Blood Papa

by Jean Hatzfeld

  Survivors’ memories filled my childhood. The thought of forgetting the dead upsets me as much as it does an actual survivor. No, it doesn’t bother me to have inherited that—why would it? Sometimes I get angry. I despise the people who caused so much pain. I picture ways of taking revenge on the murderers. When I was a child, I hoped to see them lined up and shot on the hill. I wanted to put them to death myself. But time has inspired more sensible thoughts in me; scolding had its effect. Children cannot avenge their parents if their parents aren’t considering it themselves. We can’t kill contrary to their wishes. That doesn’t prevent feelings like ill will from smoldering deep down within us at times. I also know that our country is calling on all our strength to help provide enough to eat, especially now that the droughts have begun to come ahead of schedule.

  Basically, I don’t know what to say. Do I think about forgiveness? That is a tricky question for a girl with so much kindness around her. What good would it do me to forgive? Who would I forgive? What importance would my forgiveness have in the eyes of others? I am neither an orphan nor a trauma victim. Can my forgiveness mean as much as it would coming from my parents or my sister Ange? Or from a girl left alone with her terrible memories? I haven’t had to struggle against poverty like a girl stuck on a barren piece of land.

  I’m proud of my parents; they survived the blades. Still, I notice strange things in their behavior. Their unpredictable moods, which change for no apparent reason. For example, you ask them a question and they don’t respond; instead, they sulk, obviously thinking of something else. My papa walks with a limp due to his injury; he comes to a halt between two steps, then cracks a joke at his own expense, which no one understands. My mama suffers from migraines; her mind isn’t right because of them. She speaks to us in a gentle tone of voice, then suddenly goes out into the courtyard alone. We can tell that she’s stopped paying attention to anyone around her, that her thoughts have drifted elsewhere. If she says something, her meaning escapes us. Sometimes Papa stays in bed late. Mama tells us he mustn’t be disturbed while his memories plague him. If it hadn’t been for the genocide, a more frivolous childhood would have brought me steadier parents, smiling grandparents, as I already said, and a prosperous plot in Kibungo, where we would have had plenty of bananas and milk. We would have passed around drinks at loud family gatherings. We would have sung ourselves hoarse after Sunday meals. Rwandan traditions would have ensured our happiness. The world would have showed us a more pleasing face. But I am not unhappy with my Tutsi fate.

  It’s daunting for a little girl, but it’s nothing disastrous. I definitely feel Tutsi. I grew up in a family of Tutsis. I have heard their story from my earliest childhood. It binds me to them. The loved ones lost in the killings, the pursuits they endured in the forest, the fright they had in their hideouts—what I have learned obliges me to take good care of my parents. Loss has surrounded my youth. Children born after the genocide won’t ever know what it was like for those who watched the raised machetes. They never saw the blades. Myself, I’m not gnawed by anxiety, I’ve never been struck with panic. The dead make me sad. Hearing about them doesn’t shock me because I’ve been told about them with sympathetic words. I miss them. The dead impose a view of the living world that children in faraway countries cannot share. Which is why I spend all the time I can with Tutsi friends who understand my story. Even if they sometimes appear traumatized.

  Hearing the fear in various accounts of the genocide prevents me from ever completely trusting others. That’s the attitude that the dead have imparted. It’s a lesson. In every situation, you keep some room for yourself—a haven, so to speak, only for you. You hold back your impulse to trust. You can’t freely confide in your best friend for fear that she might repeat things that lead to arguments. It ruins your life. When a genocide sweeps through your childhood, you come out cautious and somewhat timid. Whether from Tutsis or Hutus, the threat of betrayal gnaws at you. Jesus foresaw that Peter would betray him three times and Peter didn’t miss a one. It’s a warning from God: human beings are capable of betrayal at any time. Myself, I pray for God to deliver us from this fear in order to restore our calm happiness. I like to pray and to feel free. That means living a normal life without extraordinary conflict. I’m wary of things that rouse worries in my head. That’s why I try to have a good time, and I hang out with girlfriends.

