The Rescuers

“My father was well respected in the community. He was a university lecturer and a choir member. But he was always working, so my mother was primarily the one who raised us. Her name was Consolee. She had this deep sorrow about her. She was an orphan because her parents had been killed in the 1963 genocide. Whenever we asked her to tell the story of our grandparents, she’d just say: ‘Give it time. Soon you’ll see for yourself.’ I tried to help her as much as I could. The eldest daughter acts like a mother in our culture, so I raised my six younger sisters. They thought I was too strict. They were always saying that I behaved like a nun. But they looked up to me too. And they loved me. Occasionally I’d help to keep them out of trouble. When my sister Francine cut her foot on a bottle, she was terrified to tell our mother because she wasn’t supposed to be barefoot. I helped her conceal the crime by cutting a hole in the bottom of her shoe. At night all my sisters would pile into my bed. They’d beg me to tell them stories. And I always did, until they fell asleep, and I’d carry them into their beds one by one. The youngest was a boy. He always took the longest because I had to rock him to sleep. His name was Edmond Richard, but we called him ‘Bebe.’ He was 1.5 years old when the genocide began.”

“When the presidential plane was shot down, people began to gossip about the impending genocide. The streets were empty. Nobody was travelling long distances. We started to hear tales of violence. Relatives from other regions would arrive on our doorstep with horror stories. My father came home one day and told us about a Tutsi janitor at the university. He cleaned clothes for the students. That day he’d been tortured to death with his own iron. I grew very depressed during this period. I wanted to be alone all the time. Some nights my family would sleep in a nearby church for safety, but I’d remain in the house alone. I could feel something terrible in the air. Then on April 21st, the genocide officially came to our town. The militia gathered up Tutsi pedestrians in the city center. They brought them to this stadium. There were 200 people in all. They put them in lines. Then they opened the doors and invited the public to fill the seats. The governor was forced to sit in the front row. He had mixed blood and was against the genocide. After the last person was executed, they brought the governor down and killed him too. His body was paraded through the streets. The killers were screaming into an intercom: ‘We’ve killed the governor! Anything is possible! Now let the hunt begin.’”

“If you are being hunted, this bush is one of the best places to hide. Every genocide survivor in Rwanda can tell you about this type of bush. It’s full of thorns. But if you crawl on your stomach, you can get inside. And if you can get inside— you can finally take a rest. The best hiding places are always the most dangerous ones. Farms were no good. Everyone who tried to hide on a farm was discovered. Toilets were no good either. Because that’s where they dumped the bodies. You wanted to find a place where the killers were afraid to go. The higher the risk-- the less chance of getting caught. Swamps were one of the most popular choices because there were so many ways to die in there. It was easy to get stuck in the mud and drown. Most of us couldn’t swim. Or the mosquitos could give you malaria. Or you could be killed by a single snakebite. But the worst were the crocodiles. I’d say fifty percent of the people who hid in the swamps were eaten by crocodiles. My brother tried hiding in a swamp. And he actually survived all these things. He made it all the way to the border with Burundi. But then a helicopter dropped fuel from above and set his swamp on fire.”

“Our family was a top target because my father was so prominent. So when the genocide officially commenced, the killing squads came straight to our home. One of our neighbors peeled away from the group and ran ahead to warn us. He came down our street, screaming at the top of his lungs: ‘Run away!’ They are coming to kill you!’ My mother immediately dropped to her knees and started to pray. My father yanked her off the ground. He told us all to get out. Everyone ran in different directions. I don’t know why we split up, but there was gunfire and screaming all around. I followed my mother and sisters to a nearby plantation. The baby was with us. We stayed there for four days. But I didn’t feel comfortable. All around I could hear people hunting for us. They were calling our names. We needed to find a new place. I begged my mother and sisters to run away with me, but they were too depressed. They didn’t have the energy to move. So I went alone and returned to our house. I was looking for our father. I crouched down in a nearby bush and waited for him to return. Early in the morning a crowd of people came marching over the hill. My father was in the center. He was so tall that I could see his face. They marched him to this very spot, because he’d asked to be killed at his own home. I could see everything from the bush. I closed my eyes. I said: ‘Please God, please change this man. Please make it a different person.’ But when I opened my eyes—it was still his face. I saw everything. And the whole time I was trying to imagine it wasn’t him. But when I opened my eyes, it was always him. They finished him off with machetes. When they finally left, I walked over to look at his body. He was seconds away from death. But he was still moving his head back and forth.”

