Blood Papa Page 8
We were back on our feet in the morning. The mamas carried the provisions on their heads and attached the babies to their backs. Me, I was sat on my papa’s shoulders or pulled by the arm. We advanced with the crush of people down the road. There were screams—we raced to escape the sound of gunshots. Those sick with malaria were carried atop bound branches because time was too short to care for them. Those sick with cholera stayed in the shade to die.
One day we crossed a river along the border. That’s where Congo awaited us. We shared the pastures with the animal herds, then we were moved onto black-lava slopes where people had almost nothing to farm. White UN trucks brought sacks of food. Children gathered on a field to battle one another in traditional games. We got used to spending our days kicking the ball around. I was very skilled at dribbling with both feet. Since Papa had been a teacher, he sometimes sat us down on a school bench to give us lessons.
I knew the camp wasn’t our native country. I hadn’t forgotten the hills—I missed them terribly. If a child finds a place to eat and sleep in peace, and to play with friends, his carefree life outruns his memories. Then one day the war encircled our camp. There was a terrible roar of cannons and guns. The panic was unrelenting. We saw the army of uniforms. People were running in every direction but had nowhere to escape. They banged into one another to the sounds of bombshells. We came upon dead people who had hardly been mourned, and we watched moaning bloody bodies being carted away.
An unforgettable crowd urged us along like cattle. We clambered into the backs of hauling trucks. We traveled. We saw our country, Rwanda. The vehicle dropped us inside the Nyamata district, where the authorities warned us to return home. We didn’t go back to our house in Gatare. I think some people had taken it for themselves. Papa decided to bring us to Kanazi, where an aunt lent us the adobe house we live in today. The World Food Programme distributed provisions. We survived, going days without leaving the enclosure. We got by with the food from our family plot.
One day a neighbor came to visit. Papa walked him out to the footpath, as is the custom. A car pulled up in front of them, and men rushed out, tied my papa’s hands, and took him to the district jail. He was imprisoned in Rilima. That’s how he left us, in ’96. We weren’t very surprised, because every day soldiers rounded up a great many people suspected of genocide.
Myself, I couldn’t say if he participated in the expeditions. I remember him at home during the killings. He behaved calmly with my mama and my grandmama. I haven’t forgotten how he vanished in the van. Did I see a machete at home? Not a single memory. These were things without importance for the little boy that I was at the time. When they led my papa away, I didn’t understand why. It didn’t upset me. As I told you, we weren’t the only ones to lose a papa. They locked them up from all over—we heard about it every day. They even took mamas away. The children learned to live a new existence. They had gotten used to life in the Congo camps and they continued getting used to the tough luck that came crashing down on their families. In the end, you accept everything when you’re a child.
* * *
MY NAME IS Fabrice Tuyishimire. It means “let us give thanks to the good Lord.” I am twenty-two years old. I haven’t forgotten the date. There are three of us boys and two girls in the family. My mama’s name is Marie-Chantal Munkaka. She used to help care for women at the maternity hospital; today she farms the parcel. My papa’s name is Joseph-Désiré Bitero. He received the death sentence in ’96 at the Nyamata court. They didn’t shoot him with the six other convicts we saw fall in broad daylight in Kayumba. They didn’t release him later with the line of repentant prisoners. He lives at the penitentiary. Me, I grew up in Kanazi. I went to the primary school, I completed three years of secondary, then I quit to earn money. I missed the exams. I saw that I was too far behind to begin again.
I am no longer a student, because of a lack of minervals as much as a lack of attention in class. When I broke the news to my father in Rilima, he went silent. His teacher’s eyes turned away. He could find nothing to say. I am getting by now. Jobs await me here and there. I help out in the cabarets and restaurants: I work as a server or bartender or do odd jobs. Some bosses are nice and keep me on long-term, others throw me out whenever there aren’t enough customers. I also get hired on construction sites, as an assistant bricklayer, for example. I sometimes lend a hand weeding the crops on the family parcel, but then I take it back. I don’t think much of farming. In Rwanda, farming wears out your arms so much you can’t join in the country’s development, which is expanding everywhere.
