NINETEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Joseph-Désiré Bitero, Hutu prisoner
When I was fourteen, I saw my papa leave for the penitentiary. My mama did her best to shoulder more of the work, but Papa proved impossible to replace. I cherish him as a daughter cherishes her papa, but I know him only through the fleeting words we manage to exchange in the Rilima courtyard.
When you’re a young child, you enjoy yourself whatever you do, even doing nothing at all. But with a papa in prison, a little girl isn’t doted upon as she ought to be; she misses out on strolls seated atop his shoulders and his extraordinary tales at evening gatherings. She doesn’t chitchat like other children do. She’s on the alert before she even knows why. Every word carries risks. To be safe, she copies what she hears from the lips of adults. Infants don’t suffer so much from being different; they don’t feel worse off since they don’t know how other children live. In adolescence, though, one feels frustrated not being able to go along with friends. One yearns to play, to clown around carefree, and to cut loose with the group—going dancing at the cabaret on Saturdays, having fun listening to music and whiling away the time with the boys. Since I became an adolescent, I feel like I’m looked upon negatively, even if I see myself as pretty. I stay withdrawn, I seem shy for my age. I have been dismissed from school numerous times because of money, which means that I won’t finish high school until I am twenty years old. I have had to take on odd jobs on the weekends while my girlfriends were teasing each other with the boys.
My personality has changed because of it—the way I think, anyway. If it hadn’t been for the war, my papa would be settled in comfortably among us at home. Maybe I would have gone to a private school, and I’d be sitting proudly on the class bench at the National University. I’d be living in a solidly built house like our old one in Gatare. I’d wake up joyful and pick out a pretty dress. Yes, I feel my papa’s reputation has held me back.
* * *
SINCE I’VE BEEN at boarding school, I go to visit my papa during school vacations. When nostalgia overwhelms me, I return on weekends if I find enough to pay the bus fare. All our visits make me happy. He’s nice. He always wears a smile when we meet, and he finds the right words. I see him as a strong, a very strong man, and good. He’s intelligent, of course, which explains why he was named president of the Youth Movement. He’s cheerful, as I said. We boost each other’s spirits. When I am there with him, I feel content, then suddenly anxiety sets in. My heart sinks as soon as I think of leaving him. He jokes around, but I can tell that he’s hiding his true feelings from me: when the guards end our visits, his mind lingers, and you can see that he’d like to sneak more time—he puts off our goodbyes. His face shows signs of anger, but he conceals it with false cheer.
I have always seen him as a caring man who loves his daughter. Everyone respects him in Rilima, even the guards. He’s someone who inquires after everyone no matter who it is. He never mentions his pain from arthritis. He gives sensible advice. Prison has put him back on the path to goodness. Why would an intelligent, cheerful man one day turn toward such a dreadful fate? Why did he make the wrong choice? I can’t say. It’s troubling. I don’t know what acts my father committed. Deep down, I’m not eager for details. I don’t go digging for the truth in his absence. I’m not anxious to find out.
My mama defends my papa against the most serious allegations, but of course there are plenty of opportunities for her to complain. She laments our lost comfort. She grumbles that Papa’s ruinous politics brought misfortune into our home. She acknowledges that Papa, as a ringleader, should be punished, but that he shouldn’t have to endure more than the men who nearly broke their arms swinging the machetes. I don’t know, myself. How could I? Should I believe the people who say the worst? I think my papa fully supported Habyarimana’s nasty policies. No one forced him. The advantages of the situation drew him in.
The question of why he did what he did upsets me, because it’s beyond me to say. Can a young girl really fathom her papa’s soul? The whole story eats away at me. It can feel dirty being the daughter of someone charged with a crime. One suffers for the sins of others. It’s difficult. It’s tricky to talk about. Anyway, who is going to listen? There are neighbors all around who mourn their lost relatives. I dread talking about it, I prefer not to have to argue to defend my papa. What good are arguments? I avoid enemies.
If a presidential pardon were to open the iron gates for my papa, joy would welcome him home. There would be no chiding from us—he’s our papa, after all. We would celebrate, although not something grandiose like a traditional celebration. We’d keep it simple because of the neighbors’ eyes. We’d give thanks to God and express our deep gratitude to the authorities. We’d have a wonderful time and prepare an amazing meal. Would his return go smoothly? I think we’d all have to adapt. Getting used to a father’s rule at home would be a real transformation, since we children grew up in a way that isn’t easy to change. Our daily existence of struggling “by hook or crook” against poverty and shame without a papa’s authority has made us stick very close together.
If he leaves prison, I will ask him about his life there, how he spent his time with his fellow prisoners, and how he turned to God. Would I criticize him for preventing us from having a comfortable childhood in a well-regarded neighborhood in Nyamata? I don’t know. Would I ask him what he himself did during the killings? That would be impossible—too disrespectful. Would I ask him if he wielded the machete? That would throw us back into a terrible past. It would be disruptive; it would undermine the family.
