But how, beneath the acacias and the brush, to make out the houses of those who once lived there, whose very memory the killers tried to erase: Musonera, Rugema, Musoni, Muganga, Costasia, Karam-age, and the faces of all their children, which haunt my memory alone?
With Gashumba’s house began the neighborhood of the deportees from Butare. On the left, leading up to the primary school, there were six houses: they belonged to Gashumba, Ruhaya, Kiguru, Ruhurura, Harukwandiye, and Rugereka, who was actually from Byumba. No one lived across the road from them. They’d all fled to Burundi in 1963.
Ruhaya was a Hutu who’d faithfully followed his chief into exile. He was treated with particular cruelty by the soldiers, even more than we were. When they made everyone line up along the dirt road, Ruhaya protested that he was a Hutu and started back to his work. The soldiers then asked what he was doing among the Tutsis, and they laughed as they beat him.
Ruhurura moved into our first house after we left it. He was a former chief who’d fallen into the deepest poverty. His first wife had left him and gone off to Kigali. He then lived with a simple peasant woman, relying on her to do the farming, but their land went untended, and the house was disturbingly run-down. We all felt sorry for their children: little skeletons, half-eaten by chigoe fleas.
Just by the school lived Kagango, the father of Régis, who was killed at the Kabgayi seminary in 1973. Kagango was an artist and a healer. He sculpted canes. People came from far away to buy them. He didn’t need to farm, particularly because along with his talents as a sculptor he had a more mysterious gift: with a mere touch of his fingers, he could heal sprains and twisted ankles. We looked with fascination at his hands, whose palms were strangely white, and seemed to be covered with scales, like a lizard.
There’s no school in Gitwe nowadays, of course, since there are no children, and the iminazi, the tall trees that so generously dropped their fruit on our slates, have all disappeared.
Nor is there any trace of the village’s last twelve houses, two facing rows of six. I call out to a little boy herding goats, who has appeared out of nowhere. He might be eight or nine years old. His goats are feeding on the sparse bramble bushes, and I say to him, “Do you know that there used to be children right there where your goats are eating?” Terrified, the child flees with his herd in a little cloud of dust. This evening he’ll say to his mother, “Mama, I met a crazy woman on the old road.” And his mother will be angry and tell him, “Never go there again. That’s the land of the dead.” And meanwhile I recite the names of all those who have no one left to mourn them. I cry out their names – to whom? for whom?
Théodore, the teacher.
Rutabana, whose rice I so loved.
Rukorera, the man who had cows. He and his family were pagans, and the children didn’t go to school. But he was envied: he had cows, and many sons. In exchange for a little milk, Rukorera could always find volunteers to work in his fields. His cows had the right to graze anywhere they liked. In return, he gave away manure to fertilize the fields or warm cow urine to treat the children’s intestinal worms.
Buregeya, who thought himself handsome, and who’d married Mariya, universally considered one of the village’s most beautiful girls.
Tadeyo Nshimiyimana, who was greatly respected, as he was a fifth-grade teacher at the big school in Nyamata.
His mother Yosefa, whose sons had all gone off to study. One of them, Matayo, had come back to Nyamata. He used to wander the bush to study the birds. He wrote down their songs in a notebook. He only spoke to himself, always in French or Latin. Everyone made fun of him, they called him the mad scientist, but they were also a little afraid of him.
Édouard Sebucocera, a close friend of my father; it was to them that the people from Butare turned when there were serious decisions to be made.
And then François Seburyumunyu, Kabarari, and his two brothers Mujinja and Karara, and Inyansi, the only adult deported in 1960 who was still living.
In the next house lived Sekimonyo, the beekeeper. He was always looking for trees for his hives. People said the good Lord had made him for that trade, because he was so tall he could easily reach the highest branches.
The last one on the row, Maguge’s house, sat at the edge of the forest that separated Gitwe from Gitagata. His wife was named Kiragi, which means “the deaf woman,” and she was indeed deaf and dumb. A mystery hung over the death of his first wife. All of that made Maguge a disturbing figure, particularly because he always wore a big black hat that frightened the children. They called him Kiroko, the ogre.
Gihanga, considered lucky because one of his daughters, Emma Mariya, had married Bahima, a rich merchant in Nyamata. She’d raised some ten children. They were all killed, like her.
