NINETEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Innocent Rwililiza, Tutsi survivor
My mama was beaten in an isolation cell by the interahamwe. They suspected her of colluding with the inkotanyi who were organizing at the border. This was before the killings. Her head still hurts. Their cruelty continues to torment her; she has been subjected to extraordinary suffering.
For seven weeks in Kayumba, my second papa scurried faster than forest prey. The hunt lasted nonstop from morning to night. A nasty wound damaged his leg. It’s still there—he limps. In the climb up to Kayumba, he complains about the pain. I think their experiences encourage them to stand up for our family, to pass on our history better. Their difficulties give them strength and allow them to overcome their moments of weakness. Sometimes their troubles also drag them lower than grief. They’re overwhelmed in every way. Their anxieties cause unpredictable behavior. You see them suddenly startled by a terrible memory. Their words rattle together. They’re afraid, they’re shaken up. We children understand, we’re used to it.
I think that the genocide has brought me closer to my parents. How so? It’s impossible to say. I’m also a survivor, despite my young age. The survivors hold on to everything they’ve endured. As a family, we try to support one another more than others do. But even so, I’m pretty sure that my parents don’t understand me any better. They aren’t any more tolerant. No, no, they aren’t any more understanding or any smarter about my adolescent upbringing. They don’t see my friends with a kinder eye. My little quirks don’t make them smile. Not one bit. They watch over me with the strict severity of their generation. They believe in their adult ideas. They simply offer more kindness in difficult times.
* * *
THE IDEAL HUSBAND? He’d be Rwandan. Why? Would a foreigner understand me? Would a man who hasn’t known the threat of the machete accept my timid personality? If he sees that my torments upset the picture of a model wife, he might heap criticism on me. Sometimes I feel tempted to leave to study abroad. To Canada, where my mother’s family is scattered. Or Australia, another destination, because I have heard that calm people live there, the climate is good, and universities welcome foreigners without any trouble. But my husband, I also want him to be Tutsi. I won’t say a survivor, but still a Tutsi, so that we get along in every situation.
I hope that he is educated, tall in stature, because I myself am very tall and slender. That he talks with the neighbors without seeming awkward or aggressive and that he doesn’t mistreat a soul. He doesn’t look for a drink every night, he listens to me so that he can lavish me with comforting words. He doesn’t force me into intimacies, like so many others do. He doesn’t give orders by bullying. I won’t go looking for him by myself, outside the traditional customs of the family, but I will decide. If the suitor doesn’t satisfy my parents, they will have to tell me why. For instance, if they think he cheats and hides ill will in his heart, I will hear them out. Then I will make my own decision whether to love him or leave him.
I don’t think about it very much because first I want to get a good diploma. I enjoy my studies. I was accepted into the history-economics-geography combination. I feel at ease with economics. I am confident that I’ll gain the right number of points for university. My ambition is law school, the judiciary. Being a judge appeals to me. I’d practice my profession in Nyamata because Nyamata makes me happy. I couldn’t live my whole life on the hills, since I’m wary of the customs of the countryside. They set their traps. The hoe wears you out all year-round, and all the worries that go with it. I also fear the mentality, the gossip, the backwardness of family planning that women have to endure, in addition to the other drudgery. Nyamata is up-to-date, worry-free.
In my dreams for the future, I have never turned my back on our Bugesera hills. I have never imagined myself in a country without genocide, because it’s something that I grew up with. Who wants to cast off their childhood? To forget their precious family and ancestors? Not for a minute have I wanted to leave my memories behind. Can you sort out the good from the bad of your existence? That yields only disappointments and delays one’s fate. I’m glad to be Rwandan and Tutsi. That’s how I have always seen myself. The future is all that I could wish for.