How Dare the Sun Rise

by Sandra Uwiringiyimana

  There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to talk about the refugees living in camps all over the globe, displaced by war, separated from their loved ones. I wanted to talk about the massacre of my people at the camp in Gatumba and how it hardly made the news anywhere in the world. If a deadly attack like that had happened in America or Europe, you would never stop hearing about it. It pains me that the world doesn’t know what happened to my tribe. I wanted to talk about the Syrian refugee crisis, and about how some people want to keep the refugees out of this country, fearing they could be terrorists. But they are just people like us, mothers and children, fleeing from conflict. They are running from the very thing we condemn: terrorism.

  But I knew our time was limited, and I needed to talk to the First Lady. I turned to her and gushed, “Mrs. Obama, you’re such an amazing woman. Thank you for standing up for women. Thank you for being a champion for girls’ education.” I was so overwhelmed, I almost cried. Here was this woman in a position of power who looks like me, a woman of such grace. Standing before her and the president, I felt a jolt of pride.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”

  I told her about my life and my activism. And then she and I entered our own little universe, talking about education and girls’ rights around the world. I was supposed to get about two minutes of time, but we must have talked for at least ten minutes. A photographer was getting antsy and asked me to turn toward the camera. President Obama waved him away and said, “Let them finish.” Incredible! The president told a photographer to back off and wait for his wife and me to finish talking.

  Afterward, I saw Bradley Cooper and felt emboldened to walk right up and say hello. I could not let the evening pass without speaking to him. He gave me a friendly hello and asked, “Who are you here with?” I explained about RefugePoint, and he seemed genuinely interested. Then Sasha snapped a picture of the two of us, and Bradley told me, “By the way, you’re gorgeous.” I was swooning.

  I also met Gabourey Sidibe, star of the film Precious, and we had a bonding moment. She looked at me and said, “Oh my God, I love your hair.” I had pulled up my braids and worn them in a twist on top of my head, instead of straightening my hair, as black women often do for a formal event. I felt most comfortable in braids. Gabourey’s father is from Senegal, and she said she loves it when black women wear their hair in traditional African styles. She said she was writing a book about black beauty, hair, and celebrity.

  After the dinner, things became even more like a fairy tale. George Lehner, the RefugePoint board member, walked up to me and said, “I have something for you.” It was a handwritten note, scribbled on a pamphlet, from the First Lady. George had been sitting at her table during the dinner, and she had asked him to give it to me.

  The note said: To Sandra. Keep working hard. Warmly, Michelle Obama.

  I cried. I could not believe any of this was happening.

  We spent the rest of the night party-hopping. Various publications and TV networks were holding after-parties—the Huffington Post, NBC News. I saw more celebrities, including Chrissy Teigen and Laverne Cox. And more photographers snapped shots of me. The next day, pictures of me were splashed across the fashion pages and blogs. The Washington Post said, “In a sea of chiffon and florals, Sandra Uwiringiyimana’s bold black-and-white graphic print by Zero + Maria Cornejo stood out.”

  Things were looking up. But I still had to face my family.

  THIRTY-ONE

  MY SISTER ADELE WAS DUE TO GET MARRIED at the end of May, and I was going to be a bridesmaid. Back home in Africa, the grandparents of her fiancé arranged to give our grandparents sixteen cows in exchange for Adele’s hand in marriage, per tradition. Adele and her fiancé were planning to travel to Rwanda and hold the wedding there, just like Princesse. I was excited about going back to Africa. My parents and siblings would be there too, of course, and I knew it meant the time had come to reestablish ties.

  Rocco drove me home to Rochester in early May. It was a long, somber drive. I was not looking forward to this visit, and my heart felt heavy. “It’s time to make peace,” Rocco told me. “You’ll feel so much better once you do.”

  I walked up to my front door while he drove away. As soon as he left, I felt a pang. I missed him already. I walked in the house, and Mom and I just looked at each other, not speaking. I hated seeing her so upset with me, but I was annoyed with her too. Dad wasn’t there, as he had already gone to Rwanda to help Adele prepare for the wedding. In the house, the air was thick with tension. Mom and I didn’t speak to each other for days.

  My parents lived in a suburban home on the outskirts of Rochester now, a cozy two-story house with a long dining-room table like the one back home in Africa, a big soft maroon couch to sink into, and a large-screen TV for our beloved soccer games. Framed photos from our time in America lined the living room, since the photos from our past in Africa had burned in the camp. On the top shelf of a tall cabinet, Mom kept a jug made from a hollowed-out gourd, much like the ones that she used back in the mountains of South Kivu.

  More people from our tribe had been relocated now, some in Rochester. Friends and relatives came and went all day long in this home, unannounced, just like our home in Congo. Mom had begun working in a nursing home, and Dad, as always, did everything he could to support her. He had never been physically able to return to work after being hit by the van, although he did get some disability support. I know it pained him greatly to see my mom working when he could not. Life had taken so much from him, but never his spirit. He had lived his life with such courage and grace, as had my mom. Being home reminded me of this.