  * * *

  I HOPE TO continue my education in Butare. The climate there seems neither too hot nor too cold. Regular rains wash away the dust. The university is supposed to be international. I am leaning toward biology, maybe to become a nurse or veterinarian. I am going to move to a huge city where there are booming stadiums for seeing soccer and parks for winding down. I am thrilled by charming conversations and places to dance. I also have the ambition of becoming a journalist. I think that journalism would be less difficult than other subjects. Journalists are like famous people—they’re well-known and in good health. They have polished manners; they appear pleasant on television. International journalists travel in search of information, crisscross faraway countries, and deal in new ideas. They discover surprising customs—that’s what I would like to do.

  I feel impatient for marriage, of course. I don’t want grand nuptials, full of pomp and posh guests. What’s the use? My husband? I would like him to be tall in stature, the same age as me, and, the most important thing, nice. A boy a little bit rich, though, so he can provide for a family living in a baked-brick house. He could be a lawyer or mayor, for example. Anyway, a man who is capable of checking with me before he acts. He should like to joke with his wife and exchange kind words with her. A farmer, that could work, too, since Rwandan land feeds its population. But only if he is a well-to-do farmer with a decent number of cows, employs farmhands, and plants more than just beans, so we aren’t as vulnerable to poor harvests. I wouldn’t want anything to do with a husband who isn’t peaceful, with a disruptive presence in the family. Let him go drink with his pals at the cabaret, but not so much that he gets drunk. He can come from any region—that doesn’t matter to me.

  Except not a Hutu. What if he’s kind and understanding? No, no, not a chance, because they have committed too many terrible things against us. No, I wouldn’t accept a very handsome Hutu, wealthy, polished, a dandy, even, because his presence might upset my parents. Knowing what they lived through during the killings—and my big sister Gigi, too—it would be shameful for me to bring a suitor from the other ethnicity into the family. Not out of fear of the person but because of the lack of respect for my people. And distrust: mine of him and his of me. Distrust is fatal to one’s love. A family that has experienced the machetes is forever made fragile, more cautious.

  The time of carefree young people is over; we’ll never talk to one another again without awkwardness and lies. Nowadays, we return to our side every time the genocide gets mentioned. We don’t dare poke fun at one another like people do in comedies. I don’t know if we will eventually understand one another. I don’t think my Hutu friends’ parents talk about their lives the way mine do. The papas mask their misdeeds from their children’s eyes, and the mamas use words to disguise the truth about the papas’ wickedness. They refuse to stand as they are, as shameful wrongdoers. Even when they blurt out a confession, it never follows a straight line. Their children aren’t all made the same way, though. Certain Hutu children provoke their parents. Others adjust to their parents’ lying—they give in or play with the truth themselves for the love of family.

  Deep down, a lot of young people from both ethnicities conceal a desire for revenge. That’s why so many young Rwandans are religious. They put their trust in God in order to alleviate their sorrows, in order not to stumble. They know that prayers and songs soften the anxieties that arise from the terrible events. The huge modern world decreases children’s gloom and, of course, their anxiety, too. Young people surf the internet, many take off abroad and speak English. We dance to electronic music. Even so, in twenty generations, youn
g Tutsis will still think about the time when their ancestors were almost exterminated. Myself, I don’t see starting a family with just anybody. I won’t hide a single detail of my parents’ history from my children. I hope that my children will do the same because so many fears mustn’t fall into oblivion. We’re keeping on our guard, since the threats are quiet for now.

