EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Édith Uwanyiligira, Tutsi survivor
When I was a child, I was always happy to lend a hand with the housework. We never stopped singing in the courtyard. At night, we gathered around the table. Mama waited for each of us to describe our day. Then she asked us to correct what we hadn’t done right in the future and to seek forgiveness for those we had offended. She told us that we didn’t have to pray, but that we should do so whenever we liked, to give thanks to God, for example, for all that we had.
Myself, I like to pray early in the morning. Why? I don’t know. And at night in bed, to fall asleep like a little girl. Mama’s kindness has given me stability. I haven’t been plagued by disappointments or any terrible hardships. I have never felt the need for psychological support like so many other survivor children. As soon as Bertrand and I were big enough to head down the road to school, Mama began inviting all the little neighborhood children to play in our yard. They kept her entertained the whole day long and gave her comfort in her solitude. There was always a crowd of kids at our place.
Mama taught us to share everything. We were very, very joyful. If food was lacking, good cheer took its place. In the first years, we had no idea how much energy we demanded of her. It brought back her longing for Papa, who was no longer present, as he should have been, to add his strength to hers. But her will never wavered, and her mood was always bright. The children provoked her with the silly things they did, and she paid them back with laughter.
Everyone was fond of hearing her describe her childhood and her loving family, especially how alluring she was as a young girl. How, during vacations, her grandparents overflowed with the desire to spoil her. The celebrations for which she dolled herself up, the parties spent with girlfriends sharing embroidery, and all the tales that people told to please her. She recalled the innocent kisses with Papa, whom she had dearly loved since school, and their wedding as an elegant young bride and groom—and we laughed. We were glad to hear the joyful memories of a family the machetes hadn’t taken from us yet.
She talks about my papa in words of happiness, about his preferences, his manly quirks, his tall stature, his always-steady gestures, and his upright bearing, for which he was respected. I know that he showed himself to be strong and kind with his acquaintances. She doesn’t dwell on things; she recounts in passing. Occasionally, if we happen upon a soccer game, she describes how he played captain, for example, adding new details about his life, or their Sunday bike rides or walks in the forest. She doesn’t overdo it so as not to sharpen her regret.
I don’t know if the genocide has brought my mama and me closer. A genocide destroys everything, family ties included. Do survivor families have deeper bonds because of their shared experience? What bonds are there with those who are absent? A void divides the families who have suffered. The memory of the dead drives them apart. Each member feels lonelier than the next. At school, when I hear classmates describe vacations with their grandparents, it tears at my heart.
Grandchildren are only too happy to chat with their grandparents, who offer encouragement and kind advice. Grandparents tell tales from long ago, and they dote on you because you’re the delightful child they no longer have. At vacation time, I’m seized with sadness knowing that I have no family to welcome me elsewhere or to offer surprises to my eyes. Sometimes it’s the despair of not being able to play on my papa’s lap. The feeling doesn’t linger, though, because Mama chases it away. I have wanted for nothing that a mother can provide. She has understood me and given me all that I have needed. Mama is devout. She never gets angry without a reason, she doesn’t quarrel, and she spares no kindness toward visitors to her home. She lavishes advice on her children to help them solve their problems. Obviously, she can’t hide the obsessions of a survivor, but she puts on a very, very cheerful face. Laughter sweeps our family’s sadness away.
* * *
I AM TUTSI. My parents are Tutsi. I have inherited their ethnic understanding. They experienced Tutsi history starting with the pogroms of the 1960s. I belong to that history, and I’ll continue it whatever the authorities decide about ethnicities. I am both happy and unhappy about my ethnicity and I’ll explain why. It pains me because my people were hunted down like prey. My father was killed, my mother has suffered heartbreak and humiliation as a Tutsi. You take no pride in misfortunes unless you are the one giving chase. On the other hand, my ethnicity makes me glad because otherwise I’d have to be Hutu. I thank God that I didn’t inherit a wicked heart, a heart driving me to hunt Tutsis, to wade in mud past my knees, pushing me to seek their extermination. Being hunted is more humane than blackening your soul in the hunt.
I was born into a brutal life that children from peaceful countries will never know. How could my understanding of human nature be the same as theirs? In the past, ethnicities shared a carefree existence. Suspicion now lurks in everyone’s soul. Cutting down neighbors in front of their families is such an extraordinary act that it weighs on people’s minds forever. Such crimes are impossible to understand, so we keep on our guard. I don’t tremble in fear of being killed when I see Hutu neighbors; I’m not afraid of the machetes the farmers carry home from the fields. And yet I know that all the promises might not be kept. When people have lived in animal filth, the memory never leaves them. Neither the vicious hunters nor their victims are safe from the grudges that are quietly reemerging.
