My answers didn’t zigzag. I told her step by step how her grandparents had been killed, like so many others. Why all the Tutsis had been hunted like prey by their Hutu neighbors. We talked about ethnicity, about age-old quarrels and bitter resentments. We chatted about the genocide. From that moment on, she showed herself eager for information when we gathered in the evenings. She became restless during the Week of Mourning. Then she asked me about my life during the genocide. I told her about the bleak events in the swamps. I didn’t shy from my unpleasant life, although I didn’t divulge all the secrets. We continue our chats about that past existence if a question comes up.
For example, Nadine wants to know everything about my parents: What their life was like at home, their favorite jokes, if they teased each other for fun, if they knew Rwandan stories and songs. What clothing they wore to church or to ceremonies. What they preferred to eat besides beans. If the ladies also had a taste for the bottle. If they had polished manners, if they were very slender and tall. The kinds of question that restore the family in her imagination. We went to the Rugarama hill to see the old family house. We visited the Ntarama memorial, the place where my parents departed this world.
One day, she asked me about her birth. I was expecting it. She was curious about Congo. She wondered about the landscape. She suddenly wanted to know all the details about her blood papa. I explained to her that she had been conceived by an interahamwe. I avoided admitting that I had been forced. Too much sorrow would have been risky. Does she know the whole truth? She has probably heard the gossip from the lips of wicked neighbors. She wouldn’t dare tell me, though. We mention this biological papa without going into details. But not often. Sometimes she makes do with sensible questions, other times she asks surprising ones. They bring her down. Sometimes she asks them two or three times, as if she were looking for a new answer. She seems troubled. Certain thoughts disrupt her at school when they are too overwhelming. I support her, I comfort her. Exposing the truth would only add anguish to her sadness. Describing to her how brutally she was conceived—that wouldn’t clarify her understanding of things. As the mama, I have no choice but to live with what has been ruined deep within me, but most important, I have to protect her from this misfortune. I simply explain to her how I have grown accustomed to my strange fate.
She’s lucky that her faith helps her. No, I wasn’t the one who drew her to the church. Nadine would be going to church even if she’d had the gentle life of a young girl brought into the world normally, even if she’d been prancing around among loving grandparents. God guides her. He steadies her when she stumbles on her path. She joins the kindly believers to pray. The songs distract her from sorrow. Faith keeps her from wasting too much time thinking about harmful things. She is sincere.
Modern times push children to be precocious. As I said, at twelve years old they search through things on the internet that we learned about only after marriage. On the hills, it’s even more terrible than elsewhere. Young people fled their childhood to protect themselves from the wickedness of adults. They felt terror when they listened to the stories. They trembled hearing the rumors. Fear has abandoned them. They no longer feel in danger—they ply their machetes in the banana groves without giving it a second thought. Yet they have been affected all the same. They’re hiding out. Their hearts whisper for revenge for the mistreatment of their parents. It’s inevitable in the two ethnicities. But these young people can’t express it. Too many disapproving looks force them to keep quiet. They shelter things even from their closest friends. Have I noticed the same in Nadine? No, that’s her secret.
It is always possible that she likes a Hutu boy, without mentioning him to me, and that one of these days she is going to bring him home, with his white gloves, to meet me. If he is a good Christian, I will entrust them to the hands of God. And what if the suitor doesn’t believe in God? Can you even imagine?
THE FUTURE
NADINE UMUTESI
SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Claudine Kayitesi, Tutsi survivor
If one day my blood papa were to appear before me, I would ask him his name, the work he does, and where he lives. That’s it. I wouldn’t listen to the rest—I wouldn’t care. I am saying the opposite of what I told you the last time because I have had the chance to reflect. I was surprised by your question. Basically, before you asked, I had never imagined it, I had never thought about seeing him for real. I knew that whether or not I met him, no good would come of it either way. I have chosen Damascène as my true papa, even though he didn’t give me life. Since my earliest childhood, Damascène has truly taken the other man’s place. We live in joyful harmony. Every day he shows me a father’s kindness, and he offers me a father’s guidance. He’s a good worker and very strong. He speaks easily with everyone, he sings with all his might, and he doesn’t drink alcohol. During negotiations for my marriage, I know that he’ll conceal the shameful circumstances of my birth, that he’ll slip on his ceremonial gloves. My parents see eye to eye about me. They waited for the rumors to begin before explaining my birth because they were anxious to protect me. They were afraid that bad thoughts might ruin my childhood.
