SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Claudine Kayitesi, Tutsi survivor
This red dress I’m wearing, I chose it myself. My mama took me to the boutique called Mama Codé, where the lady showed off all the dresses to us. It was a big thing. I picked the red one, Mama approved, and afterward Papa admired my choice. We all had a bit of fun. Sometimes people tease me that I am a beautiful girl. That makes me happy. It’s a good sign. Can being pleasing bring me luck? I think so, anyway.
My name is Nadine Umutesi; I don’t know what it means. I am seventeen years old, the oldest child, with three brothers, and no sister for the moment. As a little girl, I lived with my mama, Claudine, just the two of us. She would bring me with her to our field, and while she raised the hoe I would entertain myself on a mat spread out in the shadow of a tree. When I was older, I played with the other children brought to the fields like me. I remember Berthe and her children. Together we formed a family where no male voice could be heard. Later on, Mama married Papa. He showed himself to be kind, like a papa, and we loved each other like a family. My childhood went by happily because I wasn’t clever enough yet to understand that pitfalls were lurking around me.
My papa’s name is Damascène; he works at the Ntarama Health Center. My mama farms our plot of land beside the asphalt road. I don’t know where I was born. It was in Congo, anyway, in the Masisi region, where, people tell me, the famous Karisimbi volcano rumbles. That’s where my mama was dragged off to. When she returned from Congo, I lived my youngest years near the Kanzenze bus stop, in the adobe house at the top of the way—you know, where your friend took the photos. In 2003, we left to live here in the mudugudu, which put us closer to our plot. That’s a good thing, although it is farther from where I go to school, at Nelson Mandela. I am in my second year of secondary school.
* * *
IT ALL STARTED in primary school. When the teachers would ask for my father’s name, I would answer, Damascène Bizima. There was one teacher who contradicted me in front of the class; he claimed that I was a liar. Then a second one. The two of them said he wasn’t my real papa. They were show-offs, of course, who wanted to be mean. They enjoyed making the students laugh and bringing chaos to our family. Among us, it’s a custom to intimidate the unlucky ones.
I put up with the taunts because there were no worries, no danger at home. I didn’t notice anything abnormal in my parents. They got on well, and they seemed happy with their daughter. I was looked after with loving care. Then one day, an ill-boding neighbor stopped me at our gate. He told me why my papa wasn’t the real one. It was an extraordinary surprise. I had always looked on Damascène as my papa regardless of the rumors. I was very confused.
I mustered the courage to ask my mother for the truth. In her sweetest voice, she spoke into my eyes. She told me that during the genocide, women were sometimes made pregnant by savage men. She herself was violated by an interahamwe who forced her to follow him all the way to Congo. He made her his servant. That’s how I was born. Ever since I found out, I feel caught in a kind of uneasiness; I feel trapped by a sense of something like disgust. But I accepted the news as it was, because Papa continued to provide me with a papa’s love, as if he hadn’t heard a thing. I kept my composure, and I continue to see him as my true papa.
Before the revelation, I was already aware of the genocide through radio programs. It was during the Week of Mourning. The neighbors discussed it, especially the ones getting on in age. They recalled what had happened to them. I heard how Tutsis had been cut by Hutus. They were so racked with hunger that they ate raw cassava even though they knew it was bad for their stomach. A lady described how she became so bloated from eating it that she couldn’t move from under the papyrus for three days. They prayed for rain to fall hard and fast because then the killers would ignore them and turn instead to looting houses—especially the sheet metal roofs they were so greedy for. The neighbors would share their memories once a year, which isn’t so much.
The genocide was something we avoided at home, except maybe when my back was turned. In class, there were no quarrels between kids. I was too naive to understand completely. I didn’t suspect a thing. It was after the revelation that I asked to be told. One night the family was together—Papa, Mama, and I—and Mama explained the killings and everything that happened in detail. I was twelve years old. She revealed what she had seen personally; she described her mama sliced with a machete. They numbered seven in her family; two of them survived. I don’t know much about my lost uncles and aunts.
