I was too little to ask questions. Basically, I heard about it like a story whose details are too frightening to want to know. Have I visited the marshes? We often go down there to farm the wet silt during the dry season or to gather grass for the urwagwa. We never discuss the expeditions. It isn’t something we think about.
I have a good friend whom I trust named Twisimane. He lives next door, and his papa wore the pink prisoner’s uniform. We understand each other; we talk about life on the hill. We listen to “hype music” on his radio because we don’t have internet. We don’t go dancing with girls because there are no places to dance, except in Nyamata. We sometimes mix with the boys and girls our age. Do we mention the killings of ’94? No, or if we do, only by accident. We don’t see any good from discussing them, except to complain about Papa’s absence or the hardships of poverty. With the Tutsis I know, I haven’t been willing to bring them up. We get along by avoiding all that.
I gave up the classroom. When I earn a little money from the urwagwa, it isn’t enough for fun in Nyamata. I don’t come across survivor families in Kiganwa. In Nyarunazi or in Kibungo, nothing intimate is shared between ethnicities. I think the young people on both sides have suffered. We have faced painful obstacles. Nothing from ’94 has fallen down the memory hole. No chance of slipping away from it. Young Tutsis think of those they have lost. The teachers lecture them to consider forgiveness. Young Hutus think of what they have lost, too; they have to appear humble and compassionate. Out of convenience, we steer clear of each other.
* * *
I HAVE NEVER spoken with Ernestine’s brothers. I’m too young to approach them. Would I even find a word to say? They might want to show me how angry they are. I leave it in the hands of silence. Obviously, the situation upsets me. Do I know if my papa’s punishment is fair? I don’t know enough of the details, except for what people say. Before, I was intimidated, and I didn’t ask Papa a single question. Now that age has whet my curiosity, Papa has been taken away again and I don’t have the opportunity to question him anymore.
Asking Mama might hurt her feelings. Women aren’t made like men for those kinds of killings; they don’t raise the machete. They stew over their sorrows more than men and fall silent. If Papa leaves Rilima, I plan to ask him questions. I hope that he provides answers that a son can accept, otherwise it will be harmful and make me unhappy. That’s understandable, isn’t it? Before, I was fine with what I heard at school. Now that people gossip about Ernestine’s murder, I have to glean information about my family. My dreams fill me with panic at night. Terrible visions pass before my eyes. Like what? Men hurtling through the bush, a bloody brawl inside a church. When I wake up, I reel off prayers without the time to catch my breath. I beg God to protect my loved ones against illness. I plead for my papa’s freedom and for reconciliation between neighbors. A genocide stirs religious belief: people rouse their faith to protect themselves from disaster.