Blood Papa

by Jean Hatzfeld

  My mama doesn’t condemn my papa when she laments her solitude. Otherwise, you wouldn’t see her astride the bicycle on her way to Rilima to visit him. She’s a strong woman who gets on very well in farming. She’s neither too skinny nor too heavy. Nevertheless, she suffers from stomachaches that curb her appetite for the usual food. She doesn’t complain. She pays attention to her children and has replaced the mother of my little girl. The neighbors are full of appreciation for her because she’s helpful. She’s quick to lose her temper if someone provokes her, but it doesn’t last for more than a brief moment. She just as quickly gives in with kind words. She doesn’t get angry at her husband, like I said, never says a word about his mistakes. She loves him sincerely. She isn’t the least neglectful, like other prisoners’ wives who have given birth. Her courage hasn’t left her; she’s resilient even when the rains are late.

  We don’t quarrel. On the parcel, though, I’ve noticed that something is wrong. She sometimes drops the hoe, but not for a rest or a drink of water. She stands there motionless, thinking silently. The sun beats down on her face—she doesn’t care. I can see that her thoughts have drifted to Rilima; they have carried away the worries of a woman abandoned by her prisoner husband. It’s painful to watch. There really has been a decline because she has had to endure everything alone. She doesn’t cry, she isn’t motivated like before. She’s waiting for God’s mercy.

  * * *

  VINCENT AND JANVIER, Ernestine’s brothers, I can’t even go near, although we have known each other since childhood. Deep down, we don’t want to acknowledge one another anymore. There’s nothing to say—only the awkwardness of close neighbors. We aren’t moved by friendship or memories of childhood games. If we happen to meet in a cabaret, one of us immediately leaves. In any case, I avoid talking about the genocide with children from the other ethnicity. Mentioning this dreadful past, even indirectly, puts you in an awkward position. Hutu and Tutsi children learn about the killings in completely different ways. If a Tutsi child is informed by his papa that his mama or grandmama was cut by a certain Hutu, that Hutu is never going to admit to his child that he cut the Tutsi woman. After twenty years, does anyone dare tell their children everything? Shame hangs over those who risk confiding in the wrong ethnicity, even if ethnicities have been abolished. When the wrongdoers confessed to the truth of wielding machetes, those were merely the confessions they gave in public at the gaçaças. They’re wary of personal details.

  I have Tutsi friends. We met on the school bench. Their families live in the mudugudu in Kiganwa. We talk a lot, we joke about soccer players who mess up their shots, we share shocking news we dig up on the internet. We discuss our concerns about farming when the rains are late. We avoid the genocide. We zigzag. Young people don’t allow themselves to be affected by grumbling words, because if they did, their passions would compel them to fight. That would be the end of it. A small number opt for revenge because of their parents’ misfortunes. They bury themselves in their resentment. It would be risky if a president were murdered again. On the other hand, many young people approve of the reconciliation policy. The atmosphere among young people doesn’t breed hate like before. Hate has taken a step back. Things will start to sort themselves out.

  I love Africa. It’s a blessed continent, in my opinion. We don’t encounter the world’s racism here. Some nights, I listen to the agitated news from around the world on the radio. Here, I’m not afraid, though I keep on my guard. I’m glad of our fertile land for agriculture. I appreciate the climate when it doesn’t play dirty tricks. In Kigali, new multistory buildings and SUVs are appearing every day. Twenty years from now, electricity and asphalt roads will stretch into the hills. Farmers will sell their land to go clear the bush in Tanzania. Not all the farmers will leave. In the distant hills, you’ll still see people like us working the land with our hoes.

  * * *

  BESIDES THAT, I’m pleased with my health. I plug away working. I earn a bit. The Akagera River is where I put my zeal. After his release from prison in 2003, my papa bought me a share in the fishing cooperative. A paternal cousin taught me the complex techniques for the nets and basket traps. Fishing is unpredictable. You waste a week without catching a big-caliber fish, and you’re frustrated until the day comes when luck finds you and you haul in a fifteen-kilo carp. When you come away with nothing worthwhile, you’re thrilled to get back to the parcel to harvest food. When you make a catch, you thank the river, which wears you out less than the land. I also look after the banana plantation, as I said. The urwagwa business doesn’t disappoint. When you’re short on one side, you draw from the other—it makes for a more balanced life.