  * * *

  THE HISTORY OF the genocide isn’t unbearable. It affects me; it’s part of who I am. I don’t want to be relieved of the sadness that comes from being a survivors’ daughter. I’m not hoping to be rid of it by leaving the country. I feel free when I take walks with my brothers and sister and visit with friends. I like school and kidding around. I never get tired of dancing, and looking through the shops is a delight. The hair salons and dance halls are the only places I avoid. They can be risky. Why? Conceiving before marriage. The market never gets old—I’m surrounded by happy faces. I am always eager to see the clothes from Kigali shown off by the shopkeepers. The market is mindless fun. We love meeting up in various spots with different people; we tease one another with friends we meet. I don’t feel that Nyamata holds me back. Although Kigali is tempting, too. I go there sometimes with the choir or to keep Mama company at the hospital. We stop in at the cabaret to order a Fanta soda. In Kigali, people live in comfort, and the shop windows have fancy displays. It thrills your curiosity to discover new things. One is constantly learning about the world’s surprises. It’s chaotic—wanting too much is risky—but that’s our capital.

  FABIOLA MUKAYISHIMIRE

  NINETEEN YEARS OLD

  Daughter of Joseph-Désiré Bitero, Hutu prisoner

  When I was fourteen, I saw my papa leave for the penitentiary. My mama did her best to shoulder more of the work, but Papa proved impossible to replace. I cherish him as a daughter cherishes her papa, but I know him only through the fleeting words we manage to exchange in the Rilima courtyard.

  When you’re a young child, you enjoy yourself whatever you do, even doing nothing at all. But with a papa in prison, a little girl isn’t doted upon as she ought to be; she misses out on strolls seated atop his shoulders and his extraordinary tales at evening gatherings. She doesn’t chitchat like other children do. She’s on the alert before she even knows why. Every word carries risks. To be safe, she copies what she hears from the lips of adults. Infants don’t suffer so much from being different; they don’t feel worse off since they don’t know how other children live. In adolescence, though, one feels frustrated not being able to go along with friends. One yearns to play, to clown around carefree, and to cut loose with the group—going dancing at the cabaret on Saturdays, having fun listening to music and whiling away the time with the boys. Since I became an adolescent, I feel like I’m looked upon negatively, even if I see myself as pretty. I stay withdrawn, I seem shy for my age. I have been dismissed from school numerous times because of money, which means that I won’t finish high school until I am twenty years old. I have had to take on odd jobs on the weekends while my girlfriends were teasing each other with the boys.

  My personality has changed because of it—the way I think, anyway. If it hadn’t been for the war, my papa would be settled in comfortably among us at home. Maybe I would have gone to a private school, and I’d be sitting proudly on the class bench at the National University. I’d be living in a solidly built house like our old one in Gatare. I’d wake up joyful and pick out a pretty dress. Yes, I feel my papa’s reputation has held me back.

  * * *

  SINCE I’VE BEEN at boarding school, I go to visit my papa during school vacations. When nostalgia overwhelms me, I return on weekends if I find enough to pay the bus fare. All our visits make me happy. He’s nice. He always wears a smile when we meet, and he finds the right words. I see him as a strong, a very strong man, and good. He’s intelligent, of course, which explains why he was named president of the Youth Movement. He’s cheerful, as I said. We boost each other’s spirits. When I am there with him, I feel content, then suddenly anxiety sets in. My heart sinks as soon as I think of leaving him. He jokes around, but I can tell that he’s hiding his true feelings from me: when the guards end our visits, his mind lingers, and you can see that he’d like to sneak more time—he puts off our goodbyes. His face shows signs of anger, but he conceals it with false cheer.

  I have always seen him as a caring man who loves his daughter. Everyone respects him in Rilima, even the guards. He’s someone who inquires after everyone no matter who it is. He never mentions his pain from arthritis. He gives sensible advice. Prison has put him back on the path to goodness. Why would an intelligent, cheerful man one day turn toward such a dreadful fate? Why did he make the wrong choice? I can’t say. It’s troubling. I don’t know what acts my father committed. Deep down, I’m not eager for details. I don’t go digging for the truth in his absence. I’m not anxious to find out.

  My mama defends my papa against the most serious allegations, but of course there are plenty of opportunities for her to complain. She laments our lost comfort. She grumbles that Papa’s ruinous politics brought misfortune into our home. She acknowledges that Papa, as a ringleader, should be punished, but that he shouldn’t have to endure more than the men who nearly broke their arms swinging the machetes. I don’t know, myself. How could I? Should I believe the people who say the worst? I think my papa fully supported Habyarimana’s nasty policies. No one forced him. The advantages of the situation drew him in.