I see history as something chaotic because people tell it in different ways. One ethnicity chooses words that follow a straight line, the other zigzags. A Hutu papa can’t sit with his son to tell him about the people he carved up with his machete. He has every reason not to confess his actions, because the child would shudder at the thought of sleeping in the same home. Or the opposite would happen: if the child is a boy, he would dream of imitating his papa out of a sense of pride, so that his papa would value and compliment him.
I plan on talking with my children without passing over any of the details of our fate. The barbaric incidents, too, if they ask me. You have to anticipate a child’s fear. You have to tell him about the past before he becomes suspicious of life. Not all survivors think so. Many shield their children from certain truths that they consider reprehensible—for example, surviving in place of a relative. They hope to prevent their children from telling their grandchildren. It’s a tricky business. If a child notices that too many things aren’t right around him, he is liable to go off sulking alone—if he has never met his grandmama, for example, or if he sees how sad his grandpapa is. If he notices sudden silences at family gatherings, he is liable to worry and behave badly. He might stop paying attention in class, neglect his chores, or smoke cannabis. To grow up feeling safe, you have to tell him. The worst thing for a child is hearing about his parents’ misfortunes or misdeeds from the neighbors’ lips. The child comes away distrustful, or disgusted. Suspicion breeds spite.
* * *
ILLNESS, THE DOCTORS SAY, was waiting for me at birth. Even still, I didn’t get the care I needed in time. That’s because of our dreadful existence during the killings, the frantic escape into the bush, and the miserable years that followed. I remember having terrible attacks when I was five years old. I had just started elementary school, and they kept at me through the end of every semester, meaning that I had to redo my first year. Mama put me in the care of traditional healers, but my illness fooled even them. We stood in line for visits at the clinic, and the doctors diagnosed the disease and prescribed nonstop medication. I was often hospitalized. I enrolled at a learning center whose classes worked better for me. I made it to high school with nothing worse than being a year behind.
I wanted to follow in my brother Bertrand’s footsteps. He got out of the compulsory subjects, which students normally take. The priests recruited him for a Catholic boarding school, then he earned a scholarship to study civil engineering in America. I planned on science or medicine, too. The nuns at my American high school steered me toward physics, chemistry, and math. But my illness has never let up; it holds me back. The pills hinder my concentration and disrupt the constant effort needed for learning science. Now I prefer going into art. My aim is to be accepted to a college at the National University in Butare. People study art history, then every student picks a specialization. I would rather work in the studio than teach. Either in painting or sculpture. I could see getting a job in the government or opening an artist’s studio in Nyamata. I definitely don’t lack the will to succeed. At some point, the university is going to add a music department. That’s my true passion—music and dance. All different kinds: posh classical dance, wild modern, or traditional, which is what I like the best. I could join a troupe, take the bus to different cities, and dance in show upon show, and why not?
My heart longs to start a family. That’s the destiny of every young Rwandan girl. There is no shortage of suitors hanging around me. Although they make a show of gallantry, they are really asking for love—in vain. I’m waiting for marriage. I love the beauty of weddings, the processions of people cheered by the beautiful outfits and giddy laughter. But I’m not impatient. As for my husband, I have no idea who he is going be. I hope that he is modest and sensible, and has gone to university even if he spent his childhood farming. No need for him to be rich. Too poor wouldn’t do. A man who doesn’t stay late every night at the cabaret, and who isn’t short, either, relative to me. Steadfast in prayer, that would be good. His religion doesn’t matter as long as he agrees to come with me to the church in Nyamata. Otherwise, I don’t know if I could give it up.
If for some reason my mama doesn’t approve of my suitor, I will hear her out. If all he needs to do is change his habits a little, like give up the bottle from time to time, we’ll come to an understanding. I plan to listen to the arguments on both sides. A daughter must obey her parents. But parents also have to be reasonable when it comes to their children’s true love. Their objections should at least be legitimate, anyway.
As I said, I am not sure if I could love a Hutu boy. Would I leave him if I happened to discover his ethnicity by surprise? There’s no simple answer. But I would prefer for my fiancé to be a native of Nyamata, a boy who likes it here. Nyamata is growing at a peaceful pace. In other countries, danger lurks around every corner. In Kigali, people don’t care enough about those around them. The constant commotion is a real disappointment. Too many temptations. There are cases of AIDS. Young people watch sex videos before they are even fifteen years old; adults think only about big business. The city is expensive. Money eats away at friendships, the good times of youth fade away, laughter isn’t heartfelt. Just too much bustle, even if Kigali has its advantages for artists. In Nyamata, people cheer each other up and lend a helping hand. And I know you’ve seen how much the main street has changed! New entertainment and other modern things are popping up every day in Nyamata.
Is Mama the reason I want to stay here? No, not at all, not to support her or to spend every day with close friends. I love Nyamata. It’s my native land.