Between Gitwe and Gitagata there was a little stretch of brush, now no different from the places people once lived. But as soon as the dirt road begins to descend toward the swampy lowland that was once Lake Cyohoha North – for the lake too has disappeared – I know we’re on Pétronille’s grounds: this is Gitagata. I look for the big fig tree that marked the entrance to the village: yes, it’s still there, but it’s lost all its leaves, it’s a towering skeleton of dead wood, yet another. The road runs along tall, dark-green hedges, like giant funeral hangings: the old enclosures’ euphorbia plants, now wild and overgrown. Behind them is a tangle of brambles, as if no human being had ever ventured that far. And yet men, women, and children once lived in this place, even if the right to live was denied them, even if no effort was spared to erase every trace of their existence. And when I close my eyes, what I see is always the same night, a night in the dry season, a night lit by the full moon. The women are busy around the three stones of the hearth. Sitting cross-legged on either side of the road, the men are gravely talking and passing around calabashes of sorghum or banana beer. Little boys are playing with a banana-leaf ball in the road; others are racing after the old bicycle wheels they use as hoops, giggling wildly. The girls have swept the yard and the road, and now they’re singing and dancing. And now the women are studying the moon, whose illuminated face, they believe, reveals the future. In my memories, that enormous moon is always there, hanging over the village to pour out its pale blue light.
In the bright night of my memory, they’re all there.
Sindabye, one of whose daughters, Valérie, was at the School of Social Work in Butare, in the auxiliary program.
Rwahinyuza: he had a son, Claudiyani, who became a shopkeeper in Nyamata. He was the only one who owned a car. He did favors for everyone. People called on him to transport the sick.
Tito’s widow Felicita, who had no choice but to farm all alone to feed the two children she was left with. But everyone in Gitwe and Gitagata gave her their help. She was the village widow.
Donati, Mariya’s brother. He worked at the Karama Agricultural Institute, and came to Gitagata only to liven up wedding parties, because he was the best dancer. He was considered as good-looking as his sister, and he himself was convinced it was true.
And then there were two girls who lived alone with their invalid mother: Bwanakeye and Runura, who had a limp. They had no way to defend themselves from the young men of the Party, who made playthings of them.
So many others vie for space in my memories: Suzanne, the aged Nyiragasheshe, Athanase, Gashugi, Theresa, Godeliva, Nteri’s widow, Nyirarwenga, Siridiyo …
In the bush, now brown with the dry season, what was once Antoine’s yard is easy to make out. It’s the only one with big trees whose leaves are still green, looking strangely exotic amid the thorny undergrowth. He planted them with the seeds he brought home from the Karama Agricultural Institute. He loved them. He took special care of them. I kneel at their feet. I weep at the feet of the tall trees.
When I think of Antoine, what I feel is not only grief. I feel anger rising up in me. Antoine, the sacrificed. Who sacrificed himself for our sake. He filled the role of the oldest brother, the guardian of the family. Judith had gone away long before. I
never saw her at home. When we were sent to Nyamata, he was alone. André very soon went back to school in Zaza. My father’s time was taken up by the refugee camp’s day-to-day problems: people came to him for help negotiating with the authorities or settling conflicts, so he couldn’t always be there for the family. There was no one but Antoine to help out my mother day to day. I was only four years old, and Julienne just a few months. My mother was pregnant with Jeanne.
In Gitwe, he was the one who cleared the brush so my mother could farm. As I’ve said, he was the one who went to fetch water, so rare in Bugesera, and he was the one who carried us on his back to the infirmary when we were sick. Did he ever once think of himself? Did he ever think of living his own life, just a little? My mother had to take it upon herself to find him a wife, Jeanne, in Cyugaro, and he set up house as close by my parents’ as he could, so he could watch over us. Every day he stopped by to be sure we were well. Antoine was truly alone. In order to earn some money for us, my father had found work in Ngenda with Rutanga, one of Ruvebana’s friends, Ruvebana who ran the infirmary. Ngenda was far away, and my father came home only on Sundays. During the week, then, Antoine was the head of the family.
When my father stopped working outside the house, it was Antoine who took over for him. He was hired as a gardener at the Karama Agricultural Institute. At that point, André and Alexia were in secondary school. He earned most of the money that went to our tuition.
