At my little brother, Vianney’s, firstcommunion: I’m on the left at age ten,and Vianney is in the center, with Momon his right.

My family in front of our home. Fromleft: Dad, Mom, Aimable, Damascene,me, and Vianney.

Here I am with my brothers. From left:Vianney, our friend Claude, me, andAimable. Damascene is in front.

Here I am at age 17, with Vianney.

Vianney enjoying a day by Lake Kivu.

Sitting behind our house, looking outover Lake Kivu, when I returned to myvillage after the genocide in late 1994.

Me, wearing the hat, at home with mygirlfriend Mimi, who was killed in thegenocide. Behind us is my dad’s yellowmotorcycle.

Me, wearing the striped shirt,picnicking with my Girl Scout friends.My girlfriend Clementine, far right, waskilled in the student massacre at ouruniversity.

Damascene (holding the ball) wascaptain of the basketball team.

Damascene, superstar athlete.

At Damascene’s high schoolgraduation: Dad is second from left;Damascene is holding his diploma; I’mfourth from the right; and Vianney is farright, with Aimable next to him.

Here I am at university, a few monthsbefore the genocide began.

Damascene visiting me at myuniversity campus in Butare.

Mom, front left, and her best friends.All but one of them were killed in thegenocide.

Dad, on the right, discussing Rwandaneducational policy at an internationalconference of Catholic school directors.

Sitting in the bathroom, where I hidwith seven other women for threemonths, during a visit to PastorMurinzi’s house a decade after thegenocide.

Wondering how we all managed to fitin that tiny bathroom.

This is the wardrobe that concealedthe bathroom door and saved our lives.

Here I am with Pastor Murinzi, tenyears after the genocide.

Damascene’s heartbreaking letter,written the night before he died.

The youngest member of my family tobe murdered in the genocide: my eight-month-old cousin, Muvara.

These are fellow survivors, whom Imet at the French camp. From left: mycousin Jeannette, her friend Rebeka, mycousin Consolee, Aunt Jeanne, and mycousin Chantal.

The ruins of our family home,destroyed during the genocide.

My brother Aimable stands in thewreckage of Dad’s burned-out car.

Me, bottom right, with the soldiers atthe French camp.

Visiting Mother Teresa’s Orphanagein Kigali, which became a second hometo me after the genocide.

With my wonderful husband, Bryan,during our traditional Rwandan weddingceremony in Kigali, 1998.

Bryan and me with our babies, ourjoy: Nikki and Bryan, Jr.

My brother Aimable and I together onhis wedding day in 2004.

Here I am chatting with Rwandanpresident Paul Kagame at the UnitedNations in New York, September 2005.In 1994, President Kagame led the RPF,the rebel Tutsi army, into Rwanda, andstopped the genocide.

Praise for LEFT TO TELL“I am humbled by the extraordinaryspirituality that shines throughout

Immaculée Ilibagiza’s story of terror,endurance, healing, and forgiveness. As

a Rwandan, I am proud that we canlook beyond the misconceived

differences that resulted in the murderof so many of our children, men, andwomen in 1994. Immaculée’s account

of genocide survival is trulyastonishing. It gives us hope of

overcoming the divisions deliberatelycreated by those with self-serving

agendas and no thought for humanity.Everyone should read this story—survivors as well as perpetrators. I

hope that all can experienceImmaculée’s profound spiritual

transformation and be inspired to workfor a united and lasting nation.”

— Jeannette Kagame, First Lady of theRepublic of Rwanda

“Into a confused world that has lost itsmoral compass comes Immaculée

Iligabiza’s book, offering luminousdirection, and pointing us straight

toward the path of reconciliation. Asthe horrific acts of the Rwandan

genocide escalate, Immaculée’s faithdeepens. It is this unsettling tension

between horror and faith that hauntedme long after my tears and nausea had

subsided. Although the details of

Immaculée’s story are unique, what isprofoundly universal is the way herbelief in goodness is tested over and

over. As unspeakable evil spreadsaround her, and she has to dig deeperand deeper to find compassion, hope,

and ultimately the kind of genuineforgiveness that offers redemption. Left

to Tell will leave you breathless andfalling to your knees with renewed

faith.”

— Gail Straub, director, TheEmpowerment Institute; the author of

The Rhythm of Compassion

“We all ask ourselves what we woulddo if faced with the kind of terror andloss that Immaculée Ilibagiza faced

during the genocide in her country.Would we allow fear and desperationto fill us with hatred or despair? Andshould we survive, would our spirit bepoisoned, or would we be able to rise

from the ashes still encouraged tofulfill our purpose in life, still able togive and receive love? In the tradition

of Viktor Frankl and Anne Frank,Immaculée is living proof that humanbeings can not only withstand evil, but

can also find courage in crisis, andfaith in the most hopeless of situations.

She gives us the strength to findwisdom and grace during our own

challenging times.”

— Elizabeth Lesser, co-founder of the

Omega Institute, and author of BrokenOpen: How Difficult Times Can Help

Us Grow

“Left to Tell is for anyone who isweary of the predictable ‘eye for aneye, tooth for a tooth’ trance most ofthe world suffers from. Immaculée

Ilibagiza breaks that spell by bravelyquelling the storm within, and

contacting a force so powerful that itallows her to calm the storm ‘without,’

and more important, to forgive the‘unforgivable.’ Her story is an

inspiration to anyone who is at oddswith a brother, a nation, or

themselves.”

— Judith Garten, teacher and

counselor of The 50/50Work© and achild of the WWII Holocaust

“This book has renewed my faith inGod and the Universe in a profoundand real way that has changed me

forever.”

— Christiane Northrup, M.D., theauthor of Women’s Bodies, Women’s

Wisdom

“An inspirational, life-altering book.Once you turn that first page, you’re

changed forever. You will never forgetImmaculée and what it means to

embrace life in the darkest of times.”

— Cindy Pearlman, New York TimesSyndicate

“Immaculée Ilibagiza’s gift offorgiveness to the perpetrators of theunthinkable acts revealed in this book

is just one of the extraordinaryexamples of her unwavering courage.This book moved me in unimaginableways, and reminded me once again

about the immense grace that is bornout of faith and forgiveness.”

— Denise Linn, the author of If I CanForgive, So Can You

“Reading this book has truly changedmy life—not in some distant future, but

right now! I can’t even describe myfeelings, but they have shifted things

inside me in such a way that I just can’tfind the words. This is a book that

defies adequate description.”

— Vimala Rodgers, author andmotivational speaker

“Immaculée’s story is totally grippingfrom first to last page. It’s such an

important work that I don’t want to justdescribe it as a page-turner . . . but it

is. This is a book that will stay with meforever.”

— Al Burton, writer, director, andcreator of numerous hit TV shows

“Left to Tell reminds us that we are allsons and daughters of God; that with

faith, miracles will always appear; andthat forgiveness is the key to freedom.

A must-read for all of us in these

troubled times.”

— Colette Baron-Reid, the author ofRemembering the Future

“Left to Tell is an incredibly importantstory. It addresses both the best and the

worst aspects of our humanity.Immaculée is a living example of the

undefeatable human spirit! Her story istimeless.”

— Steve Kalafer, three-time AcademyAwardnominated producer

LEFT TO TELL

HAY HOUSE TITLES OFRELATED INTERESTAsk and It Is Given: Learning to

Manifest Your Desires, by Esther andJerry Hicks (The Teachings of Abraham)

An Attitude of Gratitude: 21 LifeLessons, by Keith Harrell

Count Your Blessings: The HealingPower of Gratitude and Love, by Dr.

John F. Demartini

The End of Karma: 40 Days to PerfectPeace, Tranquility, and Bliss, by

Dharma Singh Khalsa, M.D.

The God Code: The Secret of Our Past,the Promise of Our Future, by Gregg

Braden

Gratitude: A Way of Life, by Louise L.Hay and Friends

If I Can Forgive, So Can You: MyAutobiography of How I Overcame My

Past and Healed My Life, by DeniseLinn

In Real Life: Powerful Lessons fromEveryday Living, edited by KarlZinsmeister, with Karina Rollins

Inspiration: Your Ultimate Calling, byDr. Wayne W. Dyer

Miracles, by Stuart Wilde

Never Mind Success . . . Go forGreatness!

The Best Advice I’ve Ever Received, astold to Tavis Smiley

The Power of Intention: Learning toCo-create Your World Your Way, by Dr.

Wayne W. Dyer

All of the above are available at yourlocal bookstore, or may be ordered by

visiting:

Hay House USA: www.hayhouse.comHay House Australia:

www.hayhouse.com.auHay House UK: www.hayhouse.co.uk

Hay House South Africa:orders@psdprom.co.za

LEFT TO TELLDiscovering God

Amidst the RwandanHolocaust

Immaculée Ilibagizawith Steve Erwin

HAY HOUSE, INC.Carlsbad, California

London • Sydney • Johannesburg Vancouver • Hong Kong

Copyright 2006 by Immaculée Ilibagiza

Published and distributed in the United States by:Hay House, Inc., P.O. Box 5100, Carlsbad, CA 92018-5100 • Phone: (760) 431-7695 or (800) 654-5126 •Fax: (760) 431-6948 or (800) 650-5115 •www.hayhouse.com • Published and distributed inAustralia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd., 18/36Ralph St., Alexandria NSW 2015 • Phone: 612-9669-4299 • Fax: 612-9669-4144 • www.hayhouse.com.au •Published and distributed in the United Kingdomby: Hay House UK, Ltd. • Unit 62, Canalot Studios •222 Kensal Rd., London W10 5BN • Phone: 44-20-8962-1230 • Fax: 44-20-8962-1239 •www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed inthe Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA(Pty), Ltd., P.O. Box 990, Witkoppen 2068 •Phone/Fax: 27-11-706-6612 • orders@psdprom.co.za• Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast • 9050Shaughnessy St., Vancouver, B.C. V6P 6E5 • Phone:(604) 323-7100 • Fax: (604) 323-2600

Editorial supervision: Jill Kramer • Design: TriciaBreidenthal

Interior photos courtesy of the author

All rights reserved. No part of this book may bereproduced by any mechanical, photographic, orelectronic process, or in the form of a phonographicrecording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system,transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public orprivate use—other than for “fair use” as briefquotations embodied in articles and reviews—withoutprior written permission of the publisher. The intent ofthe author is only to offer information of a generalnature to help you in your quest for emotional andspiritual well-being. In the event you use any of theinformation in this book for yourself, which is yourconstitutional right, the author and the publisher assumeno responsibility for your actions.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-PublicationData

Ilibagiza, Immaculée.

Left to tell : discovering God amidst the Rwandanholocaust / Immaculée Ilibagiza, with Steve Erwin.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4019-0896-6 (hardcover)

ISBN-10: 1-4019-0896-9 (hardcover)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4019-0897-3 (tradepaper)

ISBN-10: 1-4019-0897-7 (tradepaper)

1. Ilibagiza, Immaculée. 2. Catholics--Rwanda--Biography. 3. Rwanda--History--Civil War, 1994--Personal narratives. I. Erwin, Steve. II. Title.

BX4705.I46A3 2006

282.092--dc22

2005031509

Hardcover: ISBN 13: 978-1-4019-0896-6 • ISBN10: 1-4019-0896-9

Tradepaper: ISBN 13: 978-1-4019-0897-3 • ISBN10: 1-4019-0897-7

09 08 07 06 4 3 2 11st printing, February 2006

Printed in the United States of America

To my beloved parents, Leonard andRose; and my dear brothers Damascene

and Vianney, for all the selfless loveyou gave me. You make heaven a

brighter place, and I will love youalways.

For my brother Aimable, with muchlove and in hopes of healing unspoken

pain.

And to my new family—Bryan and oursweet babies, Nikki and Bryan, Jr.—for

giving me a new life, love, andinspiration. You make my life complete.

In memory of holocaust victimseverywhere.

Immaculée’s hometown, Mataba,which is north of Kibuye and west ofMabanza, on the shores of Lake Kivu.

CONTENTSForeword by Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

Preface

Introduction My Name Is Immaculée

PART I: THE GATHERING STORM

Chapter 1: The Eternal Spring

Chapter 2: Standing Up

Chapter 3: Higher Learning

Chapter 4: Off to University

Chapter 5: Returning Home

Chapter 6: No Going Back

Chapter 7: The Pastor’s House

Chapter 8: Farewell to the Boys

PART II: IN HIDING

Chapter 9: Into the Bathroom

Chapter 10: Confronting My Anger

Chapter 11: Struggling to Forgive

Chapter 12: No Friends to Turn To

Chapter 13: A Gathering of Orphans

Chapter 14: The Gift of Tongues

Chapter 15: Unlikely Saviors

Chapter 16: Keeping the Faith

PART III: A NEW PATH

Chapter 17: The Pain of Freedom

Chapter 18: A Letter from Damascene

Chapter 19: Camp Comfort

Chapter 20: The Road to the Rebels

Chapter 21: On to Kigali

Chapter 22: The Lord’s Work

Chapter 23: Burying the Dead

Chapter 24: Forgiving the Living

Epilogue: New Love, New Life

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Wristband Ordering Information

“When we are no longer able to changea situation—we are challenged to

change ourselves.”

— Viktor E. Frankl, psychologist,author, and Nazi holocaust survivor

FOREWORD

I’ve read thousands of books over thepast 50 or so years. The book you holdin your hands is by far the most movingand poignantly significant of the vastlibrary that comprises my lifetime ofpersonal reading.

You’re about to embark on a journeythat will undoubtedly change the wayyou view the power of faith—forever. Asingle phrase from the scripturesreminds us that “with God all things arepossible.” I’ve quoted this passagefrequently in my lectures, often addingthe rhetorical question: “Now what doesthat leave out?” The answer is obvious

to all: “All things means all things.”

You’ve read that pure faith, devoid ofall doubt, can move mountains and evenproject a camel through the eye of aneedle. But even with your ownunshakable faith, the mountain hasprobably remained stationary where it’salways been, and the eye of the needle istoo tiny to welcome even one camel’seyelash—let alone the entire creaturetraversing a minuscule opening. Well,I’m happy to report that when you’vecompleted your first reading of Left toTell, you’ll have a new perspective onwhat the field of all possibilities lookslike. As you bear witness to ImmaculéeIlibagiza’s transcendent experience in

the midst of a holocaust too horrible toeven contemplate, you’ll also understandhow the limitless power of pure,undeterred faith can indeed work tocreate miracles.

Despite the hideous display ofhumans’ inhumanity to each other thatwas taking place only a decade or soago in the country of Rwanda, this istruly a love story in the purest sense ofthe word—a story of the triumph of thehuman spirit, a story of one woman’sprofound faith and determination tosurvive (against literally impossibleodds) in order to tell her tale and to bean agent for ushering in a new spiritualconsciousness, and a story of a love for

God that was so strong that hatred andrevenge were forced to dissolve in itspresence.

I have come to know Immaculée very,very well over the past year—in fact,we communicate on a daily basis. She’straveled with me, speaking on the samestage and telling her story to audiencesthat number in the thousands. We’vetalked privately for hour after hour abouther experiences in the holocaust and herambitions today, and I’ve spent timewith her and her family. I’ve spokenwith her co-workers and even her fellowholocaust survivors, and she’s spent agreat deal of time with my own children.I’ve conversed with her during long

plane and train rides between lecturestops, and I’ve seen her stand beforeaudiences large and small. I’ve come toknow this dynamic, powerful woman sowell that I count her as one of my closestfriends. In fact, I’ve come to love andadmire her so much that I’ve dedicatedmy latest book, Inspiration, to her.

I reveal my own personal relationshipwith Immaculée here in the openingpages of this extraordinary workbecause I want you, who are about to beimmersed into an experience that willchange your life forever (and I believe isdestined to change the world for thebetter as well), to know firsthand what aphenomenal human being Immaculée

Ilibagiza is in my eyes. In all of mycountless hours with her, in thismultitude of private and public settings,this transcendentally spiritual womanalways—and I mean always—shines alight that captures everyone within itsboundaries.

When she converses at a dinner table,all who are present not only listen,they’re magnetically drawn to her; and inlarge audiences, you can hear a pin dropas she speaks from her heart with somuch conviction. There is somethingmuch more than charisma at work here—Immaculée not only writes and speaksabout unconditional love andforgiveness, but she radiates it wherever

she goes. She lives at an elevated levelof spiritual consciousness, and by doingso, she raises the energy level of allthose whom she encounters . . . includingmyself.

The very first moment we met, I knewin an absolute flash of insight that I wasin the presence of a uniquely Divinewoman (something that will be evidentwhen you complete this book). Webriefly spoke after a presentation I madein New York City for the OmegaInstitute, and after only a second or two,she was gone from my sight—but inthose few moments, I was captured. Isensed her exceptionally high energy,similar to the way I felt after having

been with Mother Meera (an Indianwoman who’s thought to be anincarnation of the Divine Mother) manyyears before.

Immaculée didn’t seek me out forassistance in having this book published—I was the one who did the seeking.That inner glow of joy and love that Ifelt in her company wouldn’t leave me,so I asked my daughter Skye, who hadexchanged e-mail addresses withImmaculée, to please make every effortto contact her. Days turned into weeks,and there was still no communication.Each day I’d ask Skye, “Have you heardfrom the woman from Rwanda?”

Finally, Immaculée responded to my

daughter’s inquiries, and I telephonedher immediately. I asked her onequestion: “Would you be willing towrite your story of survival? I feelcompelled to help you get the message tothe world.” It was then that Immaculéetold me she herself had already writtendown every detail of her ordeal as aTutsi woman in Rwanda who was beinghunted and marked for certain deathduring the genocide of 1994. She told meshe felt that this was the reason whyshe’d been spared, but that her efforts inbeing published were unsuccessful,largely because English was her thirdlanguage and she needed help in gettingthe essence of her story converted to amore readable format.

It was at this point that I asked her tosend me everything she’d written, whichturned out to be about 150,000 words inwhich she’d painstakingly recordedevery detail some five years afterleaving Rwanda. I made one phone callto my friend Reid Tracy, the president ofHay House, and arrangements weremade to have writer Steve Erwin helpImmaculée tell her story in the way thatit’s written on these pages. I told Reidthat I would support this project in everyway possible: Not only would I writethe Foreword, but I’d also help bringImmaculée and her story to all of mypublic appearances. In addition, I’dtravel to Rwanda with her and her

family and help her raise money to fulfillher mission of aiding the many orphanedchildren left behind when the killingfinally stopped.