I play soccer very skillfully. People cheer for me. I used to kick the ball around with my childhood feet as much as I could. Then I was trained by a Congolese coach named Noa. He had us practice complex techniques. I dribble, I pass, I don’t miss opportunities to score to help the team. The position where I am most comfortable is left wing, jersey number eleven. Soccer is my great joy. The Rwandan team’s exploits give me thrills. Playing soccer makes me happy; it offers me moments of cheerful friendship. Later on, however, the jobs ate away at my training time and I missed my chance to wear the backup squad jersey for Bugesera FC. Now I play on the Kanazi team, which competes against other mudugudus. I go to Nyamata to see games. It costs three hundred francs to watch the Champions League. I’m a fan of Chelsea and Barça. I like Samuel Eto’o, Didier Drogba, and, most of all, Lionel Messi. As far as movies go, I have never been. Besides Rwandan films on TV, I don’t watch movies. I prefer music—R&B or Rwandan songs. On the weekends, I go dancing at the Cultural Center, which is free, except when artists from Kigali perform. I have many friends, the ones from soccer, Kanazi neighbors, acquaintances I meet in the cabarets. No one criticizes me anymore about who I am.
In Nyamata, people know my father’s situation. They don’t ever hassle me. No one comes looking to talk to me about my father, and I don’t seek people out. No one asks me for news. Zero talk of memories—they aren’t something that comes up. Even with Fabiola, we never discuss our papa’s past. No troubles between brother and sister. We steer clear of it because we don’t know what to say. We share news after we go to see him, and nothing more. Fabiola tells me about her life, describing the various happy events at boarding school. We try to encourage each other, and we give each other advice, but we keep from mixing in Papa’s business. It’s a bond between us. I couldn’t tell you if we have the same opinion of him. We never quarrel, because we grew up stranded in a hostile childhood. We met mean looks. Mama heard insults from survivors’ lips. We kept on our toes for years. In the end, to us children, no damage was done, only poverty. And separation, of course.
Mama brought me to Papa’s trial. I listened to the people testify against him. I was too much a child to catch all the details. When we heard the death sentence, we accepted it for what it was because we couldn’t do anything else. We were frightened because others sentenced to death had been hauled in front of the crowd to meet the bullets. We saw the firing squad near Kayumba. It was very loud. Unforgettable.
Deep down, fear has never left me for long. I trembled from the explosions on the road to Congo, then from the war in the camp, and later from my papa’s death sentence. My biggest fear was that my mama might be imprisoned herself. Abandonment was my little boy’s obsession, because the rumors never stopped. In a situation like that, where the neighbors hide their true feelings, you are afraid without knowing what of. You don’t know your parents’ misdeeds, but still you are subjected to the punishment for the evil done. I grew up surrounded by people driven by hidden intentions.
Suspicion flows freely among children. Another boy may seem happy by your side, then suddenly you wonder if he isn’t putting on a show. With a friend who has suffered from the killings, the friendship is false. You endlessly examine people’s faces. Deep down, you distrust everyone. You are wary of leaving the family circle. No relative offers Mama any help, as custom recommends. People are sorry to be related to my papa. If they ever stopped at our gate, they did
so in secret, to teach us how to handle the hoe or to give us notebooks and pens, then disappeared before paying the minerval. That’s how I learned about the genocide. Then I had lessons about it at school. I went on a class visit to the memorial. Have I gone to the marshes? No, it hasn’t crossed my mind. I have seen pictures on television. No one can deny the killings anymore, or the terrible politics of the time. How would I sum it up? You want one sentence? I’d say: Habyarimana’s men wanted to eliminate the Tutsis because they were afraid of losing the war; the massacres left a great many orphans; poverty has plagued families on both sides; there is no shortage of regrets.
Fortunately, time steps in to help; it improves things. I go out now without getting blamed for my family in the eyes of others. I can’t pay for my papa’s actions, because I was only a child. I see myself as a decent member of society. I walk upright, without shame, when I meet Papa’s colleagues or people who consider him evil. I lead an honest life because it is mine, despite the bad looks. We are Hutus. Should I be ashamed of it? Can I reject my family? I walk without lowering my gaze, I crack jokes with coworkers. I like Kanazi, since that is where I grew up after we came back from Congo. I prefer Nyamata, though, which would have been my native town. It is growing rich. No matter. God chose me to be Hutu. God offers His love without exception. I pray every Sunday. Am I going to criticize the life He has given me? How am I supposed to understand His omnipotence? No, I accept His unfathomable plans, and I don’t question His silence during the killings. I never miss a single mass.