  The question of why he did what he did upsets me, because it’s beyond me to say. Can a young girl really fathom her papa’s soul? The whole story eats away at me. It can feel dirty being the daughter of someone charged with a crime. One suffers for the sins of others. It’s difficult. It’s tricky to talk about. Anyway, who is going to listen? There are neighbors all around who mourn their lost relatives. I dread talking about it, I prefer not to have to argue to defend my papa. What good are arguments? I avoid enemies.

  If a presidential pardon were to open the iron gates for my papa, joy would welcome him home. There would be no chiding from us—he’s our papa, after all. We would celebrate, although not something grandiose like a traditional celebration. We’d keep it simple because of the neighbors’ eyes. We’d give thanks to God and express our deep gratitude to the authorities. We’d have a wonderful time and prepare an amazing meal. Would his return go smoothly? I think we’d all have to adapt. Getting used to a father’s rule at home would be a real transformation, since we children grew up in a way that isn’t easy to change. Our daily existence of struggling “by hook or crook” against poverty and shame without a papa’s authority has made us stick very close together.

  If he leaves prison, I will ask him about his life there, how he spent his time with his fellow prisoners, and how he turned to God. Would I criticize him for preventing us from having a comfortable childhood in a well-regarded neighborhood in Nyamata? I don’t know. Would I ask him what he himself did during the killings? That would be impossible—too disrespectful. Would I ask him if he wielded the machete? That would throw us back into a terrible past. It would be disruptive; it would undermine the family.

  A genocide is more than a lesson. There are plenty of questions a prisoner’s daughter asks herself—about the war, human wickedness, ancestral disputes. She struggles more than friends born to comfortable families. From an early age, she becomes accustomed to death. A young girl from a family without worries encounters death in the faces of old age and sickness. It’s something accidental—it becomes natural death, if I can put it that way. Among us, we experienced a death by machete blades, and it makes us endlessly afraid. What has it taught us? To overcome disappointments despite everything, not to get discouraged so easily. In a quiet family my thoughts would have flowed untroubled, but in my family the situation is a bit chaotic. I have had to figure things out intellectually.

  * * *

  IN THE FUTURE, I imagine being a manager. I like economics and economics likes me, since our exams have earned me good grades. I
am hoping for a national scholarship, which will depend on the number of points I score on my exams. A degree in management or business administration from the university in Kigali would be a good fit for me. I want to live in the capital and not end up in a country job.

  I’m passionate about music, especially Beyoncé, zouk, and American and Rwandan songs, of course. I’m a fan of Tom Close and King James, like everybody else. Miss Shanel, too, because she’s alluring. I don’t go in for Congolese music—it’s too wild and, furthermore, vulgar. I don’t dance anymore. I used to dance during my first years of high school. Now dancing makes me uncomfortable. I consider myself too old at almost twenty to go out dancing with fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds at the Cultural Center. Why? It wouldn’t be respectable for me to be seen waiting for a sixteen-year-old boy to ask me to dance.

  In Nyamata, the young people my age like to party, especially at Black and White. You meet a lot of boys whom you get to know and joke around and dance with. But a dance band requires nice dresses and shoes, and not everyone can afford fancy pumps for dancing on a Saturday night. Do I have admirers who would spend their money on me? Am I sometimes asked out because of my looks? No. Who would invite me? No one invites me. Parties are something young rich kids worry about.

  If I were to win the raffle one day, I would visit all the boutiques. No, first I would hire masons to build a brick house for my mama. I would put a big-screen TV in the living room so we could watch the Rwandan and Kigali teams, because the Kigali club plays a marvelous game of soccer. Not to mention the Champions League teams. Then I would buy myself dresses and shoes, like the young people my age, and a smartphone, obviously.