In addition, I told Reid that I wantedto include Immaculée in my PublicTelevision special on Inspiration: YourUltimate Calling, and that I’d doeverything in my power to bring thisspiritual woman’s saga to the public eye.And all of this was done because of thatfeeling I had when I first met her, at theback of a room full of people, for only afew moments.

It has been said that the laws of thematerial world do not apply in thepresence of the God-realized. You’ll

come to understand these words directlyby the time you finish reading this book.Time after time, Immaculée’s pure, God-realized “Inner Beingness” allowed herto erect invisible barriers so that killerswith machetes who were only inchesaway were blinded to her physicalpresence. As her faith deepened, themiracles became even more astonishing.Her visualizations became so real—andall doubt was banished from her mind—that she was indeed at one with God.She knew that God was with her as shesaw a cross of light bar her and hercompanions from certain death. Angelsof love and compassion seemed toemerge out of nowhere as Immaculéeintensified her communion with our

Creator. She was able to stare down adetermined killer and watch in certaintyas he dropped his weapon and becameimmobilized as his contempt wasconverted to kindness.

And finally, as she abandoned all ofher feelings of hatred and revengetoward the killers—and despite whatonce seemed an impossibility—shemerged into Divine union with God byoffering her tormentors not onlycompassion, but total forgiveness andunconditional love as well. Yes, shebecame one with Spirit, where sheremains today.

Her story will touch you deeply. Youwill feel her fear, you will cry, and you

will ask yourself the same questions thatwe as a people have been askingforever: How could this happen? Wheredoes such animosity come from? Whycan’t we just be like God, Who is theSource for all of us? But you will alsofeel something else most profoundly:You will feel hope, a hope that inch byinch, we as a people are moving towarda new alignment—that is, we’re movingtoward living God-realized lives.

To me, Immaculée was not only left totell this mind-blowing story, but morethan that, she’s a living example of whatwe can all accomplish when we gowithin and choose to truly live in perfectharmony with our originating Spirit.

I am honored to have played a smallrole in bringing this staggering story tothe attention of the world. I am honoredto join hands with Immaculée and assistin her vision of love and compassion—not only in Rwanda, but in all placeswhere hatred has resided for so long.And I am deeply honored to write thesefew words in this book that you, thereader, are about to immerse yourself in.I assure you that as you do so, you’llmove to a place just a few inches closerto living in oneness with the sameDivine Essence from which we were allcreated.

I love this book, and I love ImmaculéeIlibagiza.

Immaculée, thank you for coming intomy life.

— Wayne Dyer, Maui, Hawaii

PREFACE

This book is not intended to be ahistory of Rwanda or of the genocide;rather, it is my own history. A number ofvery good, informative books have beenpublished recently exploring in detail thepolitics and mechanics of the 1994genocide in which, according toRwandan government estimates, morethan one million people were murderedin roughly 100 days.

This is my story, told as I remember it. . . and I remember it as though ithappened yesterday. It’s a true story; Iuse my own name and the names of myfamily. However, I have changed most

of the names of others who appear in thebook to protect the identity of thesurvivors and to avoid perpetuating thecycle of hatred.

I believe that our lives areinterconnected, that we’re meant to learnfrom one another’s experiences. I wrotethis book hoping that others may benefitfrom my story.

— Immaculée Ilibagiza, New York City

INTRODUCTIONMy Name Is Immaculée

I heard the killers call my name.

They were on the other side of thewall, and less than an inch of plaster andwood separated us. Their voices werecold, hard, and determined.

“She’s here . . . we know she’s heresomewhere. . . . Find her—findImmaculée.”

There were many voices, manykillers. I could see them in my mind: myformer friends and neighbors, who had

always greeted me with love andkindness, moving through the housecarrying spears and machetes and callingmy name.

“I have killed 399 cockroaches,” saidone of the killers. “Immaculée will make400. It’s a good number to kill.”

I cowered in the corner of our tinysecret bathroom without moving amuscle. Like the seven other womenhiding for their lives with me, I held mybreath so that the killers wouldn’t hearme breathing.

Their voices clawed at my flesh. I feltas if I were lying on a bed of burningcoals, like I’d been set on fire. A

sweeping wind of pain engulfed mybody; a thousand invisible needlesripped into me. I never dreamed that fearcould cause such agonizing physicalanguish.

I tried to swallow, but my throatclosed up. I had no saliva, and my mouthwas drier than sand. I closed my eyesand tried to make myself disappear, buttheir voices grew louder. I knew thatthey would show no mercy, and my mindechoed with one thought: If they catchme, they will kill me. If they catch me,they will kill me. If they catch me, theywill kill me. . . .

The killers were just outside the door,and I knew that at any second they were

going to find me. I wondered what itwould feel like when the macheteslashed through my skin and cut deepinto my bones. I thought of my brothersand my dear parents, wondering if theywere dead or alive and if we wouldsoon be together in heaven.

I put my hands together, clasped myfather’s rosary, and silently began topray: Oh, please, God, please help me.Don’t let me die like this, not like this.Don’t let these killers find me. You tellus in the Bible that if we ask, we shallreceive . . . well, God, I am asking.Please make these killers go away.Please don’t let me die in thisbathroom. Please, God, please, please,

please save me! Save me!

The killers moved from the house, andwe all began to breathe again. Theywere gone, but they would be back manytimes over the next three months. Ibelieve that God had spared my life, butI’d learn during the 91 days I spenttrembling in fear with seven others in acloset-sized bathroom that being sparedis much different from being saved . . .and this lesson forever changed me. It isa lesson that, in the midst of massmurder, taught me how to love thosewho hated and hunted me—and how toforgive those who slaughtered myfamily.

My name is Immaculée Ilibagiza. This

is the story of how I discovered Godduring one of history’s bloodiestholocausts.

CHAPTER 1The Eternal Spring

I was born in paradise.

At least, that’s how I felt about myhomeland while I was growing up.

Rwanda is a tiny country set like ajewel in central Africa. She is sobreathtakingly beautiful that it’simpossible not to see the hand of God inher lush, rolling hills; mist-shroudedmountains; green valleys; and sparklinglakes. The gentle breezes drifting downfrom the hills and through the pine andcedar forests are scented with the sweet

aroma of lilies and chrysanthemums.And the weather is so pleasant year-round that the German settlers whoarrived in the late 1800s christened her“the land of eternal spring.”

The forces of evil that would givebirth to a holocaust that set my belovedcountry awash in a sea of blood werehidden from me as a child. As a younggirl, all I knew of the world was thelovely landscape surrounding me, thekindness of my neighbors, and the deeplove of my parents and brothers. In ourhome, racism and prejudice werecompletely unknown. I wasn’t aware thatpeople belonged to different tribes orraces, and I didn’t even hear the terms

Tutsi or Hutu until I was in school.

In my village, young children walkedeight miles to and from school alonglonely stretches of road, but parentsnever worried about a child beingabducted or harmed in any way. Mybiggest fear as a youngster was beingalone in the dark—other than that, I wasan extremely happy little girl in a happyfamily, living in what I thought was ahappy village where people respectedand cared for one another.

I was born in the western Rwandanprovince of Kibuye, in the village ofMataba. Our house was perched on ahilltop overlooking Lake Kivu, whichseemed to stretch out forever below us.

On clear mornings I could see themountains on the other side of the lake inthe neighboring country of Zaire, nowcalled the Democratic Republic of theCongo. Some of my warmest childhoodmemories are of clambering down theperilously steep hill between our houseand the lake. I’d go swimming with mydad and brothers as the last of the dawnmist was being chased away by theearly-morning sun. The water waswarm, the air cool against our skin, andthe view of our house high above theshore always thrilling.

Heading back home was an adventurebecause the hill was so steep and the dirtbeneath our feet was so loose and

treacherous. I often slipped and wasafraid that I’d tumble all the way downand into the lake. My father always knewwhen I was frightened, and he’d bundleme in his arms all the way home. He wasa big, strong man, and I felt safe andloved wrapped in those powerful arms.It thrilled me to be lifted up soaffectionately, especially since Dad wasvery reserved in an old-fashioned wayand rarely showed his emotions or saidhe loved my brothers and me—althoughwe knew he did.

When we got home from our swim, mybeautiful mother would be busy in thekitchen preparing the hot rice-and-beandish she fed us every day before packing

us off to school. Her energy never failedto astonish me: Mom was always thefirst to rise and last to bed, getting uphours before anyone else to make surethat the house was in order, our clotheswere laid out, our books and lessonswere ready, and my father’s workpapers were organized. She made all ourclothing herself, cut our hair, andbrightened the house with handmadedecorations.

The beans she prepared for ourbreakfast were grown in our familyfields, which Mom tended everymorning while the rest of us were stillsleeping. She checked the crops andwould then distribute tools to the day

laborers and make sure that our cowsand other animals were fed and watered.And then, after finishing the morningchores and getting us off to class, Momwould walk down the road to start herfull-time teaching job at the localprimary school.

Both of my parents were teachers, andadamant believers that the only defenseagainst poverty and hunger was a goodeducation. Despite being one of thesmallest countries in Africa, Rwanda—which is roughly the size of theAmerican state of Maryland—is one ofthe most densely populated countries onthe continent and among the poorest inthe world. Mom and Dad were the first

high school graduates in their families,and they were determined that theirchildren would go even further than theyhad in school. Dad led by example,working hard and studying throughout hislife. He received many honors andpromotions during his career, risingsteadily through the ranks from primaryteacher to junior high school principal.He was eventually appointed chiefadministrator for all of the Catholicschools in our district.

In Rwanda, every family member hasa different last name. Parents give eachchild a unique surname at birth, one thatreflects the feelings of the mother orfather at the moment they first lay eyes

on their new baby. In Kinyarwanda, thenative language of Rwanda, my name(Ilibagiza) means “shining and beautifulin body and soul.” My dad chose myname, which will always remind mehow much he loved me from the momentI was born.

My father’s name was LeonardUkulikiyinkindi, and my mother’s wasMarie Rose Kankindi, but her friendscalled her Rose. They met at one of mycousin’s homes in the summer of 1963while traveling to a mutual friend’swedding. As they were introduced, Momgave Dad the once-over, clucking hertongue at his shaggy hair.

“You’re going to a wedding with that

hair?”

My father shrugged, claiming that hecouldn’t find a barber. Mom found a pairof scissors, sat him down, and went towork—right then and there. She musthave done a good job, because theybecame inseparable. They marriedwithin the year, and Dad never letanyone but Mom cut his hair again.

My parents managed to save a littlemoney by holding down teaching jobsand farming the land my grandfather hadgiven them (they grew and sold beans,bananas, and coffee). Dad designed andbuilt our house, which, while extremelymodest by Western standards, wasconsidered quite luxurious in our

village. We had a kitchen, a dining area,a living room, our own bedrooms, aguest room, and Dad even had a study. Agated courtyard led to a small annexwhere day workers stayed, and—thankfully—we had a separate pen forthe animals, so the cows didn’t sleep inthe house with us. Dad put a cistern onthe roof to catch rainfall so that wewouldn’t have to haul water up fromLake Kivu, and the solar panels heinstalled provided us with about an hourof electricity on sunny days.

We had two vehicles, which waspractically unheard of in our part ofRwanda. We had a yellow cross-countrymotorcycle that Dad used to visit

schools in the remote mountain villages,and we also had a little car that we usedon weekends to go to church and visitrelatives. Some villagers thought that wewere wealthy, which we weren’t, andthey called my Dad Muzungu, meaning“white man” or “rich person,” which tomost Rwandans meant the same thing.

No one else in our village had amotorcycle, and Mom always worriedthat Dad would be waylaid by banditson a lonely mountain pass. Fretting abouther family was a preoccupation with mymother, to the point that whenever any ofus was away from home for more than anight, she’d listen to the obituariesannounced on the radio every evening.

“Mom, think of all the good things thatcould happen to us instead of dwellingon what might go wrong,” I urged herunsuccessfully.

“Oh, Immaculée, I couldn’t bear it ifsomeone knocked on the door with badnews about one of my children or yourfather. I just pray that I die before any ofyou do.” She prayed incessantly for ourhealth, safety, and well-being.

My parents were devout RomanCatholics and passed on their beliefs tous. Mass was mandatory on Sundays, aswere evening prayers with the family athome. I loved praying, going to church,and everything else to do with God. Iespecially loved the Virgin Mary,

believing that she was my second mom,watching out for me from heaven. Ididn’t know why, but praying made mefeel warm and happy. In fact, it made meso happy that when I was ten years old, Isnuck away from school one day withmy friend Jeanette to pay a visit toFather Clement, a wise, elderly priestwho was a good friend of the family andlike a grandpa to me.

Jeanette and I hiked through sevenmiles of fields and forests and wadedacross a river to reach Father Clement.He greeted us warmly, but wasconcerned because we arrived at hispresbytery exhausted, panting, soakingwet, and more than a little dirty. He

looked like a saint, standing over us inhis flowing white robe, his arms openedin welcome, a beautiful rosary hangingfrom his neck. “What is it, girls? Howcan I help you?” he asked.

“Father, we want to dedicate our livesto God,” Jeanette said solemnly.

“That’s right, Father,” I agreed. “Wehave thought it over, and we want tobecome nuns.”

“Nuns? I see,” he said, noddingseriously, although I’m sure he musthave been hiding a big grin. He placedhis hands on our heads and gave us aspecial blessing: “God, bless these dearchildren, keep them safe, and watch over

them all their days.” Then he looked atus and said, “Now, you two go home.Come back to see me after your 18thbirthdays, and if you still want to benuns then, we’ll talk.”

WHILE MY PARENTS WEREARDENT CATHOLICS, they wereChristians in the broadest sense of theword. They believed in the Golden Ruleand taught us to treat our neighbors withkindness and respect. They felt stronglyconnected to their village and dedicatedthemselves to creating a prosperous,harmonious community. Dad spent manyweekends doing volunteer work, such asbuilding a nondenominational chapel and

paying for most of the construction costsout of his own pocket. He also set up ascholarship fund for poorer kids byestablishing one of Rwanda’s few coffeecooperatives, allowing a dozen coffeegrowers to plant on his land rent free ifthey promised to donate a little of theirprofits to the fund. The program was sosuccessful that he was able to use someof the money to build a communitycenter, a soccer field for teens, and anew roof for the school.

Mom was also known for her manygood works. She could never turn awayanyone in need, so we often had anotherfamily living with us because they’dfallen on hard times and needed a place

to stay until they got back on their feet.

After finishing work, my mother oftenvolunteered her time to tutor students,and she was forever buying material tosew new uniforms for local schoolgirls.And once I overheard her talking to aneighbor who was distraught becauseshe couldn’t afford to buy her daughter awedding dress.

“Rose, what kind of mother am I tosend my own daughter to her new life inold clothes?” the woman asked. “If onlywe had a goat to sell, I could dress herin the way she should be dressed on herwedding day.”

My mother told her not to worry—if

she had faith in God, He would provide.The next day I saw Mom counting out themoney she’d saved from her monthlyteacher’s salary. Then she walked to thevillage, coming home with her arms fullof brightly colored fabrics. She sat upall night sewing dresses for the woman’sdaughter and all the bridesmaids.

Mom and Dad treated the village asour extended family, and the villagersoften treated them like surrogate parents.For example, Dad had a reputationacross the region as an educated,enlightened, and fair-minded man.Consequently, people traveled for milesseeking his counsel on family problems,money woes, and business ventures. He

was often called upon to settle localsquabbles and discipline unrulychildren.

A crisis in the village was usuallyfollowed by a knock on our door andthis plea: “Leonard! Can you help usout? We need your advice. What shouldwe do, Leonard?”

Dad invited people into the house atall hours and would discuss theirproblems until they found a solution. Hewas a good diplomat and always madepeople feel as if they’d resolved theirown difficulties.

My mother was also sought out for heradvice, especially by women having

difficulties with their husbands. Over theyears, so many of our neighbors hadonce been Mother’s students that mostvillagers just called her Teacher.

But while they were certainlydedicated to our village, my parentswere devoted to their kids, spending asmuch time with us as possible.

Once in a while, when he worked lateand went for beers with his friendsafterward, Dad got home well afterwe’d already gone to bed. “Where aremy little ones? Where are my darlingchildren?” he’d ask, a little tipsy but fullof affection.

Mother would scold him: “They’re

sleeping, Leonard, as they should be. Ifyou want to see them, you should comehome earlier.”

“Well, I can’t eat dinner alone,” he’dsay, and gently get us all out of bed.We’d sit around the table in our pajamaswhile he ate dinner and told us about hisday. We loved every minute of it.

After he finished eating, Dad wouldmake us all kneel down in the livingroom and recite our evening prayers.

“They’ve already said their prayers,Leonard. They have school tomorrow!”

“Well, Rose, I have to worktomorrow. And you can never say toomany prayers. Right, Immaculée?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I’d answer shyly. Iidolized my dad and was delighted thathe’d ask me such an important question.

Those were magical moments—whenmy father’s stern facade was lifted, hislove for us was easy to see.

THERE WERE FOUR KIDS IN THEFAMILY: myself and my three brothers.The eldest was Aimable Ntukanyagwe,who was born in 1965, a year after myparents were married. Even as a child,Aimable was the most serious memberof the family. He was so quiet andintrospective that we joked he was thefamily priest. Mom doted on himbecause he was her firstborn and her

favorite, but Aimable was humble, shy,and embarrassed by the extra attentionshe paid him. He was also sweet-natured and detested violence. When theother boys roughhoused or fought witheach other, he would step between themand make the peace.

When Dad was away, Aimable tookhis place, making sure that we finishedour homework, said our evening prayers,and got to bed on time. Then he wouldstay up late, ensuring that the doors werelocked and the house was secure for thenight. He seemed so much older than hisyears, but he was a loving brother to me,never failing to ask about my day, howmy studies were going, and if my friends

were treating me well. There was a five-year age difference between Aimableand me, which, as kids, made it difficultto get to know each other.

