SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Claudine Kayitesi, Tutsi survivor
If one day my blood papa were to appear before me, I would ask him his name, the work he does, and where he lives. That’s it. I wouldn’t listen to the rest—I wouldn’t care. I am saying the opposite of what I told you the last time because I have had the chance to reflect. I was surprised by your question. Basically, before you asked, I had never imagined it, I had never thought about seeing him for real. I knew that whether or not I met him, no good would come of it either way. I have chosen Damascène as my true papa, even though he didn’t give me life. Since my earliest childhood, Damascène has truly taken the other man’s place. We live in joyful harmony. Every day he shows me a father’s kindness, and he offers me a father’s guidance. He’s a good worker and very strong. He speaks easily with everyone, he sings with all his might, and he doesn’t drink alcohol. During negotiations for my marriage, I know that he’ll conceal the shameful circumstances of my birth, that he’ll slip on his ceremonial gloves. My parents see eye to eye about me. They waited for the rumors to begin before explaining my birth because they were anxious to protect me. They were afraid that bad thoughts might ruin my childhood.
I was kind of shaken up. When a child lives with such an extraordinary fact, she really feels uneasy growing up. Yes, I ask myself questions that other young people my age don’t ask themselves. I live with the risk of a terrible apparition. Unwanted blood runs in my veins. Dark questions course through my body. One lives with one’s fate. No, I haven’t gained anything positive from the experience, not a bit of strength, nothing that might be useful to me in the future—nothing at all. There are organizations in Kigali that specialize in treating children in my situation, but I don’t feel I need the comfort of psychologists and the like. I don’t see any danger at home—I’m not afraid of being thrown out. It’s just that a man may suddenly show up, someone I know would be harmful to my mama.
* * *
I DON’T KNOW if I can call myself Tutsi since I was born to an unknown father. My heart beats with the Tutsis. I stand with the people who have been ravaged by their memories. I feel like a survivor because I was born into turmoil. One way or another I really should have died. My best friends are survivors, because I feel calm with them. I’m not proud of being a survivor since I obsess about my birth. On bad days, bad thoughts lie in wait for me. I think that the way I came into the world was essentially shameful. Who wouldn’t be shocked?
Even so, I can say that my mama is a Tutsi survivor and that I am very, very proud to be her daughter. It fills me with joy to be Claudine’s daughter; it comforts me, too. A Tutsi gave birth to me, we share the same history, and I embrace it with all my heart. Some survivors claim they are cursed to be Tutsi. Myself, honestly, I wouldn’t abandon my mother. I admire her, and that she gave me life even though the criminal forced her to stay with him in Congo for over a year! It’s a miracle for a child—a human miracle. It has nothing to do with religion. Every day I owe Claudine my gratitude. She kept me when she returned while other mamas secretly strangled their children who had been conceived like me. It makes me happy and, I’d say, relieved as well. She was courageous to have accepted me as her beloved child despite the misfortunes she endured.
We love each other as mother and daughter in a way I don’t have the words to describe. I admire her conduct in life. Do I ever ask myself questions about her? Plenty of times. How does she manage to control her feelings so as not to disappoint the people around her? How does she never lose her temper? I avoid asking her because I don’t want to risk reviving her sorrow. I wonder how she can seem so calm regardless of the circumstances. Rumors don’t disturb her, and she rules out revenge. She welcomes visitors into her home with a cheerful voice. She wakes up full of courage. Farming tires her out—that you can see—but she still laughs a lot as part of her nature. Her good spirits never leave her. I don’t know why. She might get angry for a brief moment if I come home late, but she doesn’t hold a grudge. It delights her to hear laughter in the house and at church. When she goes with me to Nyamata, we crack jokes and exchange smiles on our way and at the market. We have a great time, we share a juice. Basically, she encourages me to be happy.
At the very least, she won’t let me wear out my arms in the field. My ambition is to become a nurse. And why not a nurse practitioner? I’m comfortable with biology and math. I know Claudine would have chosen nursing if she hadn’t been caught up by the genocide. I’m going to put all my energy into nursing school. I’m enthusiastic about caring for people, in a public or private hospital. Being a teacher would please me, too. Nursing or teaching. Lots of professions are tempting, except for agriculture. Work in the fields runs you ragged. It causes swelling in your hands and feet.
* * *
NYAMATA IS BECOMING more and more modern thanks to the new electricity, televisions, and cars. The country is headed in the right direction because everywhere one looks they are building hospitals and banks and attractive boutiques. The new things we dig up on the internet don’t frighten me. But modern times are wrecking the lives of simple people like farmers, who are going to be pushed out to the uncultivated land in the north. I think that with all the new construction, farmers’ lives are bound to be uncertain. Am I going to marry a farmer? That would be fine if nobody else comes along. I’ll try to avoid it.
I have a boyfriend, as I said. The same age as me, a student. He is medium height, even-tempered. His family is somewhat rich. We have been seeing each other for seven months. It’s lasted. We like to share our personal feelings, but we don’t bring up the future. I haven’t met my future husband yet, though I do have an idea. A man who doesn’t drink, who is decent height, neither fat nor skinny. It doesn’t matter if he is rich as long as he is nice. Good manners are a must, and speaking well with the neighbors—never a harsh word. I would avoid someone brash. Why? He might come home drunk and make the house a mess and smack me around like that kind of man inevitably does. A Pentecostal would be best because that’s what I am, and because Pentecostals don’t drink alcohol. I could see a teetotaling Catholic as well. If my beloved isn’t Christian, it all depends on how he behaves. It might be okay if he is very peaceful and nice. My parents will have to advise me on my choice. I lack experience, so there is the chance that I make a mistake about my suitor’s behavior, that I overlook his mean traits. If I love a boy whom my mama rejects, forgetting him would be impossible, but leaving him, sure. I would have to, because Mama knows best. Could I marry against her wishes? Even if it makes me suffer a lot, I would accept her refusal out of respect.
I want to get married, raise a family—anywhere except in Kanzenze. It’s no thrill getting married in the same place you have spent your childhood. Dark memories lurk down every path. You can’t grow up, go to school, then get married on a hill, because too many know your secrets. In Kigali? Why not. It’s a city—you see SUVs, huge comfortable houses with gates, and enticing boutiques. You can watch television. In town, people don’t have their hands full with farming, and it’s easier to get a lucky break than it is here.
I get bored in Kanzenze because young people lack amusing things to do. I would also like to meet new neighbors. I will bring two children into the world, and no more, so that I can feed and love them without excessive worries. I don’t want any danger hanging over them. I won’t tell them anything about my history, and I won’t say a word about my anxieties. Unless they pester me for answers about the rumors they’ve overheard.