I was kind of shaken up. When a child lives with such an extraordinary fact, she really feels uneasy growing up. Yes, I ask myself questions that other young people my age don’t ask themselves. I live with the risk of a terrible apparition. Unwanted blood runs in my veins. Dark questions course through my body. One lives with one’s fate. No, I haven’t gained anything positive from the experience, not a bit of strength, nothing that might be useful to me in the future—nothing at all. There are organizations in Kigali that specialize in treating children in my situation, but I don’t feel I need the comfort of psychologists and the like. I don’t see any danger at home—I’m not afraid of being thrown out. It’s just that a man may suddenly show up, someone I know would be harmful to my mama.
* * *
I DON’T KNOW if I can call myself Tutsi since I was born to an unknown father. My heart beats with the Tutsis. I stand with the people who have been ravaged by their memories. I feel like a survivor because I was born into turmoil. One way or another I really should have died. My best friends are survivors, because I feel calm with them. I’m not proud of being a survivor since I obsess about my birth. On bad days, bad thoughts lie in wait for me. I think that the way I came into the world was essentially shameful. Who wouldn’t be shocked?
Even so, I can say that my mama is a Tutsi survivor and that I am very, very proud to be her daughter. It fills me with joy to be Claudine’s daughter; it comforts me, too. A Tutsi gave birth to me, we share the same history, and I embrace it with all my heart. Some survivors claim they are cursed to be Tutsi. Myself, honestly, I wouldn’t abandon my mother. I admire her, and that she gave me life even though the criminal forced her to stay with him in Congo for over a year! It’s a miracle for a child—a human miracle. It has nothing to do with religion. Every day I owe Claudine my gratitude. She kept me when she returned while other mamas secretly strangled their children who had been conceived like me. It makes me happy and, I’d say, relieved as well. She was courageous to have accepted me as her beloved child despite the misfortunes she endured.
We love each other as mother and daughter in a way I don’t have the words to describe. I admire her conduct in life. Do I ever ask myself questions about her? Plenty of times. How does she manage to control her feelings so as not to disappoint the people around her? How does she never lose her temper? I avoid asking her because I don’t want to risk reviving her sorrow. I wonder how she can seem so calm regardless of the circumstances. Rumors don’t disturb her, and she rules out revenge. She welcomes visitors into her home with a cheerful voice. She wakes up full of courage. Farming tires her out—that you can see—but she still laughs a lot as part of her nature. Her good spirits never leave her. I don’t know why. She might get angry for a brief moment if I come home late, but she doesn’t hold a grudge. It delights her to hea
r laughter in the house and at church. When she goes with me to Nyamata, we crack jokes and exchange smiles on our way and at the market. We have a great time, we share a juice. Basically, she encourages me to be happy.
At the very least, she won’t let me wear out my arms in the field. My ambition is to become a nurse. And why not a nurse practitioner? I’m comfortable with biology and math. I know Claudine would have chosen nursing if she hadn’t been caught up by the genocide. I’m going to put all my energy into nursing school. I’m enthusiastic about caring for people, in a public or private hospital. Being a teacher would please me, too. Nursing or teaching. Lots of professions are tempting, except for agriculture. Work in the fields runs you ragged. It causes swelling in your hands and feet.
* * *
NYAMATA IS BECOMING more and more modern thanks to the new electricity, televisions, and cars. The country is headed in the right direction because everywhere one looks they are building hospitals and banks and attractive boutiques. The new things we dig up on the internet don’t frighten me. But modern times are wrecking the lives of simple people like farmers, who are going to be pushed out to the uncultivated land in the north. I think that with all the new construction, farmers’ lives are bound to be uncertain. Am I going to marry a farmer? That would be fine if nobody else comes along. I’ll try to avoid it.
