SIXTEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Innocent Rwililiza, Tutsi survivor
I’m glad I was born in a family of survivors because I would have suffered in a Hutu family. Many Hutus had a hand in evil; they’re seen as harmful. Their presence is no longer valued among us. Friendship no longer greets them with joyful cheers at their neighbors’ doors. I’m not a survivor like my sister Ange, who was born before the machetes. As the younger sister, I try to imitate her. I copy her styles and skin care, I keep an eye on the smiles she sneaks at boys, I take over her things—everything except her experience as a survivor. She was the target of machetes, not me. She heard the death cries. I didn’t hide out in a false ceiling, prayers trembling on my lips. Survivors stopped at nothing to live, and many now fear that others have lost respect for them for what they had to do. They lived in terror and filth; above all, they knew they were abandoned. You can tell that deep down a shameful secret blocks their hearts. Myself, I grew up in peace and quiet, but in a certain way I feel somewhat like a survivor, because that secret surrounded my childhood. It’s still there in the house.
Does that worry me? I have no idea, since I don’t know if it has tainted my future happiness. When my papa and mama speak of their loved ones cut by the machetes, it reminds me that their loved ones would also have been mine. Survivors recount the deaths in the marshes in order to make a place for the dead in their memories. Remembering is so important to them because it gives life to the dead. We children can offer our parents only kindness in return. So I give a double dose.
Survivors’ memories filled my childhood. The thought of forgetting the dead upsets me as much as it does an actual survivor. No, it doesn’t bother me to have inherited that—why would it? Sometimes I get angry. I despise the people who caused so much pain. I picture ways of taking revenge on the murderers. When I was a child, I hoped to see them lined up and shot on the hill. I wanted to put them to death myself. But time has inspired more sensible thoughts in me; scolding had its effect. Children cannot avenge their parents if their parents aren’t considering it themselves. We can’t kill contrary to their wishes. That doesn’t prevent feelings like ill will from smoldering deep down within us at times. I also know that our country is calling on all our strength to help provide enough to eat, especially now that the droughts have begun to come ahead of schedule.
Basically, I don’t know what to say. Do I think about forgiveness? That is a tricky question for a girl with so much kindness around her. What good would it do me to forgive? Who would I forgive? What importance would my forgiveness have in the eyes of others? I am neither an orphan nor a trauma victim. Can my forgiveness mean as much as it would coming from my parents or my sister Ange? Or from a girl left alone with her terrible memories? I haven’t had to struggle against poverty like a girl stuck on a barren piece of land.
I’m proud of my parents; they survived the blades. Still, I notice strange things in their behavior. Their unpredictable moods, which change for no apparent reason. For example, you ask them a question and they don’t respond; instead, they sulk, obviously thinking of something else. My papa walks with a limp due to his injury; he comes to a halt between two steps, then cracks a joke at his own expense, which no one understands. My mama suffers from migraines; her mind isn’t right because of them. She speaks to us in a gentle tone of voice, then suddenly goes out into the courtyard alone. We can tell that she’s stopped paying attention to anyone around her, that her thoughts have drifted elsewhere. If she says something, her meaning escapes us. Sometimes Papa stays in bed late. Mama tells us he mustn’t be disturbed while his memories plague him. If it hadn’t been for the genocide, a more frivolous childhood would have brought me steadier parents, smiling grandparents, as I already said, and a prosperous plot in Kibungo, where we would have had plenty of bananas and milk. We would have passed around drinks at loud family gatherings. We would have sung ourselves hoarse after Sunday meals. Rwandan traditions would have ensured our happiness. The world would have showed us a more pleasing face. But I am not unhappy with my Tutsi fate.
It’s daunting for a little girl, but it’s nothing disastrous. I definitely feel Tutsi. I grew up in a family of Tutsis. I have heard their story from my earliest childhood. It binds me to them. The loved ones lost in the killings, the pursuits they endured in the forest, the fright they had in their hideouts—what I have learned obliges me to take good care of my parents. Loss has surrounded my youth. Children born after the genocide won’t ever know what it was like for those who watched the raised machetes. They never saw the blades. Myself, I’m not gnawed by anxiety, I’ve never been struck with panic. The dead make me sad. Hearing about them doesn’t shock me because I’ve been told about them with sympathetic words. I miss them. The dead impose a view of the living world that children in faraway countries cannot share. Which is why I spend all the time I can with Tutsi friends who understand my story. Even if they sometimes appear traumatized.
Hearing the fear in various accounts of the genocide prevents me from ever completely trusting others. That’s the attitude that the dead have imparted. It’s a lesson. In every situation, you keep some room for yourself—a haven, so to speak, only for you. You hold back your impulse to trust. You can’t freely confide in your best friend for fear that she might repeat things that lead to arguments. It ruins your life. When a genocide sweeps through your childhood, you come out cautious and somewhat timid. Whether from Tutsis or Hutus, the threat of betrayal gnaws at you. Jesus foresaw that Peter would betray him three times and Peter didn’t miss a one. It’s a warning from God: human beings are capable of betrayal at any time. Myself, I pray for God to deliver us from this fear in order to restore our calm happiness. I like to pray and to feel free. That means living a normal life without extraordinary conflict. I’m wary of things that rouse worries in my head. That’s why I try to have a good time, and I hang out with girlfriends.