I was only seven when my brotherwent off to boarding school, and afterthat, we saw each other only on holidaysand special get-togethers. Nevertheless,I developed a terrible stomachache theday he left. Although his school was in anearby town, as far as I was concerned,my brother was moving to the moon. Itwas the first time I felt the physical painof losing someone you love. When myfather sat us kids down a few days laterto write letters to Aimable, I could thinkof only two things to say. In large,

looping letters, I wrote:

Dear Aimable,

I love you, I miss you, Ilove you, I miss you, I loveyou, I miss you, I love you,I miss you, I love you, Imiss you, I love you, I missyou, I love you, I miss you,I love you, I miss you, Ilove you, I miss you, I loveyou, I miss you, I love you,I miss you, I love you, Ilove you, I love you . . . andI miss you!!!!!

Love,

Immaculée

P.S. I miss you!

My father laughed when he read theletter. “You didn’t mention anythingabout visiting Grandma’s house, or howyour other brothers are doing,Immaculée. Try writing again with alittle more news and a few less ‘I loveyous’ and ‘I miss yous.’”

“But that’s how I feel, Daddy.”

I couldn’t understand why he wantedme to love my brother less—and Dadnever tired of teasing me about thatletter.

Two years after Aimable was born,my other big brother came into theworld. His name was Damascene Jean

Muhirwa, and he was brilliant,mischievous, funny, generous,unbelievably kind, and irresistiblylikable. He made me laugh every day,and he always knew how to stop mytears. Damascene . . . to this day I can’tsay his name without smiling . . . orcrying. He was three years my senior,but I felt as though he were my twin. Hewas my closest friend; he was my soulmate.

Whenever I was feeling low,Damascene would show up and boostmy spirits—like the day I was furious atmy mother for making me clean the yardwhile the boys played soccer.Damascene decided to skip the game,

leave his pals, and come help me—wearing a skirt!

“A woman’s work is never done,” hesang out in a high-pitched voice, pickingup a rake and making me laugh until ithurt. He spent all afternoon workingwith me.

Even if he behaved badly, whichwasn’t often, things had a way ofworking out for the best. When he was12 years old, he secretly “borrowed”Dad’s car to teach himself how to drive.Normally, my father would havepunished him severely for such anoffense, but when he found out, he justhugged Damascene. You see, Dad hadbeen out of town on business when Mom

suffered a serious asthma attack. Shecollapsed onto the floor, semiconsciousand barely able to breathe. Damascenehoisted her onto his shoulder, carriedher to the car, carefully loaded her ontothe backseat, and drove nine miles to thenearest hospital. Mind you, he almostcollided with two cows, three goats, andseveral of our neighbors along the way,but he arrived just in time. The doctorsaid that Mom would have died if shehadn’t gotten to the hospital when shedid.

Almost everyone who met Damasceneloved him—his easy smile and jovialnature were infectious. He was a classclown but also a brilliant scholar,

consistently among the top students in hisschool—and he went on to become theyoungest person in the entire region toearn a master’s degree. He studiedconstantly, but somehow managed to findtime to earn a brown belt in karate,become captain of his high school anduniversity basketball teams, and serve aschief altar boy at our church. I cried fora week when he left home for boardingschool and felt like I’d never laughagain.

He was the light of my life.

The baby of the family was my littlebrother, John Marie Vianney Kazeneza,born three years after me. Vianney was awide-eyed innocent who was lovable

but pesky, as all younger brothers are, Isuppose. He’d grow up to become ahandsome, strapping young man whotowered over me, but in my eyesVianney was always my baby brother—Inever stopped feeling like it was myresponsibility to look out for him. Hewas a precious boy who followed meeverywhere like a puppy dog. I becameso accustomed to his constantcompanionship that I missed him whenhe wasn’t around pestering me.

I was the third child, and the only girl,which, in a male-dominated society, putextra pressure on me. In Rwandanculture, having a “good name” iseverything, and my parents were vigilant

in making sure that their only daughtermaintained a spotless reputation. Theywere stricter with me than with mybrothers, giving me more householdchores and more rigid curfews, selectingmy clothes, and approving ordisapproving of my friends. My parentspushed me to succeed in school and todevelop my mind, but as a young womanin a very conservative society, I wasstill expected to be seen and not heard.

How ironic that I was the one left totell our family story.

CHAPTER 2Standing Up

“Tutsis, stand up!”

Half a dozen chairs scraped backwardacross the floor as six kids in my fourth-grade class jumped to their feet. I didn’thave a clue what was happening, sinceI’d always attended my mom’sschoolhouse. Now that I was ten yearsold, it was my first day at the school forolder kids, and I was confused by thecommotion. I’d never seen a teacher takeethnic roll call before.

“All Tutsis stand up now!” Buhoro,

our teacher, yelled. He was checking offnames from a list with a big pencil, thenstopped and stared directly at me.

“Immaculée Ilibagiza, you didn’t standup when I said Hutu, you didn’t stand upwhen I said Twa, and you’re notstanding up now that I’ve said Tutsi.Why is that?” Buhoro was smiling, buthis voice was hard and mean.

“I don’t know, Teacher.”

“What tribe do you belong to?”

“I don’t know, Teacher.”

“Are you Hutu or Tutsi?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Get out! Get out of this class and

don’t come back until you know whatyou are!”

I collected my books and left theroom, hanging my head in shame. I didn’tknow it yet, but I’d just had my firstlesson in Rwanda’s ethnic divide, and itwas a rude awakening.

I ran into the schoolyard and hidbehind some bushes to wait for mybrother Damascene to finish class. I’dbeen fighting back tears, but now I crieduntil my blue uniform was soakedthrough. I didn’t understand what hadjust happened, and I really wanted to goback to class and ask my best friend,Janet, to explain it to me. She’d stood upwhen the teacher called out the name

Hutu—maybe she’d know why ourteacher was so mean to me. But I stayedcrouched in the bushes until Damascenefound me there, still whimpering.

“Who hurt you, Immaculée?” asked mybig brother, with all of the authority ofhis 13 years. Damascene had alwaysbeen my greatest defender, ready to go towar if ever anyone slighted me, so I toldhim what Buhoro had said.

“Buhoro is not a nice man,” mybrother said, “but don’t worry about it.Next time he does the roll call, just dowhat I do: Stand up with your friends.Stand up when your friend Janet does.”

“Janet stood up when he called out

Hutu.”

“Then stand up when they call outHutu. If that’s what our friends are, thenthat’s what we must be. We’re all thesame people, aren’t we?”

I had no way of knowing then, butDamascene was as clueless as I wasabout tribalism in Rwanda . . . whichwas odd, considering that we wereamong the best-educated kids in the area.Every day after school, my brothers andI were allotted just 90 minutes of freetime before being summoned to theliving room to do our homework underMom’s supervision. Dad took over anhour before dinner, setting up aclassroom-sized blackboard in the

middle of the room. He handed outpieces of chalk and grilled us on math,grammar, and geography.

But our parents didn’t teach us aboutour own history. We didn’t know thatRwanda was made up of three tribes: aHutu majority; a Tutsi minority; and avery small number of Twa, a pygmy-liketribe of forest dwellers. We weren’ttaught that the German colonialists, andthe Belgian ones that followed,converted Rwanda’s existing socialstructure—a monarchy that under a Tutsiking had provided Rwanda withcenturies of peace and harmony—into adiscriminatory, racebased class system.The Belgians favored the minority Tutsi

aristocracy and promoted its status asthe ruling class; therefore, Tutsis wereensured a better education to bettermanage the country and generate greaterprofits for the Belgian overlords. TheBelgians introduced an ethnic identitycard to more easily distinguish the twotribes, deepening the rift they’d createdbetween Hutu and Tutsi. Those recklessblunders created a lingering resentmentamong Hutus that helped lay thegroundwork for genocide.

When the Tutsis called for greaterindependence, the Belgians turnedagainst them and, in 1959, encouraged abloody Hutu revolt, which overthrew themonarchy. More than 100,000 Tutsis

were murdered in vengeance killingsover the next few years. By the timeBelgium pulled out of Rwanda in 1962,a Hutu government was firmly in place,and Tutsis had become second-classcitizens, facing persecution, violence,and death at the hands of Hutuextremists. Many tens of thousands diedover decades when massacres werecommon occurrences. While theviolence was cyclical, discriminationwas ever present. The ethnic identitycards the Hutu government adopted fromthe days of Belgian rule made thediscrimination more blatant, and mucheasier.

But these were history lessons our

parents didn’t want my brothers and meto learn, at least not while we wereyoung. They never talked to us aboutdiscrimination or killing sprees or ethniccleansing or racial identity cards—thosethings weren’t part of my youth.

Everyone was welcome in our home,regardless of race, religion, or tribe. Tomy parents, being Hutu or Tutsi hadnothing to do with the kind of person youwere. If you were of good character anda kind human being, they greeted youwith open arms. But my parentsthemselves had some horrifyingexperiences at the hands of Hutuextremists . . . and looking back, I caneven vaguely recall one of them.

I was just three years old and didn’tunderstand what was happening, but Iremember fire lighting up the night skyas my mother held me tightly in her armsand we ran from our home. It was duringthe 1973 coup, when many Tutsis werepersecuted, driven from their homes, andmurdered in the streets. In our region,Hutu extremists were torching Tutsihomes one after another. My entirefamily stood together looking down atLake Kivu as the fires leapt up the hilltoward us. We fled to a neighbor’s, aHutu and a good friend namedRutakamize. He hid us until the killingsand burnings stopped. When we returnedhome, all we found was a smoldering

ruin.

My mother and father rebuilt ourhouse and never discussed whathappened, at least not with us children.And even though they’d been targeted insimilar anti-Tutsi violence in 1959, Inever heard my parents say onedisparaging word against Hutus. Theywere not prejudiced; rather, theybelieved that evil drove people to doevil things regardless of tribe or race.Mom and Dad ignored the social andpolitical reality they lived in, andinstead taught that everyone was bornequal. They didn’t want their childrengrowing up feeling paranoid or inferiorbecause they were born Tutsi.

SO IT’S NOT DIFFICULT TO SEEWHY I WAS SO CONFOUNDED whenmy teacher, Buhoro, lashed into me fornot knowing my tribe.

Damascene draped his arm around myshoulders that day and walked me home.We both sensed that we’d been touchedby something bad, but we didn’t knowwhat it was. At dinner that night, I toldmy father what had happened. Hebecame quiet, and then asked me howlong I’d sat crying in the bushes afterbeing ordered from the classroom.

“Almost all day, Daddy.”

My father put down his fork and

stopped eating—a sure sign he wasangry. “I will talk to Buhoro tomorrow,”he assured me.

“But, Daddy, what tribe am I?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that now. Wecan discuss that tomorrow, after I talk toyour teacher.”

I wanted to ask why he wouldn’t tellme right then what tribe I belonged to,but we weren’t supposed to question ourelders. He was my father, and if he wasbeing evasive, I figured that he had goodreason. But I was frustrated—I couldn’tunderstand why everyone got so upsetwhen they talked about tribes!

Dad spoke to my teacher the next day,

but he didn’t tell me what they discussedor what my tribe was, as he’d said hewould. I didn’t find that out until thefollowing week, when Buhoro heldtribal roll call again. My father musthave shamed him, because he spoke tome in a much sweeter voice when hesummoned me to his desk before rollcall.

“Immaculée, stand up when I call out‘Tutsi.’”

I smiled as I walked back to my seat,thinking, So I’m a Tutsi. Good! I had noidea what a Tutsi was, but I was proudto be one anyway. There were so few ofus in class that I figured we had to bespecial—besides, the name sounded cute

and was fun to say. But I still couldn’tsee any real difference between the Tutsiand Hutu tribes. The Twa were pygmies,so their smaller stature made them easyto recognize. But since hardly any Twacame to school, I saw very few of them.

The differences between Tutsis andHutus were more difficult to spot: Tutsiswere supposed to be taller, lighter-skinned, and have narrower noses; whileHutus were shorter, darker, and broad-nosed. But that really wasn’t truebecause Hutus and Tutsis had beenmarrying each other for centuries, so ourgene pools were intermingled. Hutus andTutsis spoke the same language—Kinyarwanda—and shared the same

history. We had virtually the sameculture: We sang the same songs, farmedthe same land, attended the samechurches, and worshiped the same God.We lived in the same villages, on thesame streets, and often in the samehouses.

Through a child’s eyes (or at leastthrough my eyes), we all seemed to begetting along. I couldn’t begin to countthe number of times my Hutu friend Janetand I ate dinner at each other’s houses.As a young girl, the only time I wasreminded that there were different tribesin Rwanda was when I stood up in classonce a week during ethnic roll call. Itwas an annoyance, but it didn’t bother

me too much because I had yet todiscover the meaning of discrimination.

That is, until I wanted to go to highschool.

When I was 15 years old, I finishedeighth grade second in my class of 60students. I had an overall average of 94percent, just 2 percent lower than the topstudent—a Tutsi boy—and far ahead ofall the other students. It was more thanenough to ensure a scholarship andplacement in one of the best public highschools in the region. I went home at theend of the term dreaming about my newschool uniform and wondering what itwould be like to live away from home ina fine school where all the classes were

taught in French.

After high school I planned to go touniversity, and after that, who knew?Maybe I would become a pilot, aprofessor, or even a psychologist (bythis point, I’d pretty much given up mychildhood idea of becoming a nun). Myparents had taught me that with hardwork and determination, even a girl froma little village like Mataba couldbecome someone important.

How was I to know that my ambitionswere just a silly girl’s dream? I didn’tknow that those weekly roll calls serveda sinister purpose: to segregate Tutsichildren as part of a master plan ofdiscrimination known as the “ethnic

balance.”

This was a plan pushed by JuvenalHabyarimana, the Hutu president whoseized power in the 1973 coup. Heproclaimed that the government must“balance” the number of schoolplacements and good civil-service jobsto reflect the country’s ethnic makeup.Because Rwanda’s population wasroughly 85 percent Hutu, 14 percentTutsi, and 1 percent Twa, most jobs andschool placements went to Hutus. Whatthe plan really did was keep Tutsis outof high school, university, and well-paying jobs, ensuring their status assecond-class citizens.

The true meaning of the ethnic balance

was brought home to me a few weeksbefore I was to start high school. Aneighbor dropped by as my family wassitting down to dinner and told us thatmy name wasn’t on the list ofscholarship students that had just beenposted in the village hall. Despite mytop marks, I’d been passed over becauseI was Tutsi—all the available placeshad gone to Hutus who’d earned muchlower grades. The Tutsi boy who’d hadthe highest marks was also passed overbecause of his tribe.

My father pushed his chair away fromthe table and sat with his eyes tightlyclosed for the longest time. I knew thatmy parents couldn’t afford to send me to

a private school, which would cost tentimes more than public high school. Bothmy older brothers were away studying,and money was tight. Besides, privatehigh schools in Rwanda were terriblecompared to the well-fundedgovernment-run public schools. Theteachers were not as qualified, thecurriculum was inferior, and thebuildings were ugly and uninviting.

“Don’t worry, Immaculée. We’ll findanother way for you to study,” my fatherfinally managed. He excused himselffrom the table and went to his roomwithout finishing his meal.

“Don’t give up hope,” my mother said,hugging me. “We’ll all pray about this.

Now eat your dinner.”

After supper I locked myself in myfather’s study and cried. I’d worked myheart out in school, only to have mydreams of a higher education dashed. Ishuddered to think of what was in storefor me. I’d seen how single women withno education were treated in my society:They had virtually no rights, noprospects, and no respect. Without evena high school education, I’d have nooption other than to wait at home forsome man to come and claim me as hiswife. My future looked bleak, and I wasonly 15 years old!

The next morning, my father wasn’t atthe breakfast table.

“He’s trying to work a little miracle,”my mother explained. “He’s gone to lookat some private schools to see if he canget you enrolled.”

“But, Mom, it’s so expensive, and wecan’t—”

“Shush,” she broke in. “I told you notto give up hope, didn’t I?”

It turns out that my father had leftbefore sunrise to sell two of our cows sothat he could send me to a private highschool. Cows are status symbols inRwandan culture and extremely valuable—selling one was extravagant; sellingtwo was an invitation to financial ruin.But Dad was determined that I would get

an education. He took his cow money,drove three hours south to a newly builtprivate school, and paid my first year’stuition in cash. It was difficult for myfather to express emotions, but it wasimpossible for him to conceal his lovefor me.

A few weeks later, I was packed andready to go. Janet hugged me, and wecried and promised to write each othermany letters. My mother kissed me overand over, fighting back tears. Vianney,now the last of the kids at home, ran tohis room and refused to say good-bye.

A lot of the neighbors came out towave farewell as my father and I droveaway. I felt pangs of loss leaving

Mataba, but I was anxious to start mynew life.

MY NEW SCHOOL LEFT A LOT TOBE DESIRED. The dorm room was tiny,and it had a cement floor and roughcinder-block walls that cried out for acheery coat of paint. I slept with tenother girls on mattresses crammed soclose together, they took up nearly everyinch of floor space. There was norunning water, so every morning wegrabbed buckets and hiked two miles tothe nearest stream to fetch what weneeded to wash and cook. And I missedmy bed and my mom’s rice and beans.

However, no matter how hard it was

for me to “rough it,” I was not going toquit school and ask my parents to bringme home. In fact, when it came time tochoose our subjects for the year, Iselected the most challenging courses:math and physics. Not only did I want tomake Mom and Dad proud, I wanted toprove a point to my brothers. Liketypical Rwandan men, they teased meabout women belonging in the kitchen,not the classroom. Well, I’d show them!

Two years passed, and I was one ofthe top students in the school. When thegovernment announced that it washolding a special exam for honorstudents who wanted to enter publicschool, I decided to take the test. Deep

down inside, I felt that it wouldn’t matterif I scored the highest test results in thecountry—I’d still be passed overbecause I was Tutsi. Nevertheless, Istudied hard and was sure that I’dwritten an excellent exam, but weekswent by without any word, so I put it outof my mind.

Months later I was home on summervacation when Damascene bounded intothe house, bellowing at the top of hislungs, “Immaculée! Immaculée Ilibagiza!I just saw the list—you passed the exam!You’ve been accepted at Lycée de NotreDame d’Afrique. It’s one of the bestschools in Rwanda, and it’s just downthe road from my school!”

