I asked my friend and colleague, Shingiro, if he would be willing to write a few words about the 1994 Genocide in Rwanda and the annual week of Kwibuka, Remembering, that takes place now every April.
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| Shingiro (right), Katie, Celine, and I all work together at RLS |
What follows is his story in his own words, which he has allowed me to share with you all. I have included some footnotes and links to additional resources at the end of the post for those who are not familiar with the history of Rwanda.
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In the Heart of 1000 Hills
Going through the students’
papers in the evening is a part of my work. My roommate, Kanamugire, does the
same. He is also father of two, a teacher of entrepreneurship, and a school
counselor. I’m Shingiro. I’m from southern Rwanda, but I live in Rwamagana, a
beautiful village in the East.
Here
in Rwanda, it’s the norm to go to a neighbor for many different reasons: for
example, if you have water shortage or if you've forgotten to buy small things
like salts, a box of matches, and so on. Personally, all my neighbors know that
I’m a teacher; they send me their kids for homework support in the evening or
weekends. In return I may send any of the kids to fetch water for or buy
anything at the market. To me this is example enough to say that we live in
harmony. In Rwanda, we attend the same market, we
fetch water from the same source, our churches are always full on Sundays, we
go to the same hospital, and our kids attend the same schools peacefully.
But I have other neighbors. They
are from TIG, “Travail d’Interet General,” which is a French acronym that means
“work for general service.” They are commonly called Tigistes. This may be
compared to (court mandated) community service in USA, but it is not the same. Tigistes
are confessed genocide perpetrators. There are about 40 in my neighborhood and they
live side by side with genocide survivors. Many are old and they always wear
pink or black uniforms. So you see my community shares much in common, but is also
extremely complex. There many orphans (including me), there are children born of
rape in Genocide against Tutsi, there are widows and widowers, there are many
killers who confessed what they did and were released from prison because they
have asked for forgiveness, and many others with stories that are hard for me to
overlook.
The question is: does this
community really live in harmony? Are the people healed yet? Have they repented?
Are they forgiven? Do we need to answer these questions? As a survivor, I will
not give any answer; instead I’ll share a personal experience and views on my
unique society.
Like other schools in Rwanda,
April 1st, 2016 Rwamagana Lutheran School’s students and teachers
take their luggage. Some are packing early in the morning; others did it the
night before. They are not packing for a holiday or the end of the first
semester, but in preparation for mourning week¹. In this mourning week, Rwandans remember our
loved ones who are forever living in our hearts. During this time I often think
about my career as a teacher. I decided on teaching not because my dad was a
teacher, but because of my own circumstances:
I remember that genocide started early in 1990. I
was at my grandfather’s house, near the source of the Nile. The memories are
still embedded in my mind every time I see the river. Memories from an elementary
classroom, a teacher reading from German explorers’ writings about the origin
of ‘Tutsi’².
Memories of teachers with list of Hutu and Tutsi children. Once I
was in 3rd grade, a teacher came in with a list and spoke, “Tutsi
stand up”. We stood up, 5 in a class of 40. My friend Moses, a Hutu kid who was
new at the school, but who was also my football friend and neighbor, stood up.
A teacher warned him to never stand up again with minority group. From this
classroom experience, I decided one day to be a teacher of change not because
of it was my dream, but because my own teachers separated not only Hutu and
Tutsi, but they also separated friends.
Then one day after class, a terrible
event happened; the river we used to swim in turned red with dead bodies
floating like tree leaves in the flood. That was dated 1990 not 1994. Those
were Tutsi bodies.
I personally believe humans are
the cruelest beasts I’ve ever witnessed, and for me, the mourning never waits until
7th April.. It’s a daily burden.
As my students now pack to go
home for the week, and the teachers are leaving the school, Kanamugire is going
to see his family and I’m going to stay alone.
“You’re going to stay alone.” My roommate
pities me.
“I’m not alone. Like best
friends, I have nice books” I shot back.
“You need a break man.” He added.
“Oh, yeah. Let me give a call to
this beautiful lady.” I say.
Hoping that I’ am going on date,
my roommate smiled and I smiled back. I dialed her number, she picked it up and
we talked.
“How are you darling? It’s been
ages, but now it’s a blessing and honor to talk to you again.’’ I said.
“More we talk, the younger I
become. Can’t you hear that my voice sounds like one of a bride to be?” she
says.
We laugh and laugh until tears
flow on my cheeks. She asks me if am fine, I say yes. I asked her how old age
is treating her. She teases me that every time I call, she thinks about my (nonexistent)
wedding invitation. We laughed and exchange emotional words I’m not able to
translate in English.
Whenever I visit this old woman
of 87, she gives me hope for the future. And hopefully, I give her hope for living.