THE HOUSE WITH THE CRIMSON ROOF
Past Gatare’s last road, everything changes. A congregation of nuns bought up the old soccer field and built shops in its place. The district offices moved into a new five-story building. The Red Lion’s terrace now extends all the way to the street, facing cell phone and beauty-cream boutiques. A neon-lit service station has replaced the run-down gas pump. In Gatare, on the other hand, every bush and tree between the low adobe houses looks familiar, as do the people going about their routines within their hedge-lined courtyards, among broods of children, chickens, and goats.
The birds continue regardless, unruffled. The ashen cranes still lift their beaks to sing in the first glimmer of daybreak, followed soon after by the throaty cooroo-cooroos of the green turacos. As one advances in the thicket, one spots them between rays of sunlight (that is, if a mooing cow doesn’t suddenly intrude), sporting their green crests and matching breasts, hopping from branch to branch as if to entice their fellows to join the choir. Then, over the rhythm of stamping pestles, as the cooking-pot smoke and the hymns of young house girls rise from the courtyards, the bush erupts in a symphony of songs, among which those of gonoleks, weavers, and bee-eaters—birds no longer heard on Gatare’s main street. For along with the new asphalt and electricity, armies of pied crows have landed from Kigali, their caws overwhelming all but the swallows, which fly too high to be bothered.
A roof of crimson sheet metal sets Édiths Uwanyiligira’s house apart. To my great surprise, she offers me home-distilled honey-sweet urwagwa left over from the young orphans’ wedding she hosted the day before. Although I boarded at her place for several months, I never had the chance to taste the fruits of her talents as a distiller. Her house, a haven of cheer removed from the racket of the street, is open to all. Her hospitality flows from good-natured sanctimoniousness. In the late afternoons, a bevy of guests stop by: neighborhood women gabbing as they fill their jerry cans with water at the tap; ladies from the parish gossiping about the clergymen, who are, of course, the most frequent of Édith’s visitors. She loves to hear the cooing of the priests, deacons, guitarists, and choristers, all devout parishioners who gather at her place to commune in song and prayer and sometimes laughter—because one can hardly resist Édith’s mirth—as their impatient eyes gaze hungrily at plates of sweets and their nostrils thrill to the kitchen’s aromas.
A new priest has dropped in today for a sip of drink. It didn’t take long for him to learn where he might find a fine reception. He launches into a fiery theological discussion. He is brilliant, young, and handsome, which Édith can’t help noticing. Still, although she is sincerely devoted to her congregation and holds limitless admiration for the priests, she will only ever love one man on earth, her husband, who was taken from before her eyes in their frantic escape from the machetes. His name was Jean-de-Dieu Nkurunziza, about whom one pleasant evening she had this to say: “My husband and I always lived as happily as newlyweds. We had loved each other since childhood. We grew up just five hundred meters apart on the very same hill. After secondary school, we loved each other for real—we got married. The day of our wedding, I was decked out in a white embroidered dress like in the photos. A crowd of elegant and joyful people came. My husband and I loved each other more than was necessary. I was capricious. He loved me too much and even preferred that I leave the housework alone.”
Sometimes, when the memory of her husband’s death brings her to the brink of a bewildering void, headaches or violent fevers keep her confined to her bedroom, where she stays to avoid stumbling or collapsing in front of the children. Several days later, she will reemerge, cheerful once again.
A band of kids bustle in the courtyard, some washing up at the tap or playing stick and hoop, others plunging their hungry hands into a big plate of fufu or pestering a duck and its ducklings—just as they had during my first stay here fifteen years ago. It makes one wonder if, within the walls of this little realm, the children have aged as little as those in children’s books. Except, that is, for Sandra, Édith’s daughter. Fifteen years ago she was an impish little girl, looking out onto the world with big, inquisitive eyes and ruling over the horde of kids in the courtyard. She was a touch wild, always ready to bolt on her matchstick legs toward new adventures.