  The bloody catastrophe is in the past. Time heals. I like my hill in Kiganwa because I’m used to living here. We farm a fertile plot, an intensive banana plantation, and a plentiful river flows nearby. The food is good. But the climate plays so many tricks on farmers that they are no longer able to gauge the right time for seeding. In the past, they knew when the rain clouds were coming and going. Now rainfall is fickle, sometimes it skips a season. Three years ago, I managed to plant tomatoes. They paid off. Since then, drought has burned through two harvests. The meager rainfall means twice the number of trips for water. If you work unproductive land, you get annoyed and all you can think about is leaving.

  Twenty years from now, I can see myself as the owner of a small business, with a motorcycle and a cow in the pen. The retail business is great. If you’re frugal, the profits allow you to accumulate wealth. You don’t waste time, you move ahead without the worries of farming. You become a businessman. Where will I go? Not to Kigali, which I don’t know well enough to make a go of it. Expensive cities are dispiriting. I’ll open a shop in the center of Nyarunazi for a start. Then I’ll move to Nyamata or to Bicumbi, where my mother’s family lives. They are close-knit like traditional families used to be. Would I move far away to forget everything? Has it crossed my mind? No, if you are born in a country, you have to accept its past. Here, though, I feel trapped by loneliness. Being a farmer separates you from others; being a prisoner’s son separates you even more. I get bored, I struggle. I stumble and see that my life is wrecked to a certain extent. Basically, I don’t wake up untroubled.

  JEAN-DAMASCÈNE NDAYAMBAJE

  SIXTEEN YEARS OLD

  Son of Fulgence Bunani, Hutu prisoner

  It’s unlucky to be the son of a genocide killer. It’s hard to explain, even to oneself. If the events hadn’t soaked Rwanda in blood, life would have greeted me with kindly arms. Hearing that one’s papa participated in awful crimes can be a harmful thing. My papa—he’s mine; I love him more than anyone else. It’s understandable. He’s respectful of morals. The priest even chose him as deacon, because his education allows him to read the deep meaning of the Scriptures. His neighbors live with him in harmony. They get on well in conversation. He’s very well considered because he shows himself reasonable whenever a dispute arises. No one gives him trouble. He doesn’t weigh as much as a very muscular man, but his strength never fails him on the land. His urwagwa tastes good, and it’s renowned. He’s friendly, he doesn’t cast evil looks. He’s an upright man. The charges against him? Ernestine’s murder? As I said, I don’t know. Does a son try to investigate such terrible accusations?

  My mama offers her kindness to everyone and still more to her children. She doesn’t get angry with them, despite the pitfalls of life. She puts all her strength into the parcel. Wherever she goes, she’s seen as an exemplary farmer, a woman who harvests a remarkable amount of crops without letting loneliness or drought slow her down. I get along well with her. We work in harmony at home, on the parcel, everywhere. We farm hand in hand to make up for Papa. Stomach ailments often trouble her, low spirits gnaw at her, too. She shows negative symptoms. When she can’t see past a problem, she becomes overwhelmed, and she can’t be helped. Loneliness overtakes her; she sulks. Do we mention it to her? She tells us that she isn’t happy. She never blames Papa—she never utte
rs a reproachful word against him—and she doesn’t complain. She simply says that something about her isn’t right.

  The killers’ misdeeds have caused long-lasting effects. But I don’t think that being Fulgence’s son will prevent me from finding a good wife, although it has pushed me into poverty. I don’t lack for energy. I want to raise a big family later on. Who doesn’t want that, even when you’re penniless? A happy family cheered by children’s games and sumptuous Sunday meals. I don’t mix much with the girls from the hill since I haven’t the time or spare money needed to charm them. That’ll change. When I save up, I’m going to explore the streets of Nyarunazi or even Nyamata.

