NINETEEN YEARS OLD
Son of Alphonse Hitiyaremye, former Hutu prisoner
Papa returned from prison with stomach pains. They give him some trouble. So does poverty. While he was in prison, however, he learned to tell good from evil so that he will never lose his way again. His character changed. He seems more reserved. When he came home, we asked him what acts he had committed during the killings. He didn’t dodge a single question, never lost his paternal temper. My mama praised him. In our home, the parents agreed together to talk about the killings, which is unthinkable in many neighbors’ families.
The first question was: Why did he participate in the expeditions every day? He answered that he was following the leaders’ orders, which applied throughout the hills. He told us of his comrades’ warnings. Men who refused to join risked being accused of siding with the Tutsi inkotanyi. He described how holdouts were hit with fines. I think that it’s all somewhat true. I also know that my papa doesn’t offer an exhaustive truth. He skips over certain truths. Which ones? He doesn’t mention that they sang during the expeditions. He says nothing about the expeditionaries’ enthusiasm in the marshes—their cruelty, for example. How they would assemble an entire family, then cut them down one by one, starting with the papa first, and the mama second, so that all the children were made to watch. They would cut off tall people’s legs so that their victims would see how much shorter they’d become. He zigzags through the details as soon as it is a matter of blood, if I can put it that way.
During the gaçaças, I listened to the witnesses. It was a big thing to hear the killings recounted under the judges’ stern eyes. One day I went up to Kibungo. It was my papa’s turn to be questioned. I sat down in the grass, like a spectator in the crowd. The brutality I heard filled me with indignation. I heard words surging with savage ferocity. They made me tremble with fear. They didn’t seem to agree with what I knew of my papa. At home, he had told us things. But at the gaçaça, he described his actions, his crimes, and his victims one by one, which made me sorry and anxious and, above all, disturbed. Why disturbed? Imagining the victims’ pleas beneath the blade, the wrongdoers’ jeers. And fearful, too, of living with a papa who had had a hand in evil. I say it outright. Even though I have been punished with poverty and expelled from school, I still wonder about the pardon the killers received. How so? I’ve seen the skulls. I’ve been to the memorial, as I said. The rows of faded bones show the magnitude of the bloodshed. I don’t know how many Tutsis he struck with his machete—he never let the expeditions leave without him. It might be a great many.
* * *
ALL THAT IS over now. I don’t want to know any more. He received a pardon; he has returned to his kind self again. Deep down, I reproach him for participating in the expeditions, but age softens those feelings. He has asked his children several times to forgive him for having made a mess of their lives. He recognizes that he ruined our future. We understand, and we sincerely forgive him. I don’t encounter awkward looks when I am with my papa, because he has apologized and takes part in the community with an honest heart. He has become a good man. If he gets angry, it doesn’t last. He doesn’t grumble. He loves all his children equally. He stands by them, encouraging them to improve their lot despite misfortune. His crops provide his family with plenty to eat. He showed weakness, and he learned his lesson. He gets along very well with the neighbors, old or young, whatever their ethnicities. He enjoys striking up conversations with people he meets. He cracks jokes, he compliments those who deserve it. He promotes mutual aid within the cooperative of sugarcane planters and works hard organizing its raffles.
My mama doesn’t keep such easy company with the neighbors. She sulks a bit and hesitates with words. The two of them work in harmony. My papa understands livestock better than my mama; he is tenacious in farming and reaps its rewards. The neighbors envy him. He currently owns four cows—milk-giving Friesian crossbreeds—and some pigs, a modern breed. He throws his energy into our banana plantation.
His gentle eyes look lovingly upon my mama. She keeps no kindness from him. They never bicker. If a problem with a child arises, he brings it to her first, for Mama became our confidante during all those years without him. She also reacts more intelligently than he does. As I said, she tried to intervene during the killings because she feared damnation. She wanted to be an honest Christian, whereas Papa thought only of the advantages of the situation. He was hot-tempered when his wife protested, and she suffered from his fits of rage. She got angry with him, she predicted his divine punishment, and then, like a good wife, she retreated.