The family was sitting in the livingroom and everyone went crazy. I jumpedout of my seat, yelling, “Thank God,thank God!” and making the sign of thecross as I did a little victory danceacross the floor. My mother had tears inher eyes, and my father shouted, “This isthe biggest joy in my life! I have gottenon my knees every day for the past twoyears and prayed you would get into thatschool. God has answered my prayers!”

“I guess you must be smart, even ifyou are a girl.” Aimable was laughing,but I could see how happy he was forme.

Damascene was smiling his beautifulsmile and was so full of pride that I

thought he’d explode.

We had a family party that night, oneof our happiest celebrations in a verylong time. Lycée was an excellent girls’school where many of the daughters ofthe country’s highest-ranking politicianshad attended. Not only would I get thebest education available to any youngRwandan, but my parents wouldn’t haveto struggle with the privateschool feesanymore. The only drawback was thatthe school was far away in the provinceof Gisenyi. Since it was a four-hourdrive from Mataba along perilous roads,this meant that my parents wouldn’t beable to visit often. And it was alsolocated in a predominantly Hutu area

known for being openly hostile towardTutsis.

“Don’t worry, it’s a girls’ school,”Damascene said. “They have a big fenceand lots of guards to keep you safe. Andmy school is so close that I’ll be able tovisit you at least once a month.”

I LOVED LYCÉE RIGHT AWAY. Thebuildings were spacious, beautiful, andsparkling clean. The classrooms werebrightly painted, and there were colorfulflowers planted all around the campus.A high security fence ran around theentire complex, making me feel safe andsecure. I was happy, and I knew that myfather would be, too, especially when

the nuns told us that we’d have to praytogether before and after meals.

One of the first friends I made was aHutu girl named Sarah. We became asclose as sisters, and she invited me tomeet her family in Kigali, Rwanda’scapital city. For a simple village girllike me, that trip to the big city was areal eye-opener—especially when I sawairplanes up close for the first time.Sarah and I went to the airport at night,when the runway shimmered in afluorescent glow and the landing lightsflashed red, white, and green as the hugeplanes descended from the sky. My jawdropped open when I heard the roar ofthose gigantic engines.

“Oh, just look at them!” I exclaimed,as Sarah collapsed into laughter. “Now Ithink I’ve seen everything.”

Another friend I met on my first daywas Clementine, a gorgeous youngwoman whose smooth skin and beautifuleyes gave her the look of an Americanmagazine model. She marched over tome when she spotted me in the crowd ofnew students. I was taller than most, butshe was at least six feet. We recognizedeach other as Tutsi by our height.

“How is a pretty Tutsi girl like yougoing to get along so far north,surrounded by all those unfriendly Hutufaces on the other side of the fence?”Clementine smiled. “We’ll have to stick

together and look out for one another.”We hit it off right away.

Clementine was right about theunfriendly faces. It was difficult toventure beyond the campus walls—whenever I did, I felt the eyes of thelocal people on me and heard themmuttering “Tutsi” in a menacing tone.The priests and nuns who ran the schoolmade sure that the students and localresidents never attended the same massat the local church. We were issuedstrict orders forbidding us to leaveschool grounds without a staff escort. Itwas scary out there, but within the wallsof the school I never felt any ethnicdiscrimination. Teachers never took

ethnic roll call, and while most of thegirls were Hutu, we loved each otherlike we were family.

I stuck close to campus, studied hard,and tried to keep myself from feelinghomesick. I missed my parents andbrothers, and I even pined for Vianney’spestering. Speaking of my baby brother,he sent me a touching and troubling lettera few months after I left home. He wrotethat he missed me horribly, was unableto sleep since I’d gone, and that at nighthe sometimes saw ghosts walking fromroom to room. When he did, he’d runfrom the house in terror. The letter toreat my heart—yes, Vianney and I hadbickered often at home, but now I

realized how much I meant to him. I feltguilty for leaving him alone andpromised myself that I’d be a bettersister to him.

Damascene was true to his word andvisited me once a month. We’d sittogether on the grass and talk for hours.He always had good advice for me,especially when it came to studying.

“Pray, Immaculée. Pray before you doyour homework and whenever you’repreparing for a test or exam. Then studyas hard as you can.” I did as he said,praying especially hard before mathexams, and I continued to excel inschool.

When Damascene visited, mygirlfriends all demanded to know theidentity of the handsome boy I’d beentalking with so intently. “That was mybig brother Damascene,” I’d proudlyreply.

“No, it wasn’t. Nobody gets along sowell with a brother. You looked like youactually enjoyed being with him.”

I was so lucky to have my dearDamascene in my life.

CHAPTER 3Higher Learning

Life was good at Lycée until war brokeout in my third and final year.

It was a beautiful sunny afternoon onthe first day of October 1990. Myclassmates and I were waiting for ourCivil Education class to begin andwondering why our teacher was late.Mr. Gahigi was an easygoing, friendlyman and perhaps the calmest person I’dever met. So when he finally showed upwringing his hands and pacing back andforth at the front of the classroom, we

knew that something was wrong. One ofthe students asked him what was thematter, but he continued pacing andwouldn’t look at us.

I wondered what bad news ourteacher was keeping from us, thinking hewas probably going to tell us that thenuns had cancelled movie night. But itwas something much bigger. We weren’tallowed to listen to news broadcasts atschool, so just like at home, I wasisolated from what was going on in thereal world.

“I’ve just found out that there has beenan attack on the country,” Mr. Gahigiinformed us somberly. “I’m afraid it isvery serious and could have an impact

on all of us for a long time to come.”

The class fell silent—and theneveryone started talking at once,shouting out questions, wanting to knowwho was attacking Rwanda and why.

“A group of Tutsi rebel soldiers livingin Uganda has crossed the border,” hereplied. “They are mainly the children ofRwandan refugees who have bandedtogether and are fighting to get back intothe country. There is a lot of fightinggoing on right now north of here betweenthe rebels and the Rwandan governmentsoldiers.”

Mr. Gahigi was bombarded with avolley of frightened and indignant

questions: “What do those Tutsis want?Why are they attacking us? What willthey do to us if they reach the school?”

I felt the heat of shame on the back ofmy neck and wanted to crawl under mydesk. There were 50 students in theclass, and 47 of them were Hutus. I wasso nervous and self-conscious that Icouldn’t look at the other two Tutsi girls.It was the first time I’d felt embarrassedabout being Tutsi, and the first time I feltsingled out at Lycée.

“The rebels are soldiers fighting withthe Rwandese Patriotic Front. That’s apolitical association of Tutsis who leftthe country years ago and have beenforbidden by the government from

returning. They’re foreigners, really, andthey’re waging a war to get back intoRwanda and take over the government.”

I knew about the Rwandese PatrioticFront, or RPF, and I knew that thepeople in it weren’t fighting simply totopple the Hutu government; they wantedto live in a country that was free andequal. Most of the RPF soldiers—therebels—were Tutsi exiles or thechildren of Tutsi exiles.

Hundreds of thousands of Tutsis hadfled Rwanda during the troubles of 1959and 1973, as well as the many othertimes that Hutu extremists had gone onTutsi killing sprees. They’d gone intoexile to save their lives and those of

their families. Mr. Gahigi called therebels “foreigners” because most ofthem grew up in neighboring countriessuch as Uganda and Zaire—but that wasonly because President Habyarimanaenforced a policy banning exiles fromever returning to Rwanda. He’d createda Tutsi diaspora, and entire generationsof Rwandan Tutsis had grown upwithout once setting foot in theirhomeland.

Mr. Gahigi didn’t mention any of that,but he knew what happened wheneverTutsis fought back against extremistHutus. He was worried for us, saying,“This could go very hard for Tutsis. Thiskind of thing can lead to many killings,

so let’s pray that the government and therebels can settle their differencespeacefully and we avoid a lot ofbloodshed.”

Our class was essentially over. Thegirls talked of nothing but the attack andwhat they would do if Tutsi soldiersarrived at the school. I sat quietly withmy two Tutsi classmates, trying to beinconspicuous. My shame slowlytransformed into anger as I thought abouthow unfairly Tutsis had been treated. Isilently rooted for the RPF, hoping thatthe rebels would beat the governmentsoldiers and put an end to thediscrimination. But by the end of the day,my anger had been replaced by fear as I

worried about my village and my family.I closed my eyes and said a prayer,asking God to keep my family safebecause I didn’t know how I wouldsurvive without them.

Many of the students had relatives inthe north, where the fighting was worst,so the school director allowed us tolisten to radio reports and keep up withevents. But more often than not, thenational radio broadcasted little morethan hate propaganda. The announcersclaimed that the rebel soldiers lived inthe forest like animals, ate human flesh,and consorted with monkeys. They saidthat the rebels had become so evil thathorns had sprouted from their heads.

Rwandans were warned to be on theirguard because the “rebel cockroaches”were cunning and could strike anytime,anywhere. These reports inflamed thehyperactive imaginations of already-frightened schoolgirls. One of them wasso nervous that she almost got me killed.

Danida, one of my dorm sisters,believed every horrible depiction of therebel soldiers. One night I must havewoken her as I slipped out of bed to usethe outdoor bathroom. It was cold, so Ihad a large scarf wrapped around myhead and was wearing oversizedpajamas to keep warm. I must havelooked a little frightening because whenI tried to open the dorm door to get back

inside, Danida slammed it shut in myface. The entire campus soon echoedwith her terrified screams.

“Help me! Help me! Oh my God, help!It’s an RPF soldier—he’s come to killus, to eat us . . . he has horns on hishead!”

I recognized Danida’s shrieking voice,and calmly said, “Danida, it’s me,Immaculée. I’m not a soldier. I don’thave horns—I’m wearing a scarf!”

I heard the sound of heavy footstepson gravel and spun around. The school’sbiggest security guard was chargingtoward me in the dark, holding a spearleveled directly at my heart. My knees

buckled, and I dropped to the ground. Hestopped just inches from me.

“Jesus Christ, Immaculée, I almostkilled you! Who the hell is screaminglike that?” he said.

By that time every girl in the dormwas screaming, and I had to shout forhim to hear me over the din. Severalsecurity guards spent at least half anhour trying to convince the girls that itwas safe to open the door, but theyrefused. The school director had to besummoned with a master key; onceinside, she gave us a long lecture on thedangers of letting our imaginations getthe better of us.

Not all the tension in the school wasin our imaginations, though. Oneafternoon we all went out for a picnicand were passing a group of local Hutus.One of the men was holding a big knifeand waved it at me. “Look at how tallthis one is,” he growled. “We’ll kill youfirst. We’ll make you pay for what yourrebel brothers are doing!”

My stomach churned, and I thought Iwas about to throw up. It was the firsttime anyone had threatened me withviolence, and I didn’t know how toreact. I ran back to my dorm, swearingthat I’d never go on a school outingagain. I cursed my height and wonderedwhy being tall was such a crime in my

country. What was I supposed to do? Icouldn’t stop being tall, and I couldn’tstop being a Tutsi!

Clementine came up to me betweenclasses the next day and whispered inmy ear, “Come with me, Immaculée. Iwant to show you what we should dowhen people like that man with the knifecome looking for us.”

She led me to a room in a restrictedutility building and opened a high-voltage electrical box. “There’s morethan 1,500 volts of electricity in here,”she explained. “If Hutu extremistsinvade the school and we have no wayto escape, we can come here, pull downthis lever, and stick our hands in. We’ll

die immediately—it’s better to beelectrocuted than be tortured, raped, andmurdered. I don’t intend to let savagesplay with my body before they kill me.Don’t look so surprised—I’ve heard toomany stories of Tutsi women beingraped and abused during bad times not tohave an escape plan.”

I nodded in agreement. It was strangeto talk about ending our lives when wewere just 19 years old, but it seemedbetter than the alternative. Clementineand I made a pact and swore that we’dtell no one else in case the schoolauthorities got wind of our scheme andlocked up the electrical box.

WE CONTINUED TO LISTEN TO THERADIO FOR NEWS, but the governmentstation was notorious for itsmisinformation. We heard that the RPFhad fought all the way to Kigali andattacked the presidential palace. Thepresident went on national radio andwarned people to stay in their housesuntil the army had killed all the“cockroach” invaders. Later we learnedfrom the BBC that there hadn’t been anyRPF soldiers within miles of the capital—President Habyarimana had inventedthe attack and lied on the radio in orderto have an excuse for arresting thousandsof Tutsis, simply because they hadrelatives living outside the country. The

president seemed paranoid, convincedthat any Tutsi with a cousin in Ugandamust be collaborating with the rebels.

The BBC reported that so manyinnocent Tutsis had been arrested that allthe jails in Rwanda were overflowingand there was no room left for thecriminals. It was said that many of theTutsi prisoners were being starved andtortured, and that some of them had beenkilled.

When I went home at Christmas, Ilearned that my own father had been oneof those arrested. As I stepped off thebus in Mataba, I bumped into MadameSirake, one of our longtime neighborsand a legendary gossip. “Come and hug

me, my child!” she cried. “It is so goodto see you! You’re skin and bones,though—aren’t those nuns feeding you?”

“Oh, they feed us well. But I’mlooking forward to a good familydinner.”

“And I’m sure your father will beespecially happy to see you after allthat’s happened to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven’t you heard, child?”

My heart raced. I hadn’t seen myparents since the war began and hadn’thad much news from home in weeks.

“I thought surely you would know,”

Madame Sirake said. “Your dad was inprison.”

I sat down heavily on a tree trunk. Icouldn’t imagine what my father couldhave done to end up in jail . . . other thanbeing Tutsi. I worried about my mother’shealth, as the stress of Dad beingarrested could easily have triggeredanother serious asthma attack. I made the30-minute walk home in record time andfound my mother waiting for me at thedoor.

“How are you, sweetheart?” she askedas she enveloped me in a huge hug. Shemade no mention of my father’s arrest—she always shielded us fromunpleasantness, and I could see that she

would never change.

“You must be hungry, Immaculée. Whydon’t you take a shower and I’ll makeyou something to eat? Damascene andVianney are out together somewhere,and Aimable isn’t back from universityyet. Your father’s at work, but I knowhe’s anxious to see you.”

“Is everyone okay? Has anythinghappened to anyone?”

“Everyone is just fine.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mom! I alreadyknow that Dad was in prison, so stoppretending and tell me what happened.”

My mother was so relieved she didn’t

have to break the bad news to me thatshe sat right down and told me the wholestory.

Shortly after the war began, fourgovernment soldiers pushed their wayinto my father’s workplace, tied his armsbehind his back, and hauled him off tothe Kibuye town jail, locking him upalong with half a dozen of his Tutsifriends. The guards were ordered not tofeed them or give them water for severaldays. Eventually, Dad managed to bribethe Hutu guard to take a message to myaunt Cecile, who lived nearby. Cecilebrought food to the jail and paid theguard to slip it to my father and hisfriends.

Two weeks later, my father found outthat his arrest was ordered by his oldfriend Kabayi, a Hutu who had becomethe district burgomaster (a kind ofregional “super mayor,” and a verypowerful politician). Kabayi and my dadhad attended school together and werebest friends as children. It was only afterPresident Habyarimana bowed tointernational pressure and agreed torelease thousands of wronglyimprisoned Tutsi prisoners that Kabayiwent to the jail and ordered the guards tofree Dad and his friends. Kabayi hadtold the guards not to feed my dad, so hewas shocked to see that he was stillalive. But he pretended to be upset and

apologized profusely, claiming that ithad been a terrible misunderstanding.

Later that night, while we were sittingaround after dinner, I tried to discusswhat had happened with my father, andhe said, “It was a mix-up. Kabayi wasjust acting on orders; it wasn’t anythingpersonal. These things are very political,and it’s best you kids don’t get mixed upin them. Let’s forget about the wholething.”

My brothers couldn’t believe that ourfather was so forgiving. They’d knownKabayi their entire lives and wereoutraged that he’d turned on our dad.

“Kabayi was your friend, Dad.

Imagine what might have happened if hewere your enemy! Why are you stickingup for him? These people you’redefending want to kill you! We shouldleave the country until the war is over.At the very least, we should get Momand Immaculée away from here—I’mworried about them,” Aimable said.

“No, no, you’re overreacting—everyone is safe. Things are better thanthey used to be, and this is just politics.Don’t you kids worry. Everything willbe fine, you’ll see,” Dad assured us.

My mother pleaded with my brothersnot to sneak off and join the RPF rebelsas so many other young Tutsi men weredoing: “If any of you boys go off to fight

with the rebels, I want you to know itwould kill me, it would kill me! If youdon’t mind killing your mother, then goright ahead, join the rebels. But if youlove me, you’ll each promise me rightnow that you won’t disappear and leaveme in agony. Now do it—promise me!”

Mom had worked herself into such astate that my brothers promised her overand over that they wouldn’t join therebels.

I went back to Lycée, finished my lastfew months of high school, and wrote theuniversity entrance exam. Once again, Ihad excellent marks and aced the test,but I held little hope of getting in. Theethnic balance was one of the things RPF

was fighting to end, but at the moment itlooked as though it would put an end tomy academic career.

I said good-bye to my wonderfulfriends at Lycée and headed home for thesummer to wait and see where fatewould lead me. The war wasintensifying; the rebels were winningmore battles and pressuring thegovernment to allow exiled Rwandans toreturn to the country and share powerwith the Hutus.

My mother was becoming sotraumatized by what was happening thatshe began consulting psychics. Iremember one coming to the house andsitting with Mom in the kitchen. My

mother asked her if the war would endand if we’d have peace again.

“I see thunderstorms around us now,but these are just baby storms,” thepsychic told her. “The mother storm iscoming. When she arrives, her lightningwill scorch the land, her thunder willdeafen us, and her heavy rain will drownus all. The storm will last for threemonths and many will die. Those whoescape will find no one to turn to—every friendly face will have perished.”

CHAPTER 4Off to University

Late in the summer of 1991, theimpossible happened: I was awarded ascholarship to the National University inButare. I had dreamed of going touniversity my entire life, and suddenly itwas a reality, despite all the obstaclesplaced in front of me.

When my parents heard the news, theywere so excited that they couldn’t sitstill. They rushed around preparing foodand drinks so that we could celebrate inproper Rwandan style—with a feast!