Today she is a slender young woman, easygoing and headstrong, as thin as her mother is plump. She inherited Édith’s exuberant cheerfulness and tremendous courage, which help her to confront the neurological disorder that afflicts her.
SANDRA ISIMBI
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
Daughter of Édith Uwanyiligira, Tutsi survivor
I once had the chance to enter a movie theater. My brother, Bertrand, had come back from America, and he paid for my ticket. We saw the latest American romance. The film was touching. I fancy American movies—they have a pretty way of talking about love. I adore romances, like Romeo and Juliet. Do you know it? It’s one of my favorites. I stay away from war movies because they stir up nightmares. I prefer movies to soaps, although when I watch Mexican or Indian TV series, I’m on the edge of my seat. Anyway, the actors I love the best are Mexican. I’m crazy about the weekly shows that follow the love lives of men and women from faraway countries.
I had a boyfriend. It was a real romance. We broke up. Sadness didn’t miss its chance: it made me cry, then let me be. A lot of boys hang around wanting me to give up my love. I’m not ready for that yet. I’m not sure if I could fall in love with a Hutu boy. In Nyamata, there is zero risk of that since we all know each other. I know the boys from Gatare and the ones I socialize with in various activities. Even on the main street, we know where everyone comes from, and it’s a sharp line that keeps love away. At university, there are loads of young people, so things can be different. In the huge city of Kigali, too, you interact with boys without knowing anything about their families. We talk, we joke around, we enjoy each other’s company. Under no circumstances do we ask direct questions. There are Hutus who are tall and slim like Tutsis and seem equally polished and polite, except when they disagree. When they seem to get along well with others, there is no way to identify them, so love could take advantage and sneak its way in. If I discovered that my sweetheart was Hutu, that would shake me up. But I don’t think I could leave him. How do you know?
I have too many friends to count. Most are boys and girls I met at elementary school in Gatare. My best friends are those I palled around with at Maranyundo Girls School. That’s t
he American middle school where I completed my compulsory subjects. I am now in my last year at Stella Matutina public high school, not far from Kigali. I am doing the physics-chemistry-mathematics combination, but I don’t see myself studying science later. The nervous disorder, which I’ve had ever since the genocide, as you know, affects my concentration.
Nowadays I see my close girlfriends during vacations. We have fun talking at one or another of their houses. We take a seat on a bench or go for a stroll. We’re happy without even trying. We can hardly wait to tell each other private, funny things. We fill one another in on the latest gossip and share popular videos. We meet up for church activities like choir. With certain girlfriends, sports are the thing. My long legs have encouraged me to continue playing basketball, and my classmates push me, too. I have a real knack for shooting the ball.
Me, I’m passionate about dance. It’s an enchantment. I began as a little girl at church, and it always got me noticed. Dance is especially rewarding given my illness. At school, I lead the dance group. I also dance at the parish. When friends have a birthday, we all invite each other to dance; the fun takes our breath away. I perform traditional Rwandan dance very, very beautifully. It’s the imbyino rhythm of the drums. I dance publicly wearing amazing dresses at ceremonies like marriages and baptisms. In Nyamata, the district’s troupe tried to recruit me, but my mama didn’t want me going on long-distance tours. When I finish school, I hope to join a famous company—and why not visit faraway lands?
My friends and I are really keen on the internet. We meet up in Nyamata’s cybercafés, we surf the web together, and I fool around on my Facebook page. A lot of people I know have sent me friend requests; we become better friends as we message more, especially the girls. I also get ordinary messages. I chat with my brother, Bertrand, because he is studying at an American university. I play games, too. I exchange news with my friend Kate, who was a teacher at Maranyundo Girls School. Pictures spring up from all over. We sing their praises for fun. My friends and I watch music videos on YouTube. We sift through singers’ personal lives and compare notes, but not as frequently as young people in America do. We sometimes joke around on Skype. My mama gave me a smartphone, which she keeps tabs on with her stern voice because charges can soar without warning. We also surf the web at school. They allow us an hour a week to do our research on Google and the like. With a little pocket money, you can buy two hours of browsing on the weekends, but no more, because the classmates in line behind you get annoyed.