“On the day I watched my father die, this is the skirt I was wearing. I was only eighteen years old. I completely lost my will to live. I walked down the street like a zombie. I came to this house. The owner wasn’t home at the time because she was busy looting my family’s home. I tried to hide under her bed, but there was another Tutsi man there. He began yelling at me to leave. ‘It’s too small,’ he said. ‘You’ll get us both killed.’ So I ran outside to jump in the toilet, but the killers were already at the door. They dragged the man out from under the bed and killed him before my eyes. They were about to kill me too, but the team leader said he had ‘other plans for me.’ And everyone listened to him because he had a gun. He started leading me toward a plantation. He told me to comply or he’d kill me. He made me lie down on the ground. He unbuttoned his shirt, lay down next to me, and tried to spread my legs. So I grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as I could. He started trying to punch me. So I squeezed them harder and twisted. He kept writhing around but I didn’t let go until he fainted. Then I began running through the dark. I couldn’t see a thing. I fell into a latrine full of shit, and I remained there all night because I was too tired to move.”

“The next morning, I heard people calling my name and I decided to show myself. I was too exhausted to resist. They told me there had been a general pardon for women and children. And all of us who believed the rumor were taken to this place-- the house of a Tutsi widow. I found my mother and sisters when I arrived. They were still alive, but were so weak and depressed that they could barely move. We stayed in this house for two weeks. There were sixteen of us here. Then one night a soldier came and told us that we were scheduled to be executed. My mother urged my younger sisters to run away, but none of them wanted to leave her side. I begged Francine to escape with me. She was the oldest. We had a chance. But she was too tired. She’d been raped a few days earlier. She told me she was ready for death. Eighty soldiers came to the house that night. They were carrying a list with our names. They began grabbing people. During the struggle, I jumped out the window and hid in a tree. My mother was forty-eight years old. Francine was sixteen. Olivia was fourteen. Noella was eleven. Augtavienne was seven. Claudette was four. And Bebe was almost two. I listened to their screams until I fainted.”

“I woke up to find that I’d been discovered by a soldier. He dragged me to my feet and led me down the street to this alleyway. He pointed his gun at me, and told me to say goodbye to my life. At that point I felt ready to die. But that’s when Mary came running out of her house. She fell at the soldier’s feet and began pleading with him. ‘Leave this girl for me,’ she said. ‘You’ve killed her entire family. Just leave this one for me. God sent her to me.’ She offered the soldier all of her money. She told him: ‘When the war is over, you can come back and take this girl for a wife.’ And that’s what finally convinced him. He handed me over. Mary took me inside and cooked me food. She gave me a change of clothes. She tried to wash my hair, but it was too thick, so she cut it all off. Then she hid me in the bushes behind her house. I stayed there for weeks. Every night Mary would bring me porridge and water. She gave me a little radio so I could follow the news reports. Each day the rebels were getting closer to our town. Mary would encourage me. She’d tell me that it would all be over soon. And that I’d be rescued. She promised me that I’d survive. And Mary was right. I did survive-- because of her.”

“There were twelve people in my family before the genocide. I’m the only one who survived. We recovered eight of the bodies. And we buried the bones we were able to find. I didn’t trust anyone after the genocide. Even when I was rescued by the Rwandan Patriotic Front, I wouldn’t take the food I was given. I thought it might be poisoned. So I’d eat raw food from the fields. I was losing so much weight but I didn’t care. People looked at me like I was a statue. They assumed my emotions were frozen. They knew my family was dead, and didn’t want to ask me questions. So I held it all in for decades. Who could I talk to anyway? In a nation of one million victims, how do I begin to tell my story? There’s been too much tragedy for everyone. Some people lost their arms and legs. Other people were raped and given HIV. What makes my story worth telling? Who am I? Why should I ask for sympathy? And who would I even ask? So I never asked anyone. I’ve never asked anyone for a thing. I don’t want anyone to take care of me. I don’t want people to celebrate my birthday. Or cook for me. Or tell me sweet words. I’m fine with giving love. But I can’t accept it. Because I don’t want anything that can ever be taken away.”

“This is a picture of my father before the genocide. He’s surrounded by his Hutu friends. They’re sharing beer. They’re talking. They always viewed him as a good person. They’d even come to our home and flatter us. They’d tell my sisters and me how good of children we were. And that one day we’d marry their sons. Many of these men would later help kill my family. So how am I supposed to trust anyone? Before the genocide, there were doctors taking care of their patients. Priests were taking care of their followers. Neighbors were taking care of each other. But none of that stopped them from killing each other. And now we’re being asked to forgive. Because our president tells us that reconciliation is the only path forward as a nation. And I know that he’s right. So I’m trying my best. I’m spending time with Hutu people. I even found two Hutu elders to mentor my son. I want him to see that Hutus have good hearts. My son even calls them ‘Grandpa.’ So I understand the need for reconciliation. And I’m trying. Christianity has helped me a great deal. But true forgiveness is impossible. My entire family was murdered. How can I possibly forgive on behalf of those who can no longer speak for themselves? It’s just not possible. But I will certainly pretend. Because I’ve seen where vengeance leads.”

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