“You are the first girl in the family togo to university, so we have to leteveryone know about this right away!”Dad shouted, bursting with pride. Hearranged for me to go on a long road tripthe next day so that I could share thenews with my grandmother, aunts anduncles, and all the cousins living in thesurrounding villages.

We stayed up all evening laughing,eating, and talking about all the goodthings that lay ahead. My parents seemedvery young to me that night, as though aweight had been lifted from theirshoulders.

My mother was beaming. “Everythingis looking bright for you, Immaculée,”

she said. “You will always be able tomake your own way now, hold yourhead high, and never be forced to rely onsomeone else to put food on your table.”

Dad toasted me and offered plenty offatherly advice: “It’s mostly menstudying at university, and they won’texpect you to be as smart as they are.But I know that you can do as well as, orbetter than, any man. Because you areTutsi, getting to university has been abattle, but the hard part is over. Now it’sup to you—study hard and pray; and bethe disciplined, kind, beautiful daughterwe’ve had the pleasure of watchinggrow up.”

My heart swelled at his sweet, tender

words. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “Iwon’t let you or Mom down. I’ll makeyou proud.”

I wanted to study psychology andphilosophy so that I could learn aboutthe inner workings of the human heartand mind, but the scholarships werelimited to open spaces in specificprograms, and I wasn’t allowed tochoose my own major. The governmentassigned me to the applied scienceprogram, which was fine. I’d pushedmyself at Lycée to excel in math andphysics to show up my brothers, andnow it would pay off. I packed my bagsand was soon off to Butare, four hourssoutheast of my village, and a whole

new life away.

WHEN I ARRIVED ON CAMPUS, Idiscovered that six of my girlfriendsfrom Lycée, including Clementine, hadalso been awarded scholarships. Myfriend Sarah had already been studyingthere for a year and had been waiting forme so that we could be roommates. Afterall those years of sleeping in crowdeddorms, it was a treat to share a roomwith only one other girl. Clementinevisited our room often, and we’d jokeabout how lucky we were not to havecarried out our plan to electrocuteourselves during the early days of thewar; otherwise, we’d have missed all

the excitement of university.

I loved my classes and studied hard,but I also enjoyed the fun and freedom ofbeing at university. My scholarshipincluded a monthly allowance, whichwas the equivalent of 30 Americandollars—a fortune to me. For the firsttime in my life I felt independent, like agrown-up. I didn’t have to wear a schooluniform anymore and could afford to goto town and shop for pretty clothes withmy friends. It was exhilarating!

My social life was very active,including gatherings at coffee shops,movies on the weekends, and campusdances every other Saturday night. Ijoined the drama club, singing and

dancing in all the productions, whichwere often attended by the mayor ofButare. My favorite roles were thereligious ones, and once I even got toportray my favorite saint, the VirginMary. And I always made time to pray.More and more I found that devotion andmeditation balanced me and helped mefocus. I attended church several times aweek and formed a prayer group withmy girlfriends.

I was too busy to be homesick, butlonely letters from my father made merealize that I had to visit more often.Vianney was now away at boardingschool, and my parents were having ahard time adjusting. “It’s just not the

same without any of my childrenaround,” Dad wrote. “The house is soempty. Sometimes your mother and Ilook at each other and wonder, ‘Wheredid all the laughter go?’ When you havechildren of your own, Immaculée, makesure that you enjoy every minute becausethey’re gone too soon. . . .”

I also met a fellow student namedJohn, who knew some of my friends inMataba. He was three years older than Iwas, and had a strange habit of“accidentally” bumping into me everyday. He started carrying my books,showing me around campus, andintroducing me to his friends. He was anice-looking young man, and very polite

and thoughtful. We went for long walksthrough the forest together and talkedabout what was important to us: God,family, and a good education. We starteddating, and over the next couple of yearsbecame quite serious about each other.John was Hutu, but it was never anissue. My father was more concernedthat John was a Protestant and the son ofa minister.

“Don’t forget that you’re Catholic,”Dad reminded me. “John sounds like agood boy, and you have my blessing todate him—as long as he doesn’t try toconvert you.” Dad was a very tolerantman, but he was also a dyed-in-the-woolCatholic.

My first two years at university flewby, and all was well. My grades weregood, my family was healthy, and my lifewas fun and exciting. In fact, life was sogood that it was sometimes easy toforget that there was a war going on—while other times it was impossible toforget.

Despite on-again, off-again peacetalks and cease-fires, the fierce fightingbetween the Tutsi rebels and governmenttroops continued in the north. Radicalpolitical parties were springing up inmany towns and cities, each violentlyopposed to the others. Unemployedyoung men flocked to the youth wings ofthe different parties because they had

nothing better to do. Many were juststreet-gang members who joined theparties for free drugs and alcohol.

President Habyarimana’s ownpolitical party organized a youthmovement called the Interahamwe,which means “those who attacktogether.” The Interahamwe attractedthousands of homeless kids, and itsmembership spread across the countrylike a virus. It became the Hutu-extremist militia, and many of itsmembers were trained to fight and killby government-army soldiers. Theytraveled in packs and wore informaluniforms—baggy print shirts of brightred, yellow, and green that resembled

the flag of their political party. But nomatter how much they organized, Ialways viewed them as lawless streetthugs.

I first noticed the Interahamwe duringmy Easter vacation in 1993. I was inKigali with John, visiting Sarah and herparents, when the bus we were travelingin became stuck in traffic. As we waited,I glanced out the window and saw agroup of young men surrounding amiddle-aged Tutsi woman who lookedas if she was heading home fromshopping. The boys casually took thepoor lady’s purse, pulled off herjewelry, stole her packages, andknocked her down. Then they yanked off

her shoes and ripped off her dress. Itwas a busy street in the middle of theday, but no one dared to help her.Everyone just looked the other way.

I jumped up from my seat and startedshouting out the window for them tostop, but John pulled me down. “Don’tsay anything!” he ordered. “You have noidea what’s going on in this city,Immaculée. You don’t want to get mixedup with those guys—they will kill you.”

“John, we should do something. Atleast get the police.”

“The police won’t do anything. TheseInterahamwe are part of the government.Don’t talk to them, don’t even look at

them—especially since you’re Tutsi.”

I felt disgusted and helpless. The boyswalked away, and I watched as the poorwoman struggled to get up off theground. She limped away in her barefeet, wearing only her tights and a shawl.

If we let devils like these control ourstreets, we’re in deep trouble, I thoughtas I watched the woman disappear upthe road.

A few months later, I had an evenmore disturbing encounter. Damasceneand I had traveled from Mataba to Kigalifor a wedding. It was a long, hot, dustybus trip, and we’d almost reached ourdestination when the bus came to a

sudden stop.

At least 300 Interahamwe werestanding in the road blocking our way,all of them looking ridiculous in theirclownish outfits, but dangerously wild-eyed as well. Many of them seemed tobe drunk or on drugs, as they dancedaround in circles, yelling and cursing atpassersby. Our driver was too frightenedto go forward, so he announced that hewas turning the bus around. He said thatwe could stay aboard with him and takea two-hour detour, or get out and walk.

“Let’s just stay on the bus,”Damascene said. “Those people lookinsane.” But I didn’t want to stay formany reasons, mainly because I refused

to be intimidated by a bunch ofhooligans.

“We have to get off or we’ll miss thewedding,” I told him. “We can walk tothe church in no time.”

We disembarked, along with half ofthe other passengers. Once outside, wesaw that many of the Interahamwe wereholding machetes while checking theidentity cards of people who wanted towalk past them. I felt a surge of angerand asked, “What gives them the right?”

Damascene was worried. “I think weshould go back, Immaculée. I’ve heardbad things about these guys. Let’s walkhome.”

“Walk home? It took us four hours bybus to get here, and it would take usthree days to walk home. Besides, thesepeople can’t just set themselves up aspolice and bully us because we’reTutsi.”

I was less worried about theInterahamwe than I was about thefrightened look on Damascene’s face.He almost always had a jovialexpression, and was probably thebravest person I knew. But I saw thenthat he was really scared. Normally Iwould have been asking him what to do,but something pushed me to go forward.

“Let’s walk on through,” I said.“We’ll be fine.”

“How do you know that? What makesyou think they won’t just kill us? Thegovernment allows them to do what theywant. The police don’t touch them.”

“Let’s do what you always suggestwhen we have a problem, Damascene.Let’s pray and trust that God will protectus.”

We stood on the side of the road andprayed, 30 feet away from the mob ofangry extremists. I asked God to excusethe short notice, but we needed His helpto get to the church safely. I walkedtoward the roadblock, and a couple ofthe young men noticed me and tappedtheir machetes against their thighs.

“Oh, no, Immaculée . . . are you sureabout this?”

“Yes, yes, just act naturally—andmaybe you better get your rosary out ofyour pocket.”

I held my own rosary tightly in myhand as we walked toward theInterahamwe. About a dozen of themsurrounded us, looked me up and down,and demanded to see our identity cards. Istared at them straight in the eye, smiled,and handed over the documents. I couldsee that I confused them by being so bold—they couldn’t understand why a Tutsiwoman wasn’t afraid of them or theirmachetes. They handed back our cardsand let us pass, but I never forgot the

fear I saw in Damascene’s eyes. It wasthe first time I’d seen him falter, and Icouldn’t shake the feeling that somethingevil had arrived in Rwanda.

A month after our roadblockexperience, President Habyarimanatraveled to Tanzania and signed a peaceagreement with the Tutsi rebels. Theagreement would end the civil war andgive Tutsis a role in governing thecountry. It sounded wonderful—I thoughtthat Rwanda might find peace, and thatTutsis and Hutus could finally live inharmony as equals.

But the promise of peace triggeredmore protests and threats of greaterviolence to come. The minute the

agreement was signed, one of Rwanda’smost powerful military officers, a scary-looking colonel named TheonesteBagosora—who was also the chiefleader of the Interahamwe—stormed outof the talks. Bagosora was disgusted byseeing President Habyarimana shakehands with RPF leader Paul Kagame,whom he called a “Tutsi snake.” Hevowed that he’d never make peace withthe Tutsis and promised to return toRwanda “to prepare an apocalypse.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

CHAPTER 5Returning Home

Too many mornings I awoke to thesound of hatred. I’d sleep peacefullyuntil the obnoxious sounds of RTLMdrifted through my dorm window andinto my dreams. You see, in my thirdyear at university, RTLM became thenew, ultra-popular radio station amongextremist Hutus. It was little more than aradical hate machine, spewing out anti-Tutsi venom.

It was always some disembodied,malevolent voice calling for “Hutu

Power”—the catchphrase for Hutus torise up against their Tutsi friends andneighbors: “These Tutsi cockroaches areout to kill us. Do not trust them . . . weHutus must act first! They are planning totake over our government and persecuteus. If anything happens to our president,then we must exterminate all the Tutsisright away! Every Hutu must jointogether to rid Rwanda of these Tutsicockroaches! Hutu Power! Hutu Power!”

It was an awful way to wake up, butthe broadcasts were so ridiculouslyjuvenile that they were almost funny. Itwas hard to believe that anyone couldtake the infantile insults and outlandishthreats seriously; still, it was unsettling

to know that the government wasallowing Tutsis to be openly threatenedover the public airwaves. But at thetime, I was more disturbed by rumorsthat Tutsis were being murdered byextremists in several areas of thecountry.

Like my friends on campus, I tried notto dwell on the media reports. Easterwas approaching, and it was always aspecial time for my family. We’d spendit together at home, entertainingneighbors and visiting friends andrelatives. I’d never missed an Easterget-together before, but I wanted to stayat school to prepare for my upcomingexams. I was determined to do well on

them.

Because my parents didn’t have aphone, I wrote Dad a letter explainingwhy I wouldn’t be home. My parents hadalways insisted that their children studyextra hard to get ahead, so I was surethey wouldn’t mind.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Dad wrote back, begging me to comehome. In fact, he asked me to comeimmediately and not even wait for theschool holidays to begin. He wrote thathe wanted me to be with him, and hepromised that I could study at home withno disturbances. His heartfelt pleabrought tears to my eyes:

My darling daughter,

I feel like school hastaken you away from us.Your mom and I wait soimpatiently for yourvacation to begin becauseit means we can have youhome and live like a familyagain. We need yourpresence; we are yourparents, and we love youand miss you terribly—never forget that! Even if itcan be only for two days,you must come to see us;don’t sacrifice the time foranything else. We need you

with us. . . .

Before I’d finished his letter, I’ddecided to go home. I planned to spendsix days with my parents and be back atschool for my exams at the end of theweek. While I made my travelarrangements, Sarah’s younger brother,Augustine, asked if he could come homewith me and spend the holidays with myfamily. Augustine was good friends withmy brother Vianney, and he’d beenstaying in our dorm room since thesemester ended at his high school inKigali. He was a tall, handsome, andvery sweet 18-year-old boy who wasshy around everyone except Vianney. Itold him that we’d be delighted to have

him as our guest.

AUGUSTINE AND I ARRIVED INMATABA on Saturday afternoon, andmy parents were overjoyed to have mehome. The entire family was there withthe exception of Aimable, who’d won aninternational scholarship to dopostgraduate work in science. He’dactually left the country to study inSenegal, more than 3,000 miles away.Damascene had traveled down fromKigali, where he’d been teaching highschool since graduating with hismaster’s degree in history, and Vianneywas home on vacation from boardingschool.

I spent the first day back catching upon local gossip with Damascene,visiting friends, and arguing playfullywith Vianney. The next day was EasterSunday, and we had a beautiful mealtogether. We thanked God for all that Hehad blessed us with and prayed for thewell-being of everyone in our family andour village—and we said a specialprayer for Aimable, our only absentmember. Despite the political tension inthe air, we were having a great time. Ifelt safe and secure with my parents,knowing that whatever might happen, mymother would be there to comfort us andmy dad would be there to protect us. Atleast, that’s what I thought.

It was such a typical evening that itwas hard to believe our world wasabout to change forever. We were sittingin the living room chatting about school,work, and what had been happening inthe village. Mom updated us on thecrops, and Dad told us about the kids hiscoffee co-op was sponsoring forscholarships. Augustine and Vianneygoofed around, making jokes with eachother, and I relaxed and took it all in,happy just to be home.

The only person who wasn’t having agood time was Damascene. He wasusually the life of the party, but he’dbeen pensive and anxious all evening.

“Damascene, what’s wrong with you

tonight?” I asked.

My brother looked up at me, and whenour eyes met, he couldn’t keep quiet anylonger. He unburdened himself to me ina rush of words and emotion:“Immaculée, I saw them, I saw thekillers. I was on my way to Bonn’shouse, and we saw them in the distance.They were wearing the bright colors ofthe Interahamwe and were carrying handgrenades. They had grenades,Immaculée!” His voice was hoarse.

The room had grown silent, sinceeveryone had overheard him. My parentslooked at each other, then back atDamascene.

“Maybe you’re letting yourimagination get the better of you,” myfather said, trying to calm his son down.“There is a lot of dangerous talk goingon, and people are seeing danger wherethere is none.”

“No, I’m not imagining things,”Damascene said, getting to his feet andspeaking with urgency. “And that’s notall I saw. They have a list of names ofall the Tutsi families in the area, and ournames are on it! It’s a death list! Theyare planning to start killing everyone onthe list tonight!”

Damascene paced around the roomand began pleading with my father.“Dad, we have to leave, please. We

have to get out of here while we stillcan. We can just walk down the hill, finda boat, cross Lake Kivu, and be safely inZaire by midnight. But we have to leavenow before it’s too late.”

Damascene’s outburst was so suddenand out of character that he startled usall. Knowing my brother, he must havebeen brooding all evening over whathe’d seen during the afternoon, but didn’twant to say anything to us until he’dcome up with an escape plan.

“Hold on, Damascene, just settledown a minute,” my father said. “You’reupsetting your mother and sister. Let’sanalyze exactly what it is you think yousaw and heard today. If you make

decisions when you’re panicked orafraid, you’ll make mistakes. Let’s goover everything carefully. Did youactually see this list?”

Damascene was distressed by myfather’s doubts, but admitted that hehadn’t seen the list with his own eyes—he’d heard about it from friends. But hewas positive the people he’d seen wereInterahamwe.

“You see, it’s like I thought,” myfather said. “Everyone is on edge, andyour nerves are making things seemworse than they are. I’ve seen thissituation before. You hear rumors ofdeath squads and stories about deathlists, but after a few days you realize it

has all been greatly exaggerated. I’m notabout to pack up my family and run awayfrom rumors. We are not going toabandon our home and everything we’veworked for because nervous peoplehave vivid imaginations.”

“But, Dad,” I piped in, “Damasceneisn’t the nervous type. He’s smart andisn’t fooled easily. Maybe we shouldlisten to him.”

I was getting worried. If it was truethat the Interahamwe had a death list andwould start killing people that night, thenthey could be coming for us at anyminute.

“Perhaps we should do as Damascene

says,” I urged my father. “Think of allthe things we’ve been hearing on theradio. I haven’t taken them seriously, butthat might have been a mistake. They saythat all Tutsis should be killed. MaybeDamascene is right—maybe we shouldleave now!”

“No, Immaculée, we shouldn’t leave.Things are getting better with thegovernment, and there will be peacesoon. Those people on the radio arecrazy; no one is taking them seriously!Don’t worry. Let’s just stay calm andenjoy the holidays. There is no deathlist, and no one is coming to kill us. I’molder and I know better,” my father said,with a weak smile. “Now, for heaven’s

sake, let’s sit down and eat dinnertogether.”

My father’s assurances temporarilyconvinced me that all would be fine, andwe all gathered around the dining roomtable to eat. I sensed that Damascenewas unmoved by our father’s arguments,although he was putting on a brave frontand acting like his old self—singingsilly songs, making jokes about peoplein our village, and teasing Vianney abouthis girlfriends. But the more he made uslaugh, the more certain I was that he wasplayacting. Behind his beautiful, opensmile, my brother was deeply troubled.

I wish I had known that that night wasto be our last family supper together. I

would have stood up and thanked Godfor all of them. I would have toldeveryone sitting around that table howmuch I loved them and thanked them forloving me. But I didn’t know.

BEFORE WE WENT TO BED, we saidevening prayers together as a family, aswe’d always done. My mother kissed usgoodnight, and my father promised thatnothing bad would happen and wishedus a peaceful sleep.