This is not my girlfriend. She is neither my grandma nor my aunt, she is simply
my heroine. An extraordinary and brave woman, she saved many Tutsi. She was not
armed like UN peacekeepers, or the Belgian or French army, but she saved many
from sharpened swords and machetes, only armed with the Bible she used to read
to us. I spent 2 months under her bed while the same neighbors I used to talk
with macheteed children, smashed infants on the walls, or killed with clubs
with nails sticking out of them.
On the third day of the mourning
week, I visited this woman, and she gave me a warm welcome. The only problem
she has is of sight, she is no longer able to read her Bible. I helped, and I
took her Bible to remind her of a favorite verse from Philippians 3:18−21:
“For,
as I have often told you before and now tell you again even with
tears, many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. Their
destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory
is in their shame. Their mind is set on earthly things. But our
citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the
Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring
everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they
will be like his glorious body.”
“What
a preacher you were!” I
said as I reminded
her that she used to read this for those of us in hiding.
“I
used to tell you, my children, whoever got
involved in killing innocent people one day or other will be
paid back. Can’t
you see? They’ve destroyed
themselves. The memories of what they’ve done will
always haunt them. My son, never discriminate against
or underestimate any person. Pretend you know no one and
treat the people of God equally. For that you will be a friend of the cross. I
am not the one who saved you all. ‘Ni ya
Mana yirirwa ahandi igataha I Rwanda’: A God that visits other places and
always come back home.” She said in a
composed voice. “My son you must follow the Lord’s words. Other things you are chasing
will follow.”
Before
saying good bye, the old woman gave me another verse she
has memorized:
“John16:20 ‘YOUR
GRIEF WILL TURN TO JOY’. God's word never fails.” She instructed.
Rwanda has changed. We are no
longer listening to a single radio program used only to dehumanize Tutsi as
roaches, snakes, and beasts with tails. (Ethnic) IDs no longer exist, nor does
the small country where religious leaders, business people, and politicians
could not think about of development, but only about division.
But can we turn our back and
forget? Is it ethical to forget that
many survivors were killed even after genocide without any eye witnesses? Is there
any moral right to call my neighbors ‘Hutu’ or ‘Tutsi’ while many Hutu died on
roadblocks because they look like Tutsi? What about the many children with a
confused identity? ³ There are many reasons to remember. Remember that once
you tell a wrong story of a people, you’re robbing them of their dignity.
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| Genocide memorials can be found throughout the country. This one is in the Western province in front of a church on Lake Kivu. |
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| Stained glass art from a church outside Kigali where 10,000 people were killed in and around the sanctuary. |
There is really nothing that I can say, nor is it my place to say anything, about the experiences of my Rwandan friends and neighbors during the genocide against the Tutsi. I will only say this: I am constantly in awe of the strength of the people that I meet here. I feel privileged to be able just to be a witness to their stories, their courage, and their love. I am blessed every day to walk the earth alongside such remarkable, resilient, forgiving people.
I'll end with this, the email Shingiro wrote me when he sent me the document above:
"Thanks a lot for encouraging me to put this on paper, it means a lot to me despite the lack of exact words that describe inhumanity of humans.
As we remember (this event) in Rwanda, we also remember the part of ourselves that is human."
Shingiro
1 Mourning week, called “Kwibuka”
(Kinyarwanda for ‘to remember’), is a week-long national commemoration/bank holiday
beginning every April 7th. April 7th is the date that, in
1994, 100 days of genocidal killings began in Rwanda, resulting in the deaths
of almost one million Tutsi and moderate Hutu. During the week of “Kwibuka”, schools
and businesses close, and all Rwandans must attend commemoration meetings in
their home communities.
2 Shingiro’s description of the ‘origin
of the Tutsi’ he was taught: a Belgian priest said that Noah’s sinful son,
cursed by the Father and destined to be a slave, moved from Ethiopia to Rwanda
and that is how the Tutsi came to Rwanda. (The Belgian colonists used this
narrative to justify giving power to those they deemed to be ‘Tutsi’, claiming
they were more closely related to Caucasians. They claimed that the more
numerous but less affluent ‘Hutu’ had been in Rwanda longer. From what I understand,
this narrative was co-opted by Hutu extremists to encourage militias to ‘reclaim’
whatever parts of Rwanda the Tutsi occupied.)
3 Because intermarriage was/is common and it
was/is almost impossible to tell the difference between ‘Hutu’ and ‘Tutsi’, many
children have one parent from one ethnic group and another parent from the
other ethnic group. During the genocide, this confused identity meant that it
was not only neighbor against neighbor, but sometimes husband turned against
wife, cousin against cousin, etc.
Rwanda: How the Genocide Happened
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-13431486
http://www.bbc.com/news/world-africa-13431486