  After several awkward days, one of my uncles, Mutware, came over to help Mom and me talk it all out. Mutware is the generous man who had taken in my shattered family in Burundi after the massacre. He and his family had resettled in America a few years after us. For my mom and me, he became a mediator.

  “I’m going to let one of you express your feelings, and then the other,” he said.

  It was profoundly uncomfortable for Mom and me to sit down together. There was a tsunami of emotion on both ends. I knew I hadn’t explained my feelings when I had fled from college, but I didn’t know how to tell her about the flashbacks and my failing grades. I just didn’t think she would understand. She had always been so tenacious, no matter what life threw at her. And in my culture, it was highly unusual for parents and children to discuss their feelings, or for anyone to talk about their feelings at all. People didn’t express their pain in this way. If people were having problems, they might say to pray for them, and leave it at that. Meanwhile, my mom had made assumptions about me and my life, and that had hurt me, pushing me away. We had never been further apart.

  It was also the first time I had rebelled against my parents. It was the only time I had really stood up to them, and it hurt them, even though that had not been my intention. I never wanted to disobey them or cause them distress.

  My mom spoke first. She listed all the ways I had messed up, starting with the way I had left school and had barely kept in touch. “How could you do that to me?” she asked. “How could you just go? If you were doing poorly in school, whatever was going on, you didn’t feel like you could come to your mother and talk about it? Everyone goes through things. You don’t run away.” It went on for a long time.

  And then it was my turn. I said, “Mom, I’m not trying to hurt you.” And I finally told her everything. I told her about the flashbacks. I explained how I struggled with the fact that I had survived the massacre and Deborah had not. I said that sometimes I blamed myself for her death, and I felt that my parents blamed me for her death. I told her how it disturbed me when she referred to me as the youngest in the family, as if Deborah had not existed. And I told her it bothered me how none of us ever talked about Deborah. The truth came tumbling out. I said things I had never said to her before.

  I wasn’t expecting Mom to understand or agree with everything I said,
but I was determined to tell her. I needed to stand my ground, to be myself, whether my parents could relate to where I was coming from or not. My time in Brooklyn had become a defining moment for me. I was becoming my own person—a different person from the one my parents had expected me to be. But at the same time, my parents were the ones who had instilled the confidence in me to be myself. I pointed this out to my mom. I also told her that I knew American culture terrified her because she was not familiar with it. She had not grown up with it. I told her that I understood this.

  “Everything will be okay,” I assured her. “I would never abandon my principles or ideals.” I explained that I was learning to see the world through a broader lens.

  “I just want to live my life,” I said.

  My mom listened. We had never spoken so intimately.

  “When are you going back to college?” she asked.

  Education meant so much to her, and she didn’t want me to blow up the opportunities that she had worked hard to provide for me. She and my dad had made so many sacrifices for their children. I understood that. I told her I was looking into different schools, including one in New York City called Mercy College. She wanted me to go back to Houghton College, which was much closer to Rochester. She didn’t like the idea of my living in the city. But I had fallen in love with the city—its creative energy, its mix of diverse cultures. I was liberated there, surrounded by people from all over the planet. There’s a certain sense of camaraderie in the city, a feeling that we’re all in it together, no matter how different we might be.

  Mom also asked about Rocco, as I knew she would. I told her he’s a great guy, a caring and supportive soul who had spurred me to reunite with my family. I explained how I had met him and assured her that I was not living with him, as she had assumed. She shook her head and said, “You are not going to marry him.”

  “Mom, I’m not getting married.”

  “Then what are you doing?” she asked. Dating was not part of her life experience.

  “Mom,” I implored, “I don’t think it’s fair for you to expect me to live within these cultural expectations. I’m not trying to spite you. But we live in America now. I don’t want to live my life based on where I came from. I don’t want to be defined by a race, a culture, a tribe.”

  I explained that I deeply love and respect my tribe and my culture. I told her, “If I marry someone from my culture, that would be awesome. But if I marry someone from outside my culture, that would be awesome too.”

  She stared at me intently. She could see that I was not going to budge. Even if we did not agree with each other on that day, we began to get to know each other on a new level. We knew we had only just begun talking.

  THIRTY-TWO

  IN LATE MAY, MY PARENTS, SIBLINGS, AND I all came together in Rwanda for Adele’s wedding. It was the first time I had seen my father since I had left college amid my breakdown, and I was nervous. But when our eyes met, I knew everything would be fine. He just looked happy to see me. When my dad is in Africa, he looks peaceful, restored. Africa is his true home. And I always knew that I had his support, no matter what. We had been through so much together, my dad and me. On that visit, my family and I relaxed and shared some laughs. My siblings teased me about “finding myself.”

  “You’re so Americanized,” they said. “You’re finding yourself? When did you lose yourself?”