As soon as we heard our parents’bedroom door close, the four of us—Damascene, Vianney, Augustine, and me—assembled in the living room. Wetalked for at least an hour about the

rumors Damascene had heard and thethings he’d seen that day. We wereworried about my father’s reluctance totake Damascene’s fears seriously.

“I don’t mean any disrespect to yourfather,” Augustine whispered, “and Iknow that I’m not supposed to arguewith my elders, but I think your dad iswrong. I agree with Damascene—I thinkstaying here is dangerous. If yourfamily’s name is on the death list, theywill come for you, and there’s nothingwe can do to stop them! I don’t thinkyour father is going to change his mindabout leaving, so maybe we shouldleave, right now, without your parents.”

Everyone was quiet. I’m sure that we

all wanted to run to Lake Kivu and hopinto a rowboat, but my brothers and Icouldn’t leave our parents withoutsaying good-bye. And we were soaccustomed to our father making thedecisions in the household that it wasnatural for us to follow his lead.Besides, we reasoned, it was getting solate that Augustine and Vianney werefalling asleep in their chairs. SoDamascene and I decided that we shouldwait until morning and talk to Dad again,and then we all headed to bed.

My bedroom was like my own littlechapel. With my Bible and statues ofJesus and the Virgin Mary on my nighttable, it was a place where I connected

with God and my own spiritual energies.I knelt by my bed and looked at thestatues, saying a prayer to God to protectmy family from danger.

Also sitting in front of me was abirthday card that I’d bought forDamascene. His 27th birthday wascoming up, and I’d been trying for daysto write a poem for him that said howmuch I loved and admired him. Ourparents didn’t teach us to openly expressour love for one another, but I intendedto change that. And who better to startwith than Damascene, whom I cherishedso dearly and who inspired me morethan anyone else in the world?

When we were young, Damascene

would scold me if I acted foolishly orspoiled. His words stung and annoyedme, but later, when I’d think over whathe said, I’d realize he was right. Even asa child, he had a gift for teaching, and hepossessed wisdom beyond his years. Asa teenager, I used to pray for God tomake me more like him, with hisbeautiful soul and giving heart. Iwatched him give his clothes to the poorand spend hours comforting people whowere outcast due to sickness, poverty, ormadness.

Damascene was a superstar in ourvillage. And as I lay myself down tosleep that night, I thought about howmuch my brother meant to me. I picked

up my pen and added a few lines to thepoem on his birthday card. I grinned,imagining how shy and happy he wouldbe when he read the words. With a smilestill on my face, I turned out my light andtried to sleep.

My eyes were shut for what onlyseemed like minutes when the door ofmy room burst open. I sat up with a startand noticed that it was dawn. I could seeDamascene’s terrified face in the grayhalf-light of my bedroom, and I imaginedthe worst. “What is it, Damascene? Arethe killers here?” I whispered. I couldbarely hear my own frightened voice.

My brother said nothing. I could hearhim trying to catch his breath while he

stood in the doorway. When he finallyspoke, his voice sounded like it wascoming to me from the bottom of a deepwell: “Get up, Immaculée—for heaven’ssake, get up. The president is dead!”

“What? What do you mean thepresident is dead?” I cried out. Icouldn’t believe what I was hearing. Thepresident had promised to bring peaceand equality back to Rwanda. Howcould he be dead?

“I mean President Habyarimana isdead! He was killed last night.

His plane was shot out of the sky.”

I thought of what I’d heard on theradio a few days before: “If anything

happens to our president, then all Tutsismust be exterminated!”

I jumped out of bed and searchedfrantically for something to wear. Ipulled on a pair of jeans under my longgreen nightdress and was so flusteredthat I actually dressed in front of mybrother, something I had never done inmy life.

“The president has been killed;someone’s killed the president,” I keptmumbling to myself in dazed disbelief. Ipushed the curtains away from mybedroom window and looked outside.I’m not sure if it was my imagination, butI saw a sickly yellow haze settling overthe village.

“Even the sky is changing,” I said,dropping onto the bed and holding myhead in my hands. “Oh, Damascene, weare all going to die. They will come forus now and will kill us for sure.”

My brother sat down and put his armsaround me. “Listen to me, Immaculée,we are not going to die,” he firmlystated. “We had nothing to do with this.The president was flying back frompeace talks in Tanzania, and he wastraveling with the president of Burundi.The plane was shot down when it waslanding in Kigali . . . in Kigali! No onewill be blaming us down here.”

Damascene was trying to be brave forme, but he was a poor actor. I know that

he was trying to convince himself asmuch as me.

“Maybe things will improve for usnow that he’s dead,” he continued. “Somany people were against these peacenegotiations and PresidentHabyarimana’s plans for a moremoderate government that his death mayactually ease the tensions. Don’t be sofrightened, Immaculée. Come outside.Everyone is out there listening to theradio.”

He took me by the hand, and we wentout into the yard where my parents,Vianney, and Augustine had settled in tolisten to the radio. The announcerreported that roadblocks and military

checkpoints had been set up all over thecapital, minutes after the president’splane had been blown up. He also saidthat at least 20 Tutsi families in Kigalihad been killed during the night.

I hesitate to use the word reportedbecause the man on the radio soundedmore like a cheerleader for the killersthan a journalist. When he announcedthat presidential guard soldiers hadtaken it upon themselves to kill Tutsis toavenge the president’s death, he madethe killings sound justified. He made itsound like dragging entire families intothe street and murdering them wasperfectly reasonable.

Then he read out some of the names of

the people that the soldiers had killed sofar in Kigali. The fifth name belonged tomy Uncle Twaza.

“They’ve killed Twaza?” my mothercried out, quickly covering her eyes withher hands and shaking her head indisbelief. “Why would they kill Twaza?He’s never harmed anyone.”

A painful silence enveloped my familyas we realized that we’d missed ouropportunity to escape the night before.My father tried again to ease our fears.“Emotions are running very high in thecapital. That’s where the killings arebecause that’s where most of thesoldiers are based,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Everything will settle down in a

day or two, you’ll see.”

“I think I would like to go home now,”said Augustine, whose family lived inKigali. We looked at him, knowing thatit was far too dangerous to go anywhere.A few minutes later our suspicions wereconfirmed in a series of radioannouncements: “Stay in your homes. Itis forbidden to travel. Only militarypersonnel will be allowed in the streets.Do not go outside. Public transportationhas been suspended. Do not leave yourhomes!”

“They want us to stay put so they’llknow where to find us. They want us tobe sitting ducks!” Damascene exclaimed,eyes widening. “If our names are on

their death list, then they’ll know wherewe live, and they know we will behere.”

It was the morning of April 7, 1994.We didn’t know it yet, but the genocidehad begun.

CHAPTER 6No Going Back

Mom, Dad, Damascene, Vianney,Augustine, and I spent the entire dayhuddled together in our yard listening tothe radio. The broadcasts from outsideof Rwanda reported that ordinary Hutucitizens were joining governmentsoldiers and Interahamwe militiamenand killing innocent Tutsi civilians;meanwhile, the local stations wereencouraging Hutus to pick up machetesand attack their Tutsi neighbors.

I felt like a lost little girl waiting for

my parents to give me instructions. Ithought that since they’d survived themany political upheavals and Tutsimassacres since 1959, they must knowwhat to do.

The national radio station continued towarn people to remain in their homes,and like good children, we obeyed. Wewere too afraid to open our gate to findout was happening on the other side ofthe fence. We placed ourselves underself-imposed house arrest, worried thatstepping beyond our property line couldprove fatal.

My family didn’t own a telephone, andeven if we had, most of the phone linesin the country were down. We were

completely cut off, except for whateverthe radio told us. We sat listening to thehorrific reports for hours, until I thoughtI’d go out of my mind. Late in theafternoon, I pulled out my books andbegan studying for my exams.

“How do you do it, Immaculée?”Damascene asked. “Where do you findthe strength to study? Why do youbelieve that there will even be a schoolto go back to?”

My brother had helped me shake myown despair only hours earlier, but nowhe too was hopeless. It was my turn tobe strong. “Stop worrying,” I said.“We’ll get through this. If things get bad,we’ll slip across the border. Mom and

Dad have been through this before. Havefaith.”

The truth was that I had little faithmyself—I wasn’t studying to prepare forexams, but to keep my mind off myfamily’s worries.

The only encouraging news we heardall day was a message from the RPF’sPaul Kagame, who was in charge of theTutsi rebel soldiers based in Uganda. Hepromised that if the killing of Tutsisdidn’t stop, the rebels would invadeRwanda and fight to the death to protecttheir fellow Tutsis. It was comforting tohear Kagame say that, but I wassaddened that the only “good” news wasthe threat of all-out war.

None of us slept more than a fewminutes that night.

The next day we listened to a BBCphone interview with Rwanda’s primeminister, Agathe Uwilingiyimana, amoderate Hutu living in Kigali. Eventhough United Nations peacekeeperswere guarding her, there was gunfire allaround her home. She said that she, herhusband, and their five children werelying on the floor and had no way toescape. During the interview, the phoneline went dead. We learned later thatsoldiers had burst into her home and shotboth her and her husband. Luckily, herchildren had been rescued.

The prime minister’s words affected

us deeply, and it was now impossible topretend that things were going to getbetter. If killers could execute the Hutuprime minister, what would stop themfrom murdering us?

The constant tension during those 24hours took a toll on my family. Mymother went into a kind of trance andbegan moving from room to room,packing every suitcase we owned withwhatever she could lay her hands on.“I’m not going to leave the things I’veworked so hard for so that people cansteal them,” she told us. “I’m going tohide them away. One day we’ll comeback for them.”

I didn’t know where she was planning

to go—we’d just heard over the radiothat our only practical escape route(across Lake Kivu) had been cut off bythe Interahamwe militia. They weremurdering every Tutsi or moderate Hutuwho approached the lake.

My father remained in bewildereddenial. “If the killing continues,” hereasoned, “the RPF will step in to stopit. They could be here in Mataba toprotect us in a few days.”

“Daddy, what are you thinking?” Iasked him, incredulous. “The RPFsoldiers are up north near the Ugandanborder. They have no vehicles; they’reon foot and will have to fight the armyand Interahamwe every step of the way.

It will take weeks for them to get here . .. if they get here at all!”

I could count the number of times I’dcontradicted my father on one hand, buteverything was changing. My parentsweren’t thinking clearly, and Augustineand Vianney were too young and scaredto depend upon. I’d followedDamascene’s lead my entire life, butnow he’d retreated to his room and wasstaring at the walls.

“Do you honestly think we’re going toescape this?” he asked when I came tofind him. “I’m lying here trying topicture what I’ll be doing next year, but Ican’t. I don’t think I’ll be alive. I haveno future.”

“Damascene, you have to snap out ofthis!” I shouted. “You can’t give upbefore we even start to fight! If you can’tsee what you’ll be doing next year, Ican! You’ll be with me in Butare when Igraduate university. You’re going to besitting in the front row clapping andcheering when I accept my diploma. Soplease, get up and help Mom and Dad!”

“I wish I had your faith and courage,”he muttered, then continued staring at thewall.

I didn’t feel courageous, but someonehad to pull my family together. I tried tobe strong and at least act brave so thatthe family wouldn’t collapse in completedespair.

By nightfall we’d heard that the tenBelgian UN peacekeepers protecting theprime minister had been murdered bygovernment soldiers and that the lives ofall the other Belgians in Rwanda werebeing threatened. We knew that if theBelgians and other foreigners left thecountry, there would be no one capableof stopping an all-out slaughter. For thesecond night in a row, none of us slept.

AT DAWN, THE SCREAMINGBEGAN. Two-dozen Interahamwemilitiamen attacked our village, tossinggrenades into houses. When the familiesinside tried to escape, they were hackedto death with machetes.

When my family heard the screams,we opened our gate and ran out to theroad. We could see for quite a distancefrom our hilltop home and searched forthe source of the commotion. Below us,on the far side of a nearby river, we sawa group of Interahamwe surrounding oneof our neighbors. They moved like apack of jackals, holding their machetesabove their heads and circling himslowly. We watched helplessly fromafar as they moved in for the kill,mercilessly chopping him to bits.

We turned away from the murder inhorror. Coming toward us quickly fromthe other side of the hill were dozens ofour Tutsi neighbors. The men were

carrying sticks and stones to protect theirfamilies, while the women carried theirbabies in their arms and yelled at theirolder kids not to fall behind.

“Leonard! Leonard!” they called whenthey saw my father. “Please help us.They’re killing us! What will we do?Where should we go?”

Since my father was one of the mostrespected men in the village, within afew hours approximately 2,000 men,women, and children were camped outin front of our house, looking to him forguidance. I couldn’t believe how manypeople had been driven from theirhomes. Scores of families sat aroundcooking fires, arguing about what to do

next, while their children played gamesand chased each other through the fields.If it hadn’t been for the occasionalgunfire and grenades exploding in thedistance, the gathering could easily havebeen mistaken for a family picnic.

The number of people who had comeseeking my father’s help and adviceseemed to bring him back to reality. Hebecame more like himself and tookaction. “Everyone be calm,” he said.“We’ll find a way to get through thistogether.”

THAT NIGHT MY FATHER TOLDME HE WAS concerned for my health.“You haven’t slept at all, Immaculée.

The rest of us are going to stay outsidetonight with the others, so I want you goto your room and get some sleep.”

“But Dad, I . . .” I didn’t like the ideaof staying in the house alone. I wasterrified that we’d be attacked in thenight.

He saw my hesitation and smiled.“Don’t worry, my sweetheart. I’m here,and I’m going to protect you. It’s coldoutside, and you need to get some rest.Now go inside and lie down.”

I knew that he couldn’t protect meagainst the Interahamwe, but I couldn’tbear to hurt his pride, so I did as heasked. My mother promised that she’d

stand guard over the house to make sureI was safe.

Despite my parents’ love and concern,I couldn’t sleep at all that night either. Ikept a small radio on my chest, spinningthe dial until dawn and listening toreport after report of what washappening around us. The news gotworse as the night wore on: Tutsis werebeing killed in large numbers in everycorner of Rwanda, peace talks betweenthe government and Tutsi rebels hadbroken off, and the RPF vowed to fightits way to the capital to stop theslaughter.

In the middle of the night I wentoutside and found my mother asleep in

the courtyard. She’d dozed off guardingour front door.

When I moved closer to wake her, mybreath caught in my throat. She waswrapped in a white bedsheet, and in thecold moonlight she looked like a corpse.I was overwhelmed by the sight and ranback to my room. I fell onto my bed, andfor the first time since our nightmarebegan, I burst into tears.

“Why is this happening?” I cried intomy pillow. “What have we done todeserve this? Why is being a Tutsi sowrong? Why are you letting this happento us, God?”

I felt selfish for crying and dried my

eyes. Silly girl, I thought, cry later. Thistragedy is just beginning, and therewill be plenty of time for tears.

I returned outside just as the sun wasbeginning to rise over Lake Kivu andstood beside my sleeping mother. I softlystroked her feet and carefully unknottedthe tangles in her hair. Mother wasalways so beautiful and proud of herappearance—she’d be mortified to beseen in such a state. I kissed her cheekand gently shook her awake. “Mom, getup,” I said softly. “It’s cold out here. Getinto bed.”

As soon as she opened her eyes, theyfilled with fear and confusion. “Where isDamascene? Where is Vianney?

Immaculée . . . you should be in thehouse getting rest. What are you doingoutside alone in the dark?” she asked,struggling to get up.

“What are you doing out here, Mom?”

“I didn’t want to leave you alone inthe house, but I didn’t want to be too faraway from your father or my boys. Ihave to make sure everyone is safe.”

“Everyone is safe, Mom. The boysand Dad are camping out with the others.Maybe things will get better today,” Isaid, my heart aching from the painetched on her face. She’d worked andsacrificed for us her entire life and spentcountless hours worrying about our

safety. Now she knew she couldn’t doanything to protect us, and it was killingher. She seemed to have aged yearsduring the past few days.

We went looking for my father andbrothers, who were with the refugees,and we weren’t prepared for what wefound when we stepped outside. At least10,000 Tutsis were camped in front ofour home.

My father was walking through thehuge crowd, greeting people with wordsof encouragement. He’d been up all nightand refused to go inside and rest. Hewashed, put on fresh clothes, and wasright back among the refugees. Dozens ofpeople were trying to reach him, calling

out his name, but there were so many thatit was impossible for him to talk to themall.

Finally, he climbed to the top of alarge boulder at the base of a cliff andturned to the frightened crowd. “Friends,friends!” he shouted. His voice boomedabove the multitude.

“I know you’re afraid; don’t be. Thesepeople—these killers—are few, and weare many. They’re not stronger than weare, not if we have God’s love in ourhearts. If they are acting out of evil, ifthey have come to harm us for no reasonother than their hatred for us, then wewill defeat them. Love will alwaysconquer hatred. Believe in yourselves,

believe in each other, and believe inGod!”

My heart swelled with pride. It washard to believe that this was the sameman who had seemed so confused andunreasonable just hours before. Yet herehe was, passing his strength on to somany lost and terrified souls.

“We will fight them,” Dad continued.The crowd, moved by his words, beganchanting his name and cheering him on,but he held up his hand for quiet.

“As I said, if these killers are drivenonly by hatred, we will force themaway. But if the government is sendingthem, if these attacks are part of an

organized plan to exterminate Tutsis, weare in serious trouble. The governmenthas guns and grenades—it has an armyand a militia—and we have no weaponsat all. If the government plans to kill us,all we can do is pray. Let us use the timewe have to repent. Let us pray for Godto forgive our sins. If we are to die, letus die with our hearts clean.”

The cheering stopped and the crowdwas silent. At first I thought that myfather had crushed their spirits, but Irealized that thousands of them had takenhis advice and were quietly praying.

“It doesn’t matter if we live or die—the important thing is that we fightagainst this evil that has come to our

homes!” my dad cried out.

As thousands of eyes were glued tohim, he lifted his right hand high abovehis head. I could see that he was holdinghis red and white rosary.

“We will ask God to defend us againstevil,” he shouted, waving the rosary inthe air. Then he reached down andpicked up a long, metal-tipped spearwith his left hand. He lifted the spearabout his head as well and continued,“We will ask God for help, but we willalso defend ourselves. Find a spear, armyourselves, but don’t kill anyone! Wewon’t be like them—we will not kill—but we won’t sit around and beslaughtered like sheep either. Let us be

strong . . . and let us pray.”