My mother was completely dependent on Antoine. He had to do everything. He had a gift for all things manual. He’d taught himself carpentry and furniture-making; people ordered beds from him, he assembled posts and beams for houses. But my mother was proud of Antoine’s family above all: nine children, six of them boys. She who had given birth to five girls and only two boys, she believed that thanks to Antoine the future of the family name was guaranteed. Six boys could never all disappear, it was inconceivable. There would surely be a few of them left.
My mother was wrong. Antoine, his wife Jeanne, his nine children, they were all killed. And nothing is left of them, not so much as a name carved into a cross, on a grave. And I walk alone through the tangled thicket that was once their home. And anger wells up in me. Why should that life have been ruined for us? Why should that life have been sacrificed in vain? Antoine, Jeanne, the nine children, nothing left.
I weep in the shadow of the tall trees.
The pickup sets off again, and the thickets go by, a little denser as we drive downhill toward the swamps where the lake used to be. I believe I can see shadows hovering in the bright dry-season haze, and among them I’m afraid I might glimpse the faces my memory is calling up.
The face, for example, of Apollinaire Rukema, the deacon who taught catechism after school. He never went out without his Bible under his arm. He and his wife Consessa asked me to be their daughter Jacqueline’s godmother. That was in 1973. The ceremony was planned for July. I don’t know who took my place.
Across from him lived his brother Haguma, universally respected since he cooked for a white man in Karama. When he married Dafroza, my sister Alexia’s godmother, I joined in the evening parties young women traditionally throw for the bride-to-be. Those parties are forbidden to boys, naturally, but also to little girls. I was only nine, but my cousin Mukantwari managed to sneak me in. The parties were held at the girl’s parents’ house. As soon as they’ve put away the last cookpot, the young women hurry to the fiancée’s. The parents aren’t allowed to stay, but they’ve taken care to set out a few jugs of beer, to keep the party lively. The young women have a wonderful time – they sing, they dance, they tell stories – but the bride has to keep to her bed, weeping and wailing. As the party goes on, her sobs and moans become more and more mournful, until finally the father appears and, brandishing a big stick, pretends to drive out the crowd of young women, who run away, laughing.
This comedy will go on for two weeks, and each evening everyone plays their roles with perfect conviction.
There was also Gakwaya. His wife was named Skolastika, like me. He’d been a chief in Ruhengeri. He thought it beneath his dignity to farm, and he nobly endured hunger in the impeccable drapery of his white pagne. We could hear him coming from far away thanks to his creaking old shoes; their badly worn soles gave him a limp. But he refused to wear the sandals all the other refugees made for themselves from old tires. His shoes’ shredded leather was all he had left of his former splendor.
Kabugu, too, was of very high birth – he was an Umuhindiro, from the inner circle of kings – but he’d fared better. He’d married one of his daughters to a white man, and from that marriage he’d got a fine house, and better yet a bicycle, which seemed tiny when the very tall Kabugu straddled it.
Then came Bernard, who worked as a cook in Karama, like Haguma. He’d adopted his employers’ habits: to the amazement of all, he drank tea every morning, which earned him a place among the great men of Gitagata in spite of his small stature. He’d suffered a terrible loss. His three oldest daughters had died in the same year of a mysterious illness. For a long time, his wife Joséphine bore no other children. Nobody wanted to spend too much time with them. Later, she gave birth to many more children. Relieved, everyone observed that they were in good health. People took to visiting Joséphine again.
Somewhere around here, too, must be the house of Berkimasse, the only tailor in Gitwe and Gitagata. Everyone admired him. We little girls used to hang around his sewing machine. Sometimes, but not often, he would give us a few scraps of fabric to dress our corn- or banana-leaf dolls. Ordering clothes from him was an almost unthinkable luxury, because he refused to accept beans or bananas as payment. He only wanted money. It should be said, all the same, that he was generous with credit, especially for school uniforms: a blue dress for the girls, a khaki shirt and shorts for the boys.
The tailor’s sister-in-law Sisiliya had something all the children coveted in her yard. She’d planted two sugar canes. That was a rarity at the time. We all dreamed of chewing the sweet stalks. We were prepared to do her any favor she asked if it would earn us a little piece of cane. Sometimes, on the way to school, we stood for many minutes gazing on the sugar canes, like little Europeans before a candy shop. Sisiliya lived alone with her three children. Her husband had gone to Burundi.