Above all, Claudine offered me her memories of my grandmother. She seemed a kindly woman, and Claudine and the other children loved her dearly. She was never mean; she looked upon her offspring and neighbors with caring eyes. She knew fairy tales, and she pushed her children in school despite the poverty they endured. In Damascène’s family, his papa and mama were cut in Kanzenze. His whole family died around there. I don’t know how—I’m not sure of the details because the family was so large.
I have peered far into the darkness of the genocide. I have continued to ask question after question either about Claudine or about her family. About the origin of the killings, about how people hid in the papyrus before the sun came out, how they crept through the water surrounded by mosquitoes, eating raw food when they gathered at night, and how they managed to survive while most others were cut. I have been to the Ntarama memorial, although I am not at all interested in going into the marshes. Basically, I don’t want to know things that are too tangible. Eating with muddy hands, sleeping in filth, living in clothes torn off by thorns—all of that upsets me. I am keener to learn about Congo because the criminals brought my mama there. I crave specifics. I look forward to taking a trip to Congo later on. I would like to examine the landscape of the place where I took my first breath. That’s understandable, right?
My papa gives his full support to what my mama says, but she alone explains the genocide. When she talks, I don’t see any trouble on her face. I think she conceals it. She speaks in her beautiful voice, which you know because you ask her so many questions you jot down in your notebooks. She sidesteps the everyday details of life in Congo, but otherwise she speaks without zigzags. When she’s vague in a description, I ask her to clarify. I avoid interrupting her with questions that might make her suffer. I know she has been hurt. Hearing the truth seems less essential than stifling certain dreadful secrets. It helps me adjust to the obstacles in my life.
* * *
I GET UP at six o’clock, I wash, and I go down to the roadside. If no kindhearted driver gives me a lift to the bus stop, I call a bike-taxi on my mobile, which is a three-hundred-franc ride. I’m back home at 3:30 in the afternoon.
I enjoy myself at school, even if we don’t have anything to eat for lunch. I get grades that bode well for my passing the national exam later on. I am refining my skills on the computer—my school has fourteen of them. We learn word processing, we listen to music, we check out websites, we try to find incredible stories to surprise ourselves with. Myself, I steer clear of the worst of them. I look at Facebook, although not very much. In class, you can be punished for it. I have to use a friend’s smartphone to open my page. I play soccer on a really excellent team, with practices three times a week. On defense is where I earn the accolades. The number five jersey brings out my best—or the number six, in the midfield, when the coaches ask me to, because I can handle the running and love to launch attacks like the Dutch. I see friends on the field and we find times to chitchat.
Once back home, I eat immediately. There’s no noon lunch, as I said. Afterward, I prepare the evening food and study for school. I see my close friends before the evening meal. We talk a lot, we joke and tease each other; laughing like girls never gets old. Sometimes we share class notes and homework. I nod off at nine o’clock. On the weekends, I prepare the morning tea and do the housecleaning. Afterward, it’s up to me to make the noon and evening meals alongside Mama. I don’t work on the parcel, not even spading. I lend a hand with weeding only after unexpected rains. Claudine keeps me from the fatigue of farming. She insists that I not spoil my strength in the field. Only when the cowherd is away will I mind a cow and its calf with a staff in the pastures, or sometimes I bring grass to the cowshed. It isn’t very far.
I don’t know a thing about movies. I haven’t been to the cinema. Where would I go? In Kanzenze there is no movie theater, and in Nyamata there are only films with kung fu fights and the like. When I travel to Kigali for vacations, I visit an aunt but we never go to places that charge admission. Neighbors invite me to watch television, especially during vacations. We applaud the petty lovers’ squabbles just like at the theater. My very favorite thing is the Rwandan national team’s games.
I have a sweetheart. We get along well. We take long aimless walks. We don’t go down to Nyamata very often because getting our parents’ permission is complicated. I’m waiting for my twentieth birthday before I disobey. I know how to dance until I’m so exhausted my head spins. Dancing is my passion. In the school’s troupe we dance to traditional folk songs. The dance is called umushagiriro; we set the tempo by stamping our feet on the ground. At church we dance to Negro spirituals, in ecstasy, so to speak. It’s a blast. I sing and dance very prettily. People admire me, and I am always in demand.