I have a boyfriend, as I said. The same age as me, a student. He is medium height, even-tempered. His family is somewhat rich. We have been seeing each other for seven months. It’s lasted. We like to share our personal feelings, but we don’t bring up the future. I haven’t met my future husband yet, though I do have an idea. A man who doesn’t drink, who is decent height, neither fat nor skinny. It doesn’t matter if he is rich as long as he is nice. Good manners are a must, and speaking well with the neighbors—never a harsh word. I would avoid someone brash. Why? He might come home drunk and make the house a mess and smack me around like that kind of man inevitably does. A Pentecostal would be best because that’s what I am, and because Pentecostals don’t drink alcohol. I could see a teetotaling Catholic as well. If my beloved isn’t Christian, it all depends on how he behaves. It might be okay if he is very peaceful and nice. My parents will have to advise me on my choice. I lack experience, so there is the chance that I make a mistake about my suitor’s behavior, that I overlook his mean traits. If I love a boy whom my mama rejects, forgetting him would be impossible, but leaving him, sure. I would have to, because Mama knows best. Could I marry against her wishes? Even if it makes me suffer a lot, I would accept her refusal out of respect.
I want to get married, raise a family—anywhere except in Kanzenze. It’s no thrill getting married in the same place you have spent your childhood. Dark memories lurk down every path. You can’t grow up, go to school, then get married on a hill, because too many know your secrets. In Kigali? Why not. It’s a city—you see SUVs, huge comfortable houses with gates, and enticing boutiques. You can watch television. In town, people don’t have their hands full with farming, and it’s easier to get a lucky break than it is here.
I get bored in Kanzenze because young people lack amusing things to do. I would also like to meet new neighbors. I will bring two children into the world, and no more, so that I can feed and love them without excessive worries. I don’t want any danger hanging over them. I won’t tell them anything about my history, and I won’t say a word about my anxieties. Unless they pester me for answers about the rumors they’ve overheard.
IDELPHONSE HABINSHUTI
NINETEEN YEARS OLD
Son of Fulgence Bunani, Hutu prisoner
If my papa hadn’t been imprisoned, I would have stayed in school. Today I’d be seeking my fortune somewhere other than on the river. That’s the truth. My papa’s fault has had a somewhat harmful effect on my character ever since I was a child. I don’t pay attention to what I’m going to do. I’m never satisfied, and I lack conviction. I tend to change my mind. They say that I’m careless about things. That comes from all the work when I was young. First the war damaged my childhood goodwill. Didn’t it force me to reflect on things more than a child born into a prosperous home? No, it hindered my intelligence. A comfortable life leads to exciting thoughts.
Without the killings, I’d be walking with the steps of a young man settled into a desirable job. I’d have married. I have a fourteen-month-old child named Kelia. Her mama’s name is Olive; she lives in a mudugudu. She put the child in my hands because there was no chance of marriage. Her older brother demanded a dowry I couldn’t pay. Then we quarreled about a fertile patch of land near the marshes he wanted to take for himself. He kept on about it for three months. In the end, the girl took her brother’s side. If Papa hadn’t returned to Rilima, she’d have decided in my favor. I don’t regret it, because since then she has changed husbands three times, without even getting any land. But still.
I’ll be careful the second time: I’ll take up with a sensible girl who won’t leave me with another baby on my hands. I’m going to look for a girl somewhere far from Kiganwa. When the betrothed live side by side, they can expect neither surprises nor novelty, only squabbles about land. One shouldn’t be born, grow up, farm, and then get married in the same place. It’s a dead harvest; you gain nothing new. I’d like to leave the Bugesera to start a new life without a past—in the Mutara, for example, where vast virgin pastures await the energy of new arrivals. I spoke to Papa about it in Rilima, without insisting too much. If he’s released soon, I’ll marry soon. If his time drags on, then obviously I’ll have to be patient. Having a papa in prison would derail the negotiations between the families; it would disrupt the ceremonies. There’s no use adding something unseemly to people’s suspicions.