A FEW HOURS AFTER MYFATHER’S SPEECH, 50 Interahamwearmed with knives and machetesattacked the Tutsis outside our home. Myfather gathered more than 100 Tutsi mentogether and rushed toward the killers.When they got within throwing distance,they tossed stones at them and eventuallychased them away. But it was a minorvictory—the radio continued to reportwidespread killings, and a steady streamof Tutsi refugees was arriving at ourdoor. Each new arrival had a new horrorstory; from what they told us, werealized that we were completely

surrounded by Interahamwe.

After the attack, I went to my bedroomto get my scapular, a kind of clothnecklace that Catholics wear. Thescapular is very precious to me becauseit’s blessed with the Virgin Mary’spromise that “whosoever dies wearing itshall not suffer eternal fire. It shall be asign of salvation, a protection in danger,and a pledge of peace.” I bought it whenI moved away to university, believingthat if anything happened to me, myscapular would speed my journey toheaven.

I went to my father’s study, wherehe’d gone after chasing off theInterahamwe. He was rummaging

through his desk and sticking familyphotos into his pockets.

“Dad, I have something for you,” Isaid, holding out the scapular.

He knew what it was and what it wasfor. “Why don’t we leave it in thehouse? That way no one will burn itdown,” he said.

My eyes filled with tears. “No, Dad,you have to wear this. Who is the personin this family putting himself in danger?Who is the most likely to be killed in allof this, Dad? Stop worrying about thehouse—it’s your spirit that matters now,not material things.”

“All right, Immaculée. I understand,”

he said, taking the scapular from myhand and putting it around his neck.“Now, what do I have for you? What canI give my only daughter?” he wonderedaloud, rifling through his desk. “Ah, ofcourse! I know exactly what to giveyou.”

He reached into his shirt pocket andpulled out the red and white rosary he’dshown to the crowd. He pressed thebeads into my palm and covered myhand with his. “Keep it always,Immaculée.”

“I will, I promise.”

As soon as we exchanged gifts, ourfront door banged open, and a

neighborhood woman began yellingdesperately for my father. “Leonard!Leonard! Please come quickly! They’reback! The killers are back! But there aremany, many more of them now!”

My father ran to his bedroom, grabbeda spear that he had hidden under his bed,and charged out the door. I followed himas best I could, but my legs felt likerubber. I thought that we were about todie . . . especially when I saw that thekillers were standing about a quartermile from our house.

“Let’s fight these wicked people!Let’s stop this senseless killing! Theymight kill us, but we’ll die pure ofheart!” my father cried out, trying to

rally other Tutsi men to his side. No onejoined him.

Dad was sweating, and his eyes werewide and wild. He began running towardthe killers by himself, holding his spearhigh in the air. My mother flew afterhim, her long blue dress flapping behindher. She grabbed hold of his shirttail anddug her heels into the earth. He keptrunning, dragging her behind him as shescreamed out his name: “Stop, Leonard!Stop! You can’t fight them alone. Please,please, please let someone else go.There are so many young men here. Letthem fight,” she begged.

Everyone was staring at her, but shedidn’t care. She saw her husband of 28

years—a man she loved above all others—running toward certain death, and shewas going to do everything in her powerto stop him.

Dad ran out of breath and was unableto drag Mom behind him any farther. Hestopped and tried to catch his breathwhile his wife clung to his shirt. “Whatis wrong with you?” she shrieked at theyounger Tutsis in the crowd. “How canyou let your elders fight your battles foryou? How can you let my husband getkilled for you? Be men—get up andfight!”

People stared at her but made no moveto help because they were all terrified.My mother turned to my father, wrapped

her arms around him, and pleaded,“Don’t go, Leonard, please!”

“Listen to me, Rose.” Dad gripped herby the shoulders. “It is my duty to behere for these people right now. If thatmeans fighting, then I will fight. I have todo what I feel is right. Now stoppanicking and go help the young motherswith their children. I’ll be back.”

By the time my parents finishedarguing, the killers had left. I supposethat as they got closer, they got a bettersense of just how many Tutsis wereactually at our house. Even with gunsand grenades, 100 against 10,000 werenot good odds. But the odds would notbe in our favor for long.

AFTER MY PARENTS’ SKIRMISH INFRONT OF THE HOUSE, Damascenecame to see me. His eyes werebloodshot and his voice was strained.“The killers ran away this time,Immaculée, but they’ll come back. Andwhen they do, there will be too many ofthem to chase away with sticks andstones. If they catch you, they will rapeyou first, then kill you. You have toleave. Go stay with Pastor Murinzi . . .I’m sure he’ll hide you until this isover.”

“No, Damascene. I won’t go if itmeans leaving the family behind. I’llonly go if we all go together. I wouldn’t

be able to live with myself knowing thatyou could be killed while I was hidingsomewhere.”

Damascene looked at me with tears inhis eyes. He went and got our father andthey came to talk to me together. “Yourbrother is right, Immaculée,” Dad said.“You’re a young woman, and it’s toodangerous for you here. Go to PastorMurinzi’s house, and in a few days whenthe troubles are over, I will come andget you myself.”

I didn’t believe that he’d come and getme because, in my heart, I didn’t believethat he was going to survive. So Ireplied, “But I’d rather stay here withyou.”

“No. You’re going into hiding, andthat’s final.” My father ended any furtherargument.

“What about Mom? She should comewith me.”

“I’ve already asked her, but she won’tleave your brothers. You’d better takeAugustine with you, too—I don’t knowwhat I’d say to his parents if anythinghappened to him while he was stayingwith us.”

Within the hour, Augustine and I wereon our way to Pastor Murinzi’s house.All I had with me were the clothes onmy back, the rosary my father had givento me, and my government-issued

identity card that said I was Tutsi.

My father followed behind us for ashort distance. As he turned to go back,he shouted, “Remember, Immaculée, Iwill come get you myself!”

It was the last thing he ever said tome.

IT WAS A FIVE-MILE HIKE DOWN ANARROW DIRT ROAD to the pastor’shouse, and we walked quickly.Augustine was a Hutu, but he looked likea Tutsi, and we were worried that we’drun into the killers along the way. Abouta mile from the pastor’s house, we did.There was a mob of at least 100 Hutus

coming toward us, carrying spears,knives, and machetes.

“I wish I was a bird and could flyaway home to Kigali right now,”Augustine whispered as they got closer.My heart pounded against my chest.

Some of the men were banging theirmachetes together, making a sickeningclang. Others dragged their blades alongthe road, and orange sparks spit upwhenever the steel hit a stone. I kept myeyes fixed on the road, but I could seethe shadows cast by their weapons.

I wondered if someone was going tostick a spear into my back, and whatkind of hole it would make in my flesh. I

closed my eyes and waited for the pain .. . but God was watching over us.

“Immaculée, what are you doing outhere?”

I opened my eyes and saw Kageyo, aHutu, but also a good friend of myfather’s. He was carrying a very bigspear, but there was kindness in hiseyes.

The Hutus were all around us, andKageyo yelled at them, “Don’t harmthese children! They’re friends of mine,so no one dare touch them.”

The Hutus looked very angry butpassed us by.

“Don’t worry, children, we will bringthe peace back,” Kageyo said, and leftwith the others.

Augustine and I ran as fast as our feetwould carry us, and we didn’t stop untilwe were standing in front of the pastor’shouse.

“We’re safe now,” I said.

How I wish I had been right.

CHAPTER 7The Pastor’s House

Augustine and I were fighting for breathwhen we arrived at Pastor Murinzi’shouse. I was exhausted from the last fewanguished days, and my head wasswimming after running at full speedfrom the killers. When I saw the pastorstaring at us from his doorway, I couldbarely speak. “There were men . . . withspears . . . they were going to . . . ” Igasped.

Pastor Murinzi stood on his porch,framed by the enormous front door of his

big brick home. I’d always thought thathis European-style house seemed out ofplace in a village that had so many hutsand tin shacks—it had many bedrooms, abig living and dining room, andbathrooms with real indoor plumbing.And the front yard overflowed withflowers, which were protected from thesummer sun by a huge shade tree.

The pastor greeted us warmly. I shookhis hand, still struggling to catch mybreath.

“It’s good to see you again,Immaculée,” he said with a smile. “It’sbeen too long.”

I’d been good friends with the

youngest of the pastor’s ten childrensince childhood and had visited hishouse many times. He’d had manybusiness dealings with my father overthe years, so I’d seen him at our home aswell. Plus, he was also an uncle of myboyfriend, John, so he was far frombeing a stranger. I suddenly rememberedmy aunt once telling me that the pastor,who was a Protestant, resented the goodworks my father did, along with Dad’sprominent standing in the community.But he was always polite to me, and I’dalways been courteous and respectful tohim, so I decided to focus on that.

“My father told me to come here,Pastor Murinzi,” I finally said, still

gripping his hand. “He said that he’llcome for me as soon as things get better.He promised that he’d come for mehimself.”

The pastor said nothing, but his eyesspoke volumes: Your father will nevercome back for you. You’ll never see himagain.

I pushed the pastor’s look from mymind because if I started thinking aboutharm coming to my family, I’d breakdown completely. I introduced him toAugustine before he ushered us into hisliving room, where several guests weretalking to each other. It may have beenmy imagination, but I thought that theconversation paused when we walked

into the room.

The first person I saw was Buhoro,my teacher from primary school.Although he’d humiliated me duringethnic roll call, I hadn’t held a grudge. Iwas so happy and relieved to seesomeone I knew that I went straight overto him. I gave him a big smile and put myhand out for him to shake.

He looked down at my hand and thenup into my eyes before clicking histongue in disgust and turning his back onme. I was devastated. I’d never beentreated so rudely or with such hostiledisrespect, and this from a teacher I’dknown since grade school! Everyone inthe room witnessed what happened. His

body language was unmistakable,screaming, Don’t touch me, you piece ofTutsi dirt!

I looked around, expecting one of theother adults to come to my defense andchastise Buhoro for his behavior. But noone paid any attention—not even thepastor, who was standing right in frontof us. Augustine was the only one to act:He walked up to Buhoro and refused toshake hands with him; instead, he cameand stood by my side.

I’d known for a long time that Buhorowas a Hutu, but it was only now that Irealized he was an extremist Hutu whohad always hated Tutsis. Extremist . . .how I hated that word. Once again

Buhoro made me feel ashamed of whatGod had made me—a Tutsi. I was soembarrassed and humiliated that I had toforce myself to greet the other guestsbefore retreating from the room inshame.

I was so relieved when I found Janet,my best friend since primary school,sitting in the dining room chatting withanother girl. I rushed over and cried,“Janet! Oh, I’m so happy to see you. It’sbeen so horrible for me these past fewdays; the world has gone crazy. Peopleare being murdered all over the village,and we’ve been treated like dogs. . . .Thank God you’re here! It’s so good tosee a friendly face.”

I threw my arms around her, huggingher as tightly as I could, but her bodystiffened. When I pulled back and lookedinto her face, it wasn’t friendly at all—in fact, her eyes refused to meet mine.

She’s in shock, I thought, suddenlyconcerned for her well-being. What’swrong with me? I haven’t even askedher how she is!

“Aren’t you feeling well, Janet? Ihaven’t been sleeping either, but nowwe’ve found each other. My father toldme to stay with Pastor Murinzi, but I’mnot comfortable here. It’s so luckyyou’re visiting! I’ll come home with you,and we can keep each other companyuntil things are back to normal.”

Janet bent down, grabbed her purse,and stood up. “I don’t know what youcan be thinking, Immaculée,” she said,still not looking at me. “I’m certainly notgoing to hide you, and neither will myfather. We don’t hide Tutsis in ourhome.”

“But . . . Janet?”

She turned to the other girl and said,“I’m leaving,” and then walked out ofthe house and never looked back.

I staggered into the hall and leanedagainst the wall. How could my dearestfriend turn against me? We’d loved eachother like sisters once—how could shebe so cruel now? How was it possible

for a heart to harden so quickly?

Augustine came up to me with Lechim,who was Pastor Murinzi’s youngest sonand the closest male friend I’d ever had.We’d known each other since primaryschool, and because he was great palswith Damascene, he was always hangingaround our house. He’d joined our groupof friends on outings and picnics overthe years, and we’d developed crusheson each other. He even gave me my firstkiss just before my 20th birthday, a kissthat was the beginning and end of ourromance because we agreed not totamper with our wonderful friendship.And now, because of that friendship, Iwas in a big house with a kind hand on

my shoulder instead of in the fieldsbeing hunted by machete-carryingkillers.

“Come on, Immaculée, don’t be upset.Everyone is behaving strangely today,”Lechim said sweetly, patting metenderly. “Come on, I’ll take you to mysister’s room, and Augustine can stay inthe boys’ room. The girls will be goodto you, Immaculée.”

I was so happy that Lechim had foundme, and I knew his sister Dusenge verywell. Like him, she was a kind, goodsoul. I think that we might have gottenalong so well because their mother,Elena, who had died a few years earlier,was Tutsi. Lechim and Dusenge were

considered Hutu because that’s whattheir father was—but because of theirmom, they understood what it meant tobe Tutsi in Rwanda.

As we were walking to the room,Augustine began crying. “I want to gohome. I want to see my mother, myfather, and my sister. I want to leavehere and go to Kigali.”

“Come on,” I said, taking his hand.“Don’t get like this. Be strong. You can’tgo anywhere right now—it’s much toodangerous out there. Let’s be gratefulthat we’re safe. Besides, even if youlook Tutsi, you are a Hutu and have youridentity card to prove it. No one willharm you.”

“No, Immaculée, you’re wrong. Iheard people whispering in the livingroom that I’m a member of the Tutsirebel army. They think I’m spying onthem for the RPF! My identity carddoesn’t mean a thing; they’ll say it’s afake. Nobody around here knows who Iam. They’re going to kill me . . . I knowthey’re going to kill me!” My youngfriend was so shaken up that tears randown his cheeks and his hands trembled.

“Don’t panic, Augustine. As long aswe’re together we can look out for eachother and we’ll be okay.”

I don’t know where I got the strengthto say such things, since I was terrifiedand completely unsure if we’d survive.

But I had to have faith that God wouldhelp us; otherwise, why would weendure all the suffering, anguish, andbetrayal?

DUSENGE WASN’T IN HER ROOM,so I lay quietly with my eyes shut. I’dbarely slept in days, but I still couldn’tnod off. My mind drifted over the eventsthat had led me to the pastor’s house. Isaw my family sitting around our radionot knowing what to do. I envisioned mymother’s ashen face as she slept outsideto protect me. I remembered my fatherstanding in front of thousands offrightened people trying to encouragethem. And I recalled the machetes in thekillers’ hands on the road to the pastor’s.

As my thoughts swirled, I heardDamascene’s excited voice and sat upwith a start. I thought I’d been dreaming,but I wasn’t. I definitely heard mybrother talking to someone just outsidethe bedroom. A few seconds later, hewas in the room with me.

“Damascene, what’s happened?Where are Mom and Dad?”

“I don’t know, Immaculée. We wereseparated, and they had to run away.”

“Why? What happened?”

“They burned it down.”

“What? Who burned what down?”

“The killers . . . they burned down our

house. It’s gone.”

I sank back on the bed. My father hadjust finished our home, which he’d builtfor my mother with his own hands. Itwas to be their retirement castle, andseeing it destroyed would have brokenhis heart.

“Does Dad know about the house?”

“Of course he does—they burned itdown in front of him,” Damascene said.And then he proceeded to fill me in oneverything that had happened at home inthe few hours since I’d left. Apparentlyour father had refused to believe that thegovernment was behind the killings, sohe drove to see Mr. Kabayi, the

burgomaster, to ask for protection.

“But Kabayi tried to starve Dad inprison,” I interrupted. “What was hethinking?”

“He said that he had no choice,”Damascene continued. “The killers wereall around the house, and more keptcoming. Dad felt responsible for thepeople who’d come to him for help, sohe went to Kabayi to beg for protection.He told the burgomaster that there werethousands of Tutsis at our house andasked him to send as many soldiers as hecould.”

Damascene said that Mr. Kabayi toldmy father not to worry and sent two

soldiers to escort him home. Buteverything turned ugly when they gotthere.

“The soldiers started mocking Dad.They laughed at him and asked, ‘Whatkind of idiot are you? How stupid canyou be, thinking that the burgomaster sentus to protect you and all thecockroaches? These cockroaches needto be exterminated!’”

At that point, Vianney came into theroom. Both of my brothers had beentraumatized: Damascene was pale, andVianney’s face had a hollow, hauntedexpression. Damascene’s voice wasstrained as he told me what happenednext.

“The soldiers fired their guns in theair to rally the killers . . . and the killerscame running, screeching like animalsand waving their machetes. The Tutsiswho’d been staying near our housebegan screaming so loudly that it waslike listening to a giant flock ofscreeching crows. They ran in alldirections, thousands of them in totalpanic.

“Dad, Mom, and Vianney all backedaway from the house. I followed them,making sure that the killers didn’t chargeat us. The soldiers turned to the killersand yelled, ‘This house is full ofcockroaches—fumigate it! What are youwaiting for? You have a job to do! It’s

time to stomp these cockroaches!’

“That’s when the killers went berserk.They broke into the house, smashedeverything, and set fire to the car.Whatever they didn’t smash, they looted. . . and then they torched the house. Inless than five minutes, it was completelyswallowed up by flames. Dad collapsedon the ground—he just passed out—hecouldn’t believe what he was seeing.He’d told people that things would getbetter, but now he saw that he waswrong, and that it was too late to doanything about it. His whole life wasburning up in front of him.

“We helped him down the road towhere he’d hidden his motorcycle, and

he got on. He made Mom climb onto theseat behind him. Since the killers weregoing crazy, we didn’t have time to talk,think, or even say good-bye. Dad yelled,‘Run! Go to Pastor Murinzi’s and findyour sister. I have to get your motheraway from here. Hide—we’ll find eachother later!’

“Mom was crying into his shirt. Shelooked at us and said, ‘My boys . . .what will become of my boys?’ That’sall I heard her saying over themotorcycle engine. Then they weregone.”