  * * *

  LATER ON, I hope to meet a girl who knows farming. Svelte or sturdy, her size doesn’t matter, as long as she doesn’t flinch from tackling the various kinds of work. A nice girl, pleasant with the neighbors, attractive, of course, and good at all that she does. Women of both ethnicities are just as capable regardless of the domain. In times past, this is what they said: In the fields, Hutus have the advantage of stronger biceps, because they eat food that gives them strength and energy. Tutsis, on the other hand, are better at tending livestock because they like to drink milk. We can’t joke around about these things anymore, at least out loud, except with friends from the same ethnicity.

  I live my life as a Rwandan first and foremost, like everyone else; or at least like all the Hutus who want to leave the past behind. We have to break with our bad reputation. We’ve also lived our share of misfortune. Which is why I don’t attach any importance to having a Tutsi wife, provided that she doesn’t hold my papa against me. As for my wife, I’d like her to be constructive, understanding of her husband, a teacher to the children, and, above all, to have adapted to modern life better than me.

  If I were to win the national lottery, I’d go straight out and buy an immense parcel by the river. The land along the marshes overflows with promise: it’s fertile and very valuable, especially since the rainy seasons have become such a torment. Forget about cows, which only add misery to one’s worries. Sows, yes. I’d build a large farm. I’ve visited model facilities, with concrete floors lined with drainage ditches. Hogs get dirtier than cows—they have a nasty reputation—but twice a year they drop up to eight piglets. Can you imagine that? I’d open a construction supply business to take advantage of the country’s development. And why not really learn computers and the internet like the young people my age? I’d build a house with a brick foundation where my family would live, with a veranda for selling urwagwa. I’d make my wife more beautiful so that she’d sing her joy to others.

  This would be in central Nyamata, which is sure to be modern. Anyway, not far from there. In Nyamata, you already come across various shops. The prices at the market are decent. You see four-story buildings and streetlights when the electricity doesn’t go out. The cabarets carry beer brands from Burundi and Kenya. It’s not as modern as Kigali, but it’s attractive nonetheless. You’re among people you know, whatever the squabbles. It’s a comfortable place.

  If Papa hadn’t gotten mixed up in the killings, I’d be studying math or economics. The teachers used to flatter me right in front of the other students’ eyes. Life in a business suit and work in an office were what the future held. I don’t see any chance of my dodging the consequences of the killings. Existence is bent on revenge up on the hills. There’s absolutely zero chance of my becoming a car mechanic in a shop. An easy life has turned a deaf ear. God alone can hold out a kindly hand to me. I feel pessimistic. Poverty doesn’t budge once it settles in. Yes, I believe that I suffer for my papa’s wrongdoing. I work the hoe while friends turn the pages of textbooks at school. It makes me older than I am. I sometimes grumble about my papa. There’s no lack of opportunities. Who could avoid it?

  Despite all that, am I still hoping for a happier life? I think so—without knowing exactly the life to imagine, because I have already grown used to the hill. When fate has drawn a line for us, we become conditioned to follow it. We grow accustomed to the dark reputation of the genocide. I have carried the hoe down to the parcel since I was fifteen years old—do I have a choice? If God wanted me on the parcel, can I deviate from His plan? I don’t know how to answer that.

  But basically, any place that would take me away from Kiganwa, or even Nyamata, would be a kind of blessing.

  ANGE UWASE

  NINETEEN YEARS OLD

  Daughter of Innocent Rwililiza, Tutsi survivor

  My mama was beaten in an isolation cell by the interahamwe. They suspected her of colluding with the inkotanyi who were organizing at the border. This was before the killings. Her head still hurts. Their cruelty continues to torment her; she has been subjected to extraordinary suffering.

  For seven weeks in Kayumba, my second papa scurried faster than forest prey. The hunt lasted nonstop from morning to night. A nasty wound damaged his leg. It’s still there—he limps. In the climb up to Kayumba, he complains about the pain. I think their experiences encourage them to stand up for our family, to pass on our history better. Their difficulties give them strength and allow them to overcome their moments of weakness. Sometimes their troubles also drag them lower than grief. They’re overwhelmed in every way. Their anxieties cause unpredictable behavior. You see them suddenly startled by a terrible memory. Their words rattle together. They’re afraid, they’re shaken up. We children understand, we’re used to it.