At school, I didn’t sit at the front of the class like my brother, Jean-Damascène. I wasn’t a dimwit, though. I was never reprimanded, I was never threatened in class. The teachers watched out for quarrels, even after our return from Congo. Outside class, it was a big thing, as I said. My goal? I longed to join the civil service, to wear the attire of a dignified civil servant, or to set up my own business as a craftsman. Anyway, the goal was to give up farming like a lot of Tutsi children have. It’s understandable that things now favor the children of survivors. How so? They receive direct aid from the FARG, which pays the minervals at well-known schools. They go to boarding schools without even coming back to the hill on weekends. That’s essential, because it’s on the school bench that one learns to give up the hoe. Farm kids can’t participate in the country’s development like city children can—they’re stranded on the unforgiving land. It’s even worse if the parcel is supposed to be split up among siblings according to the new laws of inheritance that keep pouring down. Do I think about it a lot? About bad luck? Obviously, if Papa hadn’t made mistakes in the marshes, I’d have my place on the school bench with my schoolmates. But I don’t think that I’m paying my papa’s debt to society. I’m paying for the misfortunes of society, which have wrecked my chances. I’m not the only one. Many children from the wrong ethnicity are penalized when their papas linger in prison.
Obviously, hearing about Papa’s misdeeds makes me very unhappy. The killers’ wickedness is beyond imagining. Honestly, those men cutting enough to break their own arms—who can explain it? Is it something a person my age can even understand? It’s too much for us to accept such evil. Even still, I can’t condemn my papa, since no one had an idle hand in the killings.
* * *
I LOVE MY PAPA. He gave me life. Every morning, I pray to God to come to his aid. If you see a young man in good health in front of you today, it’s thanks to him. His strength courses in my veins. I don’t want for food. He has watched over me despite the distance between us. I visit him once a month. Before it was on foot through the bush, but now I ride the bicycle he left. At Rilima, I present myself at the prison commissary to deposit some of the money I make from selling urwagwa, or fish. It’s for Papa’s canteen. We exchange superficial bits of news. He asks me abou
t the parcel, he gives me advice for staking out the fields, he offers comforting words. No complaints about his sorry fate. He’s friendly. He loves his children. A papa’s attention makes up for everything they lack in life.
He’s a strong man, neither tall nor short in stature, who has a taste for beans, of course, served with bananas, without wasting meat. He’s upright, and he speaks well with the neighbors. There’s never a quarrel except with a neighbor woman by the name of Émilienne, when she stakes out the parcel on the sly, or when she drives her livestock through our sorghum. He holds no grudge against anyone. He looks through our notebooks to make sure that we are taking notes in class, and he checks the report cards at the end of the semester. Never mind that he isn’t the fervent deacon he once was; he prays like everybody else. He likes selling urwagwa in his cabaret, and he knows how to make the land grow. If he hadn’t suffered the misfortune of prison, really, I’d say we would have had a comfortable life and plentiful crops.
Ernestine’s murder—I don’t have all the right information to talk to you about it. My ears are closed to the neighbors’ gossip. The only explanations that I’m waiting for are from my papa. What explanations do I hope that he’ll give me? I don’t know. A child doesn’t want to hear everything from his papa. In 2010, the authorities summoned him to the gaçaça court, and he testified to his misdeeds, like they asked. The last day was a Sunday—he was lazing at home because he was racked with pain from his swollen feet. At nightfall, the court sentenced him to life in prison. It was the colleagues from his gang getting revenge. Why him if no one saw with their own eyes the killers slicing open Ernestine’s belly? I can’t get over that. I don’t want to chase down rumors at the cabaret. If they pardon my papa, I’ll ask him to take a moment to talk about what happened in the Ntarama church. I’ll ask him questions without blame, because he has been punished enough.
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