* * *
I HOPE TO continue my education in Butare. The climate there seems neither too hot nor too cold. Regular rains wash away the dust. The university is supposed to be international. I am leaning toward biology, maybe to become a nurse or veterinarian. I am going to move to a huge city where there are booming stadiums for seeing soccer and parks for winding down. I am thrilled by charming conversations and places to dance. I also have the ambition of becoming a journalist. I think that journalism would be less difficult than other subjects. Journalists are like famous people—they’re well-known and in good health. They have polished manners; they appear pleasant on television. International journalists travel in search of information, crisscross faraway countries, and deal in new ideas. They discover surprising customs—that’s what I would like to do.
I feel impatient for marriage, of course. I don’t want grand nuptials, full of pomp and posh guests. What’s the use? My husband? I would like him to be tall in stature, the same age as me, and, the most important thing, nice. A boy a little bit rich, though, so he can provide for a family living in a baked-brick house. He could be a lawyer or mayor, for example. Anyway, a man who is capable of checking with me before he acts. He should like to joke with his wife and exchange kind words with her. A farmer, that could work, too, since Rwandan land feeds its population. But only if he is a well-to-do farmer with a decent number of cows, employs farmhands, and plants more than just beans, so we aren’t as vulnerable to poor harvests. I wouldn’t want anything to do with a husband who isn’t peaceful, with a disruptive presence in the family. Let him go drink with his pals at the cabaret, but not so much that he gets drunk. He can come from any region—that doesn’t matter to me.
Except not a Hutu. What if he’s kind and understanding? No, no, not a chance, because they have committed too many terrible things against us. No, I wouldn’t accept a very handsome Hutu, wealthy, polished, a dandy, even, because his presence might upset my parents. Knowing what they lived through during the killings—and my big sister Gigi, too—it would be shameful for me to bring a suitor from the other ethnicity into the family. Not out of fear of the person but because of the lack of respect for my people. And distrust: mine of him and his of me. Distrust is fatal to one’s love. A family that has experienced the machetes is forever made fragile, more cautious.
The time of carefree young people is over; we’ll never talk to one another again without awkwardness and lies. Nowadays, we return to our side every time the genocide gets mentioned. We don’t dare poke fun at one another like people do in comedies. I don’t know if we will eventually understand one another. I don’t think my Hutu friends’ parents talk about their lives the way mine do. The papas mask their misdeeds from their children’s eyes, and the mamas use words to disguise the truth about the papas’ wickedness. They refuse to stand as they are, as shameful wrongdoers. Even when they blurt out a confession, it never follows a straight line. Their children aren’t all made the same way, though. Certain Hutu children provoke their parents. Others adjust to their parents’ lying—they give in or play with the truth themselves for the love of family.
Deep down, a lot of young people from both ethnicities conceal a desire for revenge. That’s why so many young Rwandans are religious. They put their trust in God in order to alleviate their sorrows, in order not to stumble. They know that prayers and songs soften the anxieties that arise from the terrible events. The huge modern world decreases children’s gloom and, of course, their anxiety, too. Young people surf the internet, many take off abroad and speak English. We dance to electronic music. Even so, in twenty generations, young Tutsis will still think about the time when their ancestors were almost exterminated. Myself, I don’t see starting a family with just anybody. I won’t hide a single detail of my parents’ history from my children. I hope that my children will do the same because so many fears mustn’t fall into oblivion. We’re keeping on our guard, since the threats are quiet for now.
* * *
THE HISTORY OF the genocide isn’t unbearable. It affects me; it’s part of who I am. I don’t want to be relieved of the sadness that comes from being a survivors’ daughter. I’m not hoping to be rid of it by leaving the country. I feel free when I take walks with my brothers and sister and visit with friends. I like school and kidding around. I never get tired of dancing, and looking through the shops is a delight. The hair salons and dance halls are the only places I avoid. They can be risky. Why? Conceiving before marriage. The market never gets old—I’m surrounded by happy faces. I am always eager to see the clothes from Kigali shown off by the shopkeepers. The market is mindless fun. We love meeting up in various spots with different people; we tease one another with friends we meet. I don’t feel that Nyamata holds me back. Although Kigali is tempting, too. I go there sometimes with the choir or to keep Mama company at the hospital. We stop in at the cabaret to order a Fanta soda. In Kigali, people live in comfort, and the shop windows have fancy displays. It thrills your curiosity to discover new things. One is constantly learning about the world’s surprises. It’s chaotic—wanting too much is risky—but that’s our capital.