I was fifteen years old when I became very religious. I feel so good at church. I go on Monday and Wednesday evenings and Saturdays and Sundays during the day. We sing and we pray. I share in the cleaning duties, I dance. It makes me happy to go to church. Although my parents are religious, I don’t go to please them. Our neighbors influenced our choice of parish. I devote myself to prayer and meet a lot of acquaintances there.
I have friends from both ethnicities, of course. At church, it’s essential, and at school, too. I don’t ever discuss the genocide with young people from the other ethnicity. I talk about different things, not about that. Reticence wins out. I think that young people are often upset by what they hear in their families or by the films they see. And there are sometimes run-ins at school. An orphan might get angry and say something nasty to a Hutu schoolmate, for example: “Get lost, we’ve got no use for you anymore.” The Hutu child complains, says he’s insulted, and won’t let it go. Everyone gathers around, tempers flare, and soon they’re grabbing at each other’s collars.
That’s less common than it used to be. Now the girls tend to be more aggressive than the boys when the killings come up. They don’t step aside; they strike with their words. I’m not sure why. Maybe they see themselves as more vulnerable, so they are quicker to vent what they feel deep down inside. The safest thing is to keep out of it. I am wary of the turmoil and trauma that arise in groups of young people; the yelling frightens me. I prefer not to get involved. In Hutu families they talk about things in their own way, although I couldn’t say how exactly, because I don’t know young Hutus’ thoughts. I don’t get close to their innermost feelings.
I have a friend I confide in when my heart is heavy. She is a close friend I share the walk to school with. Her name is Olive. She is the same age as me and lives in the lane overlooking our mudugudu. We are in the same situation: she, too, was born of a brutal seed. She came to tell me herself when she heard the rumors about me. It was a natural conversation, so to speak. We often talk over things because we understand each other. We both crave more distractions. We would love to listen to music with other young people in Nyamata. It would cheer us up. The only chances for amusement in Kanzenze are the soccer ball and traditional dance. My mama and I have discussed it, so now she tolerates my going out more often.
* * *
I SOMETIMES THINK about the papa who gave me life by causing my mama such terrible suffering. I would still like to meet him, though. First, no one can change what happened during those months of killing. Second, my Christian faith tempers the bad feelings I have toward him. Would I forgive him? Does a daughter forgive the man who gave her life? Would I try to understand him? I don’t know if I would ask him questions. If I saw him, I don’t know … I think I would greet him the way a daughter greets her father. I would ask him where he lives, in which region, his job. I would want to know why he waited so long to make himself known, whether he was imprisoned like so many others of his kind. For my part, we would have to avoid talking about Claudine and about their past. Basically, I don’t know. Maybe no words would come to my lips, only trembling.
The more we dwell on all that, the heavier the pain of our past becomes. I’m not looking to forget my history or leave it behind, just don’t bug me about it anymore! Just forget about me! I even wish they’d stop talking about all those things on the radio and TV. During the Week of Mourning—silence. I understand the survivors who can’t accept keeping quiet. Me, I can. I yearn for silence. Survivors like to share their intimate feelings with other survivors, which is understandable. They pour out their sorrows, but me, no. Do I relieve mine by divulging the secret of my birth? My history isn’t like other people’s. When they discuss the killings and show pictures, it’s as if they were passing a blade across a deep inner wound. Still, I don’t at all feel reluctant to talk to you. There’s nothing risky about a muzungu’s book, because not everyone reads it.1 The people who buy it don’t blabber on saying nasty things—or do they? On the other hand, repeating something so abnormal for the neighbors’ ears, that would be harmful. All these thoughts quicken the sadness of the girl who is revealing them to you, and I get mixed up.
Deep down, I feel trapped, as I said. Sometimes I wish I could hide from the words that tell my story so I could keep the sadness away. I don’t want this melancholy. I don’t want to hear another word. What happened sullies me with shame. I don’t want to see anything anymore in those mocking looks. But instead I sometimes see only my mama dragged by force through the depths of distress. She told me about the marshes, her misfortune in Congo. She answered my questions, even the ones that must have tortured her. So much gratitude and goodness bring tears to my eyes. I want to show her, and to tell everyone. That’s why I don’t know which to choose: to speak or to keep silent about my situation.