Her name is Consolée. She holds so tightly to the truth that no one suspects her of having been mixed up in the killings. As soon as it is a matter of thinking a bit ahead, she shows more good sense. She doesn’t immediately answer questions; she thinks about them first. She’s a philosopher. She has confidence in her views and gives her children clear-sighted advice.
The genocide teaches us lessons that a young person would gladly do without. We use our minds dealing with the hostility between ethnicities. Dark thoughts form early on. As children, we are forced to confront extraordinary difficulties without a sound, to turn away from life’s provocations. The genocide pushes us to forgo boasting and excess, to limit our desires. It spoils a child’s innocence. Myself, I grew up hearing, “His papa’s a big killer. He’s going to kill, too, because it runs in his veins.” Those words make a child shoulder burdens that are too heavy for him to bear, like hiding out in the brush or working the land though his arms lack the strength. It obliges him to pray for the sins of adults.
When a child begs God to forgive his father, he ruins his faith. He deprives himself of the right, which any other child has, to have an innocent friendship with God. Later in life, he is wary of sharing his thoughts at the cabaret with the young people his age. He watches out for the pitfalls of language. He spends his time in retreat. He doesn’t dare show off in front of the girls. Why not? For fear of a hurtful remark. That’s what deprived me of a university education, an exceptional future for a farmer’s son. I scored good grades at school. Am I jealous of my brother at college? No, because he’s my elder brother. But I scored better grades at school.
In twenty years, if the world hasn’t turned completely upside down, I’ll have a field and maybe five cows to improve its yield. I’ll be running my own tailor’s shop equipped with several Butterfly sewing machines. My ambition is to open it in Nyamata. The town is quiet, a good place to live, and suited to a fancy clientele. Would I move abroad? A well-paying job could lure me away, even if the work were exhausting. Would I leave just to try my luck—to challenge fate? No. I would go to Kigali but only for a job. Kigali is livelier, with more attractive prospects, but the poor get nothing for themselves. It’s frightening.
Otherwise, I’ll be back on the family plot. It grows adequate food, although the life one leads is no picnic. One doesn’t get bored on the hill; there’s no chance of getting bored in one’s native land. In any case, you can’t reproach your parents for giving birth in one place rather than another. Life is meant to be a phenomenal gift, which one accepts wherever it is offered. On the other hand, the drawbacks of growing up on a hill still matter. The world is racing toward spectacular discoveries; universities are even spreading to regional towns. Events from the wide world outside come one on top of the next. Fifteen-year-olds pull news up on the internet; they ride in airplanes. I know I’m not well informed, which is a drawback. New spots for eating fresh crops are springing up on roadsides—that’s frustrating. On the hills, we have to walk kilometers to learn of the least little thing. You don’t know what you don’t know, and not a single neighbor knows enough to teach you. I long for change, but when none comes, its absence eats away at you.
* * *
I HAVE A girlfriend. Her name is Isabelle. We love each other. Our hearts have been entwined, I’d say, since the sweetness of childhood. She isn’t too tall in stature, her skin is neither light nor dark. She’s very pretty in appearance. She walks with an elegant step, and she braids her hair in the latest style. We met at school; we used to help each other review our lessons. We exchange uplifting advice. She likes ideas of all kinds; she goes looking for innovations. We joke, we laugh. She enjoys romances like the ones on television; quirky things make her smile. If she is having a good time, you know it. She’s very sincere. We express our affection in both words and silence. Before, we used to meet every day, even on Sundays; we would go for strolls at the market, where we could hold hands. We exchanged sweet nothings. That doesn’t happen so often anymore because of the distance—she does hair at a salon in Kigali. Now our time together depends on brief visits. We don’t talk about marriage; caution keeps us quiet. Starting a family means first putting the money together to buy a house. It’ll take a while given the tough spot I’m starting from. Will she be willing to wait if suitors start lining up?
Being the son of a former killer is still kind of a pain. Your heart meets suspicion, and that stifles the love and intimacy between people our age.