  I think that the genocide has brought me closer to my parents. How so? It’s impossible to say. I’m also a survivor, despite my young age. The survivors hold on to everything they’ve endured. As a family, we try to support one another more than others do. But even so, I’m pretty sure that my parents don’t understand me any better. They aren’t any more tolerant. No, no, they aren’t any more understanding or any smarter about my adolescent upbringing. They don’t see my friends with a kinder eye. My little quirks don’t make them smile. Not one bit. They watch over me with the strict severity of their generation. They believe in their adult ideas. They simply offer more kindness in difficult times.

  * * *

  THE IDEAL HUSBAND? He’d be Rwandan. Why? Would a foreigner understand me? Would a man who hasn’t known the threat of the machete accept my timid personality? If he sees that my torments upset the picture of a model wife, he might heap criticism on me. Sometimes I feel tempted to leave to study abroad. To Canada, where my mother’s family is scattered. Or Australia, another destination, because I have heard that calm people live there, the climate is good, and universities welcome foreigners without any trouble. But my husband, I also want him to be Tutsi. I won’t say a survivor, but still a Tutsi, so that we get along in every situation.

  I hope that he is educated, tall in stature, because I myself am very tall and slender. That he talks with the neighbors without seeming awkward or aggressive and that he doesn’t mistreat a soul. He doesn’t look for a drink every night, he listens to me so that he can lavish me with comforting words. He doesn’t force me into intimacies, like so many others do. He doesn’t give orders by bullying. I won’t go looking for him by myself, outside the traditional customs of the family, but I will decide. If the suitor doesn’t satisfy my parents, they will have to tell me why. For instance, if they think he cheats and hides ill will in his heart, I will hear them out. Then I will make my own decision whether to love him or leave him.

  I don’t think about it very much because first I want to get a good diploma. I enjoy my studies. I was accepted into the history-economics-geography combination. I feel at ease with economics. I am confident that I’ll gain the right number of points for university. My ambition is law school, the judiciary. Being a judge appeals to me. I’d practice my profession in Nyamata because Nyamata makes me happy. I couldn’t live my whole life on the hills, since I’m wary of the customs of the countryside. They set their traps. The hoe wears you out all year-round, and all the worries that go with it. I also fear the mentality, the gossip, the backwardness of family pl
anning that women have to endure, in addition to the other drudgery. Nyamata is up-to-date, worry-free.

  In my dreams for the future, I have never turned my back on our Bugesera hills. I have never imagined myself in a country without genocide, because it’s something that I grew up with. Who wants to cast off their childhood? To forget their precious family and ancestors? Not for a minute have I wanted to leave my memories behind. Can you sort out the good from the bad of your existence? That yields only disappointments and delays one’s fate. I’m glad to be Rwandan and Tutsi. That’s how I have always seen myself. The future is all that I could wish for.

  IMMACULÉE FEZA

  SIXTEEN YEARS OLD

  Daughter of Innocent Rwililiza, Tutsi survivor

  I’m glad I was born in a family of survivors because I would have suffered in a Hutu family. Many Hutus had a hand in evil; they’re seen as harmful. Their presence is no longer valued among us. Friendship no longer greets them with joyful cheers at their neighbors’ doors. I’m not a survivor like my sister Ange, who was born before the machetes. As the younger sister, I try to imitate her. I copy her styles and skin care, I keep an eye on the smiles she sneaks at boys, I take over her things—everything except her experience as a survivor. She was the target of machetes, not me. She heard the death cries. I didn’t hide out in a false ceiling, prayers trembling on my lips. Survivors stopped at nothing to live, and many now fear that others have lost respect for them for what they had to do. They lived in terror and filth; above all, they knew they were abandoned. You can tell that deep down a shameful secret blocks their hearts. Myself, I grew up in peace and quiet, but in a certain way I feel somewhat like a survivor, because that secret surrounded my childhood. It’s still there in the house.

  Does that worry me? I have no idea, since I don’t know if it has tainted my future happiness. When my papa and mama speak of their loved ones cut by the machetes, it reminds me that their loved ones would also have been mine. Survivors recount the deaths in the marshes in order to make a place for the dead in their memories. Remembering is so important to them because it gives life to the dead. We children can offer our parents only kindness in return. So I give a double dose.