  It was a joyous time as we prepared for Adele’s wedding. We went on a safari for the first time, like tourists. The hot African sun felt good on my skin after the long winter in New York, and we gawked at hippos, rhinos, giraffes, and zebras. For the wedding, Princesse and I were bridesmaids and wore gorgeous rose-colored gowns. Adele was married on a hilltop, with a view of Kigali stretching out below, a stunning backdrop of red roofs and green hills. I stayed in Rwanda for three months, and I loved it.

  After I returned home, something beautiful happened: Mom and I began to grow closer than we had ever been. Gradually, we started talking more, confiding in each other and expressing ourselves in ways we never had. She opened up to me, talking about her feelings and worries—something she had not done in the past. Mom had always been the strong and stoic one, carrying the family on her shoulders. She began to realize that it’s okay to express yourself. It doesn’t mean you’re weak.

  It’s a realization that helped me in my journey as well. I felt so much better when I let my feelings out, instead of trying to keep them bottled up. It’s exhausting when you think that you’re not entitled to your emotions. I began talking to my mom more about my problems and issues too, and she listened. She gave me a piece of advice that I have come to love: “Be righteous and faithful when no one is watching.” I like that message a lot. No matter what challenges you face in life, you can focus on being a good person. It’s how my mom always lived her own life, with such dignity and faith in God.

  As for my own feelings about God, they continue to evolve. I find it comforting to pray, and to put my faith in him. But I have many questions still. Our relationship remains a work in progress.

  After I made up with my parents, my brothers and sisters began to open up to me in new ways as well, talking about their challenges and concerns. This was a new development for all of us. My siblings had seen me at my worst, and they had seen how I felt better when I expressed myself honestly and openly. As it turned out, my breakdown had become a breakthrough for my family. While it was a very difficult experience for me to be at odds with my family for all those months, I’m glad I went off on my own to figure things out for myself.

  I spent the summer in Rochester with my parents. I applied and was accepted to Mercy College in New York City for the fall. I planned to study international relations. I looked forward to moving ahead with my life and my studies in the city. I talked to my various human rights and refugee groups about ways I could get more involved in the future. Visiting the refugee camp in Rwanda with my sisters had helped me feel more driven than ever to help give forgotten people a voice.

  Around this time, another gratifying thing happened too. Some of the men from my tribe began to warm up to me. Instead of being concerned that a young woman was speaking for the community, they saw that I was developing a voice that could help people understand our experience. Some of the men approached me personally, saying, “Hey, congratulations. We are so proud of you.” An uncle told me that he wished more men in the community would encourage their daughters to be like me. It meant so much to hear it.

  As I mended ties with my family and prepared for college, Rocco and I continued to talk, but the distance began to take its toll. Over the summer months spent apart from each other, we drifted. We had met at just the right time for both of us—a time when we were lost, struggling to figure out our lives. Our relationship had been an escape from reality, a little utopia. But now, as we were stepping back into reality and moving forward with our lives, it became difficult to focus on the relationship. We had trouble seeing a future together. I wanted to get my life back on track, and he wanted to do the same. One day, we had a deep, heart-wrenching conversation, and decided that our relationship had run its course.

  I knew it was right for us to move on. Still, I couldn’t help but feel devastated. I cried for days. He had meant so much to me at such an important time in my life. It pained me to think he would fade into my past. I also knew that my family would have had a hard time accepting him because he was not from my culture, and there would have been a lot of anxiety for everyone. But that’s not why we broke up. And I don’t blame my parents for their views. They want the best for me, and the way they see it, a man from my tribe would be best for me. It’s how they grew up, and it’s what they know.

  I, however, have come to realize that I want to live my life with my heart and mind open to other people, other cultures, other tribes. I don’t want to stop myself from developing relationships with people because of their race or culture or where they come from. I want to appreciate people for who they are, not for
the color of their skin. I want to be inclusive.

  I know now that I want to live freely, without separating myself from others, without feeling that I need to pick a side, to stick to my own. After all, if people remain divided and closed off from different cultures, it can lead to the kind of extreme thinking that took Deborah’s life. Back then, my people were seen as different—that is why we were targeted. We looked different. We sounded different. And so people wanted to wipe us out with their machetes and guns.

  What kind of justice would it be for Deborah if I embraced the very notions of division that killed her? My life has been a journey to come to this realization. As a child, I witnessed the unthinkable: I saw my sister murdered before my eyes because of discrimination and hate. But I have learned that if we want to change the world, we can’t harden our hearts and shut ourselves off from other cultures. We must open up our hearts. We must not fall prey to the kind of thinking that separates us. Yes, you can appreciate your history and your culture. You can embrace it. But you can embrace other cultures too. And, yes, you can be angry and seek justice when you are attacked. I want the killers who targeted my people to face justice. But going forward, I don’t want to spread the seeds of separation. I want to open myself to people of all races, cultures, and faiths.

  Ultimately, it is the lesson Deborah has taught me. This book is for her. If I could sit down with her today, this is the story I would tell her. Deborah is with me still, and always will be. Sometimes at night, I talk with her in my dreams.

  When I see her there, she is always six years old.

  PHOTO INSERT