A genocide is more than a lesson. There are plenty of questions a prisoner’s daughter asks herself—about the war, human wickedness, ancestral disputes. She struggles more than friends born to comfortable families. From an early age, she becomes accustomed to death. A young girl from a family without worries encounters death in the faces of old age and sickness. It’s something accidental—it becomes natural death, if I can put it that way. Among us, we experienced a death by machete blades, and it makes us endlessly afraid. What has it taught us? To overcome disappointments despite everything, not to get discouraged so easily. In a quiet family my thoughts would have flowed untroubled, but in my family the situation is a bit chaotic. I have had to figure things out intellectually.
* * *
IN THE FUTURE, I imagine being a manager. I like economics and economics likes me, since our exams have earned me good grades. I am hoping for a national scholarship, which will depend on the number of points I score on my exams. A degree in management or business administration from the university in Kigali would be a good fit for me. I want to live in the capital and not end up in a country job.
I’m passionate about music, especially Beyoncé, zouk, and American and Rwandan songs, of course. I’m a fan of Tom Close and King James, like everybody else. Miss Shanel, too, because she’s alluring. I don’t go in for Congolese music—it’s too wild and, furthermore, vulgar. I don’t dance anymore. I used to dance during my first years of high school. Now dancing makes me uncomfortable. I consider myself too old at almost twenty to go out dancing with fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds at the Cultural Center. Why? It wouldn’t be respectable for me to be seen waiting for a sixteen-year-old boy to ask me to dance.
In Nyamata, the young people my age like to party, especially at Black and White. You meet a lot of boys whom you get to know and joke around and dance with. But a dance band requires nice dresses and shoes, and not everyone can afford fancy pumps for dancing on a Saturday night. Do I have admirers who would spend their money on me? Am I sometimes asked out because of my looks? No. Who would invite me? No one invites me. Parties are something young rich kids worry about.
If I were to win the raffle one day, I would visit all the boutiques. No, first I would hire masons to build a brick house for my mama. I would put a big-screen TV in the living room so we could watch the Rwandan and Kigali teams, because the Kigali club plays a marvelous game of soccer. Not to mention the Champions League teams. Then I would buy myself dresses and shoes, like the young people my age, and a smartphone, obviously.
Africa has nothing more to prove, because its riches are beyond compare. I admire African culture, its beauty. On the other hand, Africans don’t always appreciate one another as they should. They give in to harmful influences. That’s what I have learned in class, anyway. The teachers also say that, twenty years from now, Rwanda will be developed enough to take care of its entire population. We young people are going to have to choose how to live as neighbors—in other words, to choose between bitter words and mutual support. Our future? I don’t know. The threat of massacres hangs over the hills. But I still don’t believe in any curse.
Myself, in twenty years’ time, I hope to be a wife with a family that is very well provided for. Marriage is bound to be a bit awkward because of my papa. Who is going to take care of the dowry or walk with me arm in arm to the altar? I’ll be patient. It all depends on encounters one can’t predict. Still, I’m looking for a husband who offers love willingly, who doesn’t force, and who doesn’t prevent his wife from feeling modern: a man who is truly emancipated thanks to his understanding of the wider world, and more knowledgeable than farmers about new inventions. Catholic or Pentecostal, his religion makes no difference as long as he shows himself to be as heartfelt as other people in his beliefs. Anyway, a man who can tell good from evil, who won’t be tempted by the devil’s tricks. Also, a man who is well-to-do.
Could I marry a Tutsi boy? Being honest isn’t easy. Marriage demands a deep understanding between the two partners, and it means Hutu and Tutsi families living with what happened. In any case, personally, I want to sweep the past far away from my children’s innocent steps—no troubles to dampen their adolescent joy. I refuse to let them get tripped up by hurtful rumors. If I fall in love with a Tutsi boy, that would be fine with me. As things are, neither my mama nor my papa could possibly object. But how would the boy’s family react? They might complain, refuse to overcome the past, and give me dirty looks.
I definitely feel Hutu. Hutus feel uncomfortable with the name, but not me. People say that Hutus used to live together stalwart and proud before the genocide. They claimed to be the strongest. Now it’s the Tutsis’ turn to act that way. People say that Hutus used to farm the land as bold and skillful farmers while the taller Tutsis showed themselves especially shrewd in raising animals. Nowadays, “Hutu” and “Tutsi” are words that ring out “danger” to the ears; the terms have been banned in schools. But ethnicity was manipulated on all sides—yes, on all sides. We aren’t supposed to talk about ethnicity anymore, although no one is willing to give up their own. Can Hutus erase their Hutu misfortunes? Can Tutsis forget what they have had to endure because they are Tutsi? Future generations won’t forget a thing, in my opinion, however hard they try to put the past behind them. That’s why I’ve got nothing more to say on the subject. I call myself Rwandan, which is enough for me.
* * *
BASICALLY, in twenty years’ time, I would like to be living in Italy. I have heard that they live in peace and quiet, with no ethnicities or machetes. It’s a country with no greed and no religious wars, unlike everywhere else in the world. The Italians revere the pope, who watches over them with love from the balcony of Saint Peter’s. Good cheer infuses everything Italian—that would be a delight. Are the pizzas tasty? I don’t know. Anyway, I wouldn’t miss beans. If I’m lucky enough to find a good job there, I’ll get used to the way of life. They say that in Italy people outdo each other trying to be the most stylish.