Then there was Patrice. His daughter Patricia sold tomatoes and palm oil at the market. She kept some of the money to buy second-hand clothes. All the girls were jealous of her.
And here, I believe, lived Diyonisi. His wife Raheri’s breasts came down almost to her thighs; we called them imivungavunga, from the name of a long spongy pod, the fruit of a tree whose name I don’t know. His daughter Jacqueline was a classmate of mine, a real friend. The poor thing struggled hard to learn her lessons, but she didn’t pass the national exam. She stayed in the village. She’s one of the few survivors from Gitagata.
And then Nastasiya, Gakwaya, and Suzanne. Her daughter Colomba talked as loudly as a man. But of course, after her father left for Burundi, she had to become the head of her family …
And I must also speak of Sematama, the shame of the village. A high-born Tutsi, he’d abandoned his first wife, the beautiful Stéphanie, and lived with a Hutu woman, Kankera, who’d given him many sons. Those boys were little hoodlums. They didn’t go to school, and everyone was shocked by their crude language. And then there was the affair of the stolen cows. Sematama teamed up with some Batwa to steal his neighbor Kabugu’s cows! They spent a whole night tramping through the bush in search of a hiding place for the purloined cows. At dawn, early risers found Sematama and his gang of Batwa driving Kabugu’s cows along before them. Sematama was pitifully dragging himself along; his legs were badly swollen. They went to tell Kabugu, who, with the whole village helping, captured Sematama and one of his accomplices. They tied the thieves to a tree in Kabugu’s yard. It was a beautiful sight, something no one wanted to miss: the noble Sematama tied up with the Batwa! The children danced around the tree, and the whole village walked
by, spitting on the culprits’ feet. Then the punishment was decided on. To make amends, Sematama offered to invite all of Gitagata to come and drink beer at his house, as much beer as at a wedding. Everyone agreed to share the beer of reconciliation, and Sematama regained at least a little of his respectability.
And who will remember Joséphine Kabanene, the most elegant girl in the village, but also the proudest? When she agreed to dance at a wedding, people came running from far away to watch her shake her beautiful undulating hair. They applauded when she lifted her pretty arms to evoke an inyambo cow’s perfect horns. Joséphine did her best to barricade herself in against the young men of the Parmehutu, but more than anything I believe her mother, who sold Primus, bought her daughter’s safety with a few bottles of beer. In Bugesera, beer was rarer than pretty girls. The beautiful Kabanene, for her part, refused every marriage proposal, believing that no dowry could be worthy of her beauty. Nonetheless, she ended up marrying a rich shopkeeper from Kigali, who offered the right price.
But I wouldn’t want to forget Rutetereza, an albino, more or less thought of as the village idiot. He lived alone with his bedridden grandparents. He was the nicest, most helpful boy I ever knew. Not only did he look after his grandmother, but he was always ready to help out all the old ladies of Gitagata. He fetched their water and wood. He never rested, never complained. He always wore a big smile. My mother was very fond of Rutetereza, she thought of herself as something like his godmother …
The truck has stopped. To the left of the road, still the same tangle of bushes, of thickets. “Look,” Emmanuel says to me, “don’t you recognize it? That’s Cosma’s place, and Stefania’s, that’s where you lived!” I look at the tangled mass of brush, I have a hard time convincing myself: this is where I lived! “Look,” Emmanuel goes on, “there are the sisal plants at the entrance!” Yes, at the edge of the road, there are indeed a few browned leaves, with black spines, slightly withered by the dry weather. Emmanuel points to a tree smothered by brambles and vines: “There’s Jeanne’s avocado tree!” This is my home, I tell myself over and over, and I realize that, to protect myself, despite everything my brother had told me, everything I knew, I’d clung to the illusion, like a deep secret hope, that the ruination of Gitagata had spared something in the place where I once lived, that some sign was awaiting me from beyond death’s realm. But of course there was no one and nothing. And suddenly I began to violently hate the untamed vegetation that had so efficiently finished the murderers’ “work,” that had turned my home into this inhospitable patch of brush. I don’t want to listen to Emmanuel’s explanations. I don’t want to answer my son’s questions. I don’t want to know where the old house was, or the new one. I am alone in a foreign land, where no one is waiting for me.
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