“But where did they go?” I asked,heartbroken.

“I don’t know—maybe to AuntCecile’s house or to one of the churchesfor shelter. It was so confusing . . . wewere in a stampede. Thousands andthousands of Tutsis were running fortheir lives—toward the mountains, theforest, the swamp, and the stadium. ButImmaculée, I think that no matter wherethey go, there will be killers. They’reeverywhere, and now we don’t evenhave a home to hide in.”

I was speechless, but I felt as if I hadto give my brothers something to lookforward to. “Look, we lost our house,but our home will be wherever we aretogether,” I said, with as muchhopefulness as I could muster. “We’ll all

move to the city—we’ll go to Kigali andstart over.”

Both of my brothers looked at me asthough I were insane. “Immaculée, whatare you thinking?” Damascene asked inirritation, sounding fed up with myoptimism. “The killing is going on allaround us. We passed dead bodies onthe road coming here, and most of themare people we know! We’re trapped.”

He looked at me with an expressionI’d never seen on his face before. Ididn’t know what it was: accusation,disappointment, anger? And his nextwords stung like a whip: “Why did youkeep telling us all along that things weregoing to be okay?”

A wave of guilt rolled over me. Hadmy optimism led my brothers andparents into this nightmare we wereliving in now? Was I responsible fortheir fate? What else could we havedone, since Dad wouldn’t leave, andeverything had happened so fast? ShouldI have despaired, sunk into depression,or become hysterical over our plight?That would have made matters worse.People need hope to survive.

I refused to believe that God had madeus Tutsis only to have us slaughtered.But here was Damascene, whom I lovedso dearly, looking at me with anger anddespair. “I’m sorry,” I said throughtears. “But all we have left is hope, so

let’s hold on to it. We can’t give up yet.Remember, you promised to come to mygraduation next year. We can make itthrough this.”

“You really think so?” my brotherasked, showing me his shining smileagain, but sounding unconvinced.

I didn’t know if we’d even make itthrough the night, but I summoned up allthe conviction I could manage. “Sure,Damascene, we’ll make it.”

“Okay, I won’t give up hope if youdon’t,” he said, and turned to Vianney.

“You better stay with Augustinebecause he’s very frightened. Andwhatever happens, do not leave this

house—and don’t let Immaculée leave.There are murderers and rapistseverywhere. Promise me you’ll do that.”

“I promise,” our baby brother said.

Then Damascene announced: “I’m notgoing to stay here. I know that the pastordoesn’t like Dad, and I can tell hedoesn’t like me either. Besides, toomany people saw me come here, and thatmay lead them to you.”

I pleaded with him to stay with us, buthe wouldn’t change his mind. His goodfriend Bonn lived nearby, so Damascenesaid he was going to stay with him. Bonnwas a Hutu, so he might be able to hidemy brother for quite a while.

I walked Damascene to the porch, butit was too painful to talk to him. We’dnever parted company without saying“See you soon” or “See you in a fewweeks.” Now I couldn’t bring myself tosay goodbye, knowing that this could bethe last time I’d ever look at hisbeautiful face.

My brother, my soul mate, put hishands in mine, and they felt soft and lightas feathers. No matter how hard Isqueezed them, I couldn’t feel the weightof his palms against mine—it was likeholding the hands of a disappearing soul.My heart felt like it was exploding.

We stood staring at each other silentlyuntil Damascene gently pulled his hands

away, smiled sadly, and stepped throughthe gate.

CHAPTER 8Farewell to the Boys

Not long after Damascene left, therewas a knock on the pastor’s front door. Iheard the voice of Nzima, one ofVianney’s high school teachers, askingfor Pastor Murinzi. There was a muffledconversation, and then the door closed. Iwent out back and found Nzima sittingalone in the deep shadow of the pastor’sshade tree. Even in the poor light, thepain on his face was easy to see.

He sounded like a frightened child:“What will they do? Do you think that

they’ll kill us?”

When I heard him at the door, Iselfishly hoped that he’d be able to offerme words of comfort and give mestrength, but it was he who desperatelyneeded both.

Nzima told me that his wife andchildren were visiting his motherin-lawin a distant village. He had no way ofknowing if they were safe, and he wastortured by the uncertainty. “I havevisions I can’t rid myself of,” he said. “Isee my wife and babies beingslaughtered, cut up in front of me. And Ican do nothing to stop it. For all I know,they’re lying dead in the road rightnow.”

I tried to console him as best I could,but what could I say? How many timescould I tell someone that things weregoing to be okay when I wasn’t surewhat was going to happen myself?

He sighed deeply. “Where can I go?Everybody has a machete out there, and Isaw others with guns.”

“Stay here until the killing stops, andthen you’ll find your family,” I said,hoping to buoy his spirits.

He shook his head and stood up. “Iwon’t be staying here, and there’snowhere else for me to go, my child.”

“I will pray for you.”

“Thank you, Immaculée.”

He said good-bye and walked to thefront yard, where Pastor Murinzi waswaiting. The pastor must have toldNzima that he couldn’t stay becausewhen he pointed to the gate, Nzimawalked through it without saying a word.Later I heard that the poor man washacked to death just a few hundred yardsdown the road from the pastor’s house.

A couple of hours later, I was alone ina small bedroom when Pastor Murinziquietly ushered five other Tutsi womenin. I recognized all of them from the areabut knew none of them well.

The pastor was agitated as he brought

them into the room. “Hurry, hurry! Youmust hurry! And be quiet!” He wasmuttering so quickly and quietly that webarely heard him.

“Wait here, and keep quiet,” he said,shutting the door behind him as he left.

And there we were, six Tutsi womenwho were virtually strangers to eachother, except for two things we had incommon: We were hunted, and we hadnowhere else to hide. We stood lookingat each other, too frightened to speak oreven introduce ourselves. We didn’tknow what was happening outside, butjudging from the pastor’s nervousness,things were bad.

Suddenly there were screams outsidethe house—blood-curdling shrieks thatmade the hairs on our arms stand up.

Then the horrible, angry voices came,yelling, “Kill them! Kill them! Kill themall!”

There was more screaming and criesfor help, followed by, “Kill him! Killhim! Kill him!”

We panicked. Several of the womendived to the floor and hid under the bed.I was trembling so hard that I thought thefloor was shaking. My eyes scoured theroom for a place to hide, zeroing in on asmall crawl space in the ceiling.

“We can hide up there,” I whispered,

dragging a chair beneath the hole andscrambling up. I pulled another womanup, and together we hoisted the othersthrough the hole. Then we waited for thepastor to return. We crouched in thatcramped, stifling space until our clotheswere soaked with sweat and we weregasping for air. Two hours later, PastorMurinzi came back. He stood in themiddle of the room and scratched hishead with a stunned look on his face.

“Where are they? My God, I left themright here!”

I would have laughed if I wasn’t sofrightened. “We’re up here!” Iwhispered, popping my head out of thehole.

The pastor shook his head, then told usto come down immediately so that hecould talk to us. His face was still verytroubled. “I know that you’re all scared,and you should be,” he said. “It’s gottenout of control out there. The killers aregoing into everyone’s homes. Theyhaven’t come inside mine today, but theycould at any time. Honestly, I don’tknow what to do with you . . . I have tothink it over.”

He must have seen our panic, becausehe came up with a solution very quickly.“Don’t worry, I won’t turn you out,” heassured us. “But you must listen verycarefully. Early tomorrow morning,before anyone is awake, I will take you

to another room, where you’ll stay untilthe killing stops. I will tell everyone inthe house that I have sent you away. I’llbe the only one who knows you are here.Idle gossip could get us all killed. I’veseen these killing sprees before—oncethe bloodlust is in the air, you can trustno one, not even your own children. Ifone person discovers you, you’refinished! And by God, I don’t want yourblood in my house or on my hands.”

Then the pastor turned to me and saidwords that cut me like a knife: “Yourbrother and his friend can’t stay here.They must leave and fend forthemselves. It’s too dangerous for me toprotect men. As it is, you women are

already too many for me to hide.”

He couldn’t look me in the eye—weboth knew that sending Vianney andAugustine away now would almostcertainly mean delivering them to theirdeaths.

“Oh, no, Pastor Murinzi, please! Youcan’t—”

He held his finger to his lips, endingthe conversation. “They have to go,Immaculée. When I come to get you in afew hours, you will take them to the doorand let them out. Be careful that no onesees you.”

As the pastor left the room, I cursedhim under my breath. How could he act

like a saint by protecting us, then turnaround and push my brother andAugustine into the arms of killers?

I didn’t want to scorn the man whowas saving us, but I couldn’t help myself—I suspected the worst. In other killingsprees, some Hutu men had hidden Tutsiwomen while turning away Tutsi men. Itwas said that they hid Tutsi womenbecause of their beauty, planning toclaim them as their own after theirmenfolk were murdered. It was yetanother way that Tutsis, especially Tutsiwomen, were brutalized. I began to thinkthat the pastor had ulterior motives intaking in six women.

WE TRIED TO SLEEP THAT NIGHT,but it was difficult to rest when we hadno clue as to what lay ahead. Every timeI closed my eyes, I imagined Vianneyand Augustine walking out of the houseand into a frenzy of swinging machetesand screaming madmen. The boys wereso young—only 20 and 18, respectively—how could I let them go out on theirown? It would be a betrayal for me to letthem leave.

I decided to go with them, but thenchanged my mind . . . and changed itagain and again. How could I protectthem if we were attacked? I might evenslow them down. More attention wouldbe drawn to them if they were with a

woman, and that would get us all killed.

And then Damascene’s parting wordsrang in my ears: “Don’t leave this place,no matter what.”

I groaned quietly, but it was loudenough to alarm the others.

“Don’t worry, your brother is a grownman, not a little boy,” said Therese, oneof the ladies hiding with me, who’d beenwatching me toss and turn for an hour.“They’re strong young men—they cantake care of themselves. If you go withthem, you’ll bring the rapists to you. Letthem go—it’s the best thing. Trust me;I’m a mother. It’s better for you to staywith us.”

I thought that she was probably right,but it didn’t make things any easier. Iworried that if Vianney left, I mightnever see anyone in my family again.

Two hours before dawn, the pastorslipped into the room and woke us witha stern whisper. “Get up, let’s go! Comeon, hurry!” He looked at me and said,“Say good-bye to your brother, and thencome right back.”

Walking into that room and waking upVianney and Augustine was the hardestthing I ever had to do. Tears poureddown my face like rain—thank God thedarkness hid the shame, sorrow, andunmistakable fear in my eyes.

I placed my hand on Vianney’s backand woke him gently, speaking softly andslowly to control my sobbing. “Wake up. . . it’s morning. The pastor says . . . wecan’t all stay . . . the men . . . you have togo . . . don’t worry . . . you’ll meetDaddy . . . he’ll tell you what to do.”

I felt wretched, as though my heartwas being squeezed.

Vianney and Augustine jumped fromthe bed. “What? Go where, Immaculée?We can’t go anywhere withoutDamascene. What will happen to him ifwe leave without him?” my little brothersaid, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

His words tore at me. He was thinking

of our brother’s safety while I wassending him into danger. I felt like amother throwing her baby to a pack ofwolves. “Damascene will be okay,” Isaid, trying to make my voice soundsteady. “He is somewhere safe. Comeon, we have to go.”

I hustled the boys down the dark hallto the front door. I hugged Vianney ashard as I could and kissed him again andagain. “Be strong, Vianney. We willmeet again soon.”

They walked out the door and wereswallowed by the darkness.

CHAPTER 9Into the Bathroom

I closed the door behind Vianney andAugustine and joined the other Tutsiwomen.

Pastor Murinzi carried a flashlight andled us down the dark hallway to hisbedroom. Our eyes followed the beam oflight along the walls until it landed on adoor that I assumed opened to the yard.

“This is where you’ll stay,” he said,swinging the door open to reveal ournew home: a small bathroom about fourfeet long and three feet wide. The light

shimmered as it bounced off the whiteenamel tiles on the bottom half of thewalls. There was a shower stall at oneend and a toilet at the other—the roomwasn’t big enough for a sink. And therewas a small air vent/window near theceiling that was covered with a piece ofred cloth, which somehow made theroom feel even smaller.

I couldn’t imagine how all six of uscould possibly fit in this space, but thepastor herded us through the door andpacked us in tight. “While you’re inhere, you must be absolutely quiet, and Imean silent,” he said. “If you make anynoise, you will die. If they hear you, theywill find you, and then they will kill you.

No one must know that you’re here, noteven my children. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Pastor,” we mumbled in unison.

“And don’t flush the toilet or use theshower.” He shone his light along thewall above the toilet. “There’s anotherbathroom on the other side of that wall,which uses the same plumbing. So if youabsolutely must flush, wait until you hearsomeone using the other bathroom, thendo so at exactly the same time. Do youunderstand?”

“Yes, Pastor.”

The flashlight clicked off, and his lastwords were spoken in the dark. “I thinkthat they’re going to keep killing for

another week, maybe less. If you’recareful, you might live through this. I’dhate for the killers to get you . . . I knowwhat they would do.”

He shut the door and left us standing inblackness, our bodies pressing againstone another. The musky heat of ourbreath, sweat, and skin mingled togetherand made us feel faint.

We tried to sit, but there wasn’tenough room for all of us to move at thesame time. The four tallest had to pushour backs against the wall and slide tothe tile floor, then pull the smaller girlsdown on top of us. It was past 3 A.M.and we were all wide-awake, yet wedidn’t dare speak. We sat as best we

could, listening to the crickets outsideand to our own labored breathing.

I prayed silently, asking God toprotect Vianney and Augustine and keepmy parents and Damascene safe. Ithanked Him for delivering us to thebathroom—I truly believed that God hadguided Pastor Murinzi to bring us here,and for the first time in days, I felt safe.If I hadn’t noticed the bathroom we werecurrently in after so many visits to thehouse, no one else would.

I asked God to bless Pastor Murinzifor risking his own safety to help us . . .but then I winced at the prayer. A flushof anger burned my cheeks as Iremembered how he’d sent my brother

and our friend into the night. I prayedthat God would eventually help meforgive the pastor.

The moon emerged from behind acloud, and a thin streak of pale lightslipped through a crack in the redcurtain, providing enough illuminationfor me to make out the faces of mycompanions. Sitting beside me wasAthanasia, a pretty, dark-skinned 14-year-old with big beautiful eyes thatcaught the moonlight. Sitting on top ofher was 12-year-old Beata, still wearingher school uniform, who looked lost andvery frightened. I pulled her onto my lap,cradling her in my arms until she closedher eyes.

Across from me was Therese, who, at55, was the eldest of the group. Shewore a colorful, traditional Rwandanwrap-dress popular with marriedwomen. She looked more worried thanany of us, probably because she only hadtwo of her six children—Claire andSanda—with her. Claire was very light-skinned, and even though she was myage, she was nervous and withdrawn andwouldn’t make eye contact. Her littlesister Sanda was only seven, and theyoungest of the group. She was cute,sweet, and surprisingly calm. She neveronce cried or looked frightened, evenwhen the rest of us were trembling—Ithink she must have been in shock the

entire time we were in that bathroom.

The pastor’s repeated warnings to bequiet had burned into us. We sat in anuncomfortable heap, too afraid to adjustour positions or to even breathe tooheavily. We waited for the gray light ofdawn to fill the room, then carefullypried ourselves apart to take turnsstanding and stretching. A two- or three-minute break was all we allowedourselves before resuming our awkwardpositions on the floor.

When morning broke, the birds in thepastor’s shade tree began singing. I wasjealous of them, thinking, How lucky youare to have been born birds and havefreedom—after all, look at what we

humans are doing to ourselves.

WE WERE SO EXHAUSTED,HUNGRY, CRAMPED, AND HOT thatour first day in the bathroom passed in apainful haze. It was impossible to sleep—if I dozed off, I was immediatelyawoken by a leg cramp or someone’selbow knocking against my ribs.

In the early evening, we heard PastorMurinzi talking to someone outside.“No, no, no,” he said. “I don’t knowwhat you’re talking about—I’m a goodHutu, and I’d never hide Tutsis. Thereare no Tutsis here . . . they left lastnight.”

We stared at each other with our eyeswide open. We were terrified.

“I don’t want any trouble with thegovernment,” the pastor continued. “Youpeople know me, and you should protectthis house . . . those Tutsi rebels mightattack me for being such a good Hutu.”

Whoever the pastor was talking to left,and we relaxed. Pastor Murinzi had justlied to save us—I felt assured that hewouldn’t hand us over to the killers. Hehad little choice now, because if heturned us in, the killers would know thathe’d hidden us. They’d call him amoderate, a traitor to his tribe, andwould kill him as surely as they’d killus.

I breathed easier and hugged youngBeata, who was lying across my lap. Iremembered how my mother sometimesheld me in her lap when I was young andfrightened. The memory of Momsaddened me—this was the first time inmy life that I didn’t know thewhereabouts of my parents or brothers. Islipped into a half sleep and dreamed ofVianney, Augustine, and Damasceneknocking on the pastor’s gate, whilebehind them, our house was burning. Isaw my parents sitting on Dad’smotorcycle, and my mother asking,“What will happen to my boys?”

While I was dreaming, Pastor Murinziopened the door, and without saying a

word, shoved a plate of cold potatoesand beans into the room. It was late,maybe 11 P.M., and none of us had hadanything to eat or drink for nearly twodays.

We attacked the plate, grabbing thefood with our dirty fingers and stuffing itinto our mouths.

When the pastor returned five minuteslater with forks, we’d already devouredevery bit of food. He stared at the plate,and then looked at us with pity. Amoment later he tossed a very thinmattress into the room. “You’ve traveleddown a long road. Now try to get somerest,” he said, and closed the door.

WHEN WE AWOKE THE NEXT DAY,WE TOOK TURNS stretching ouraching muscles. Moving even an inchwas a major production because wecouldn’t talk to one another. We quicklyworked out forms of sign language thatwould become our silent shorthand forthe remainder of our stay in thebathroom.

I grimaced at the pain in my crampedlegs, thinking that I’d have quite a tale ofhardship to tell after the war. “Listen towhat I had to endure,” I’d boast to myfriends. “I spent an entire day and nighttrapped in a tiny bathroom with fivestrangers. What a hero I am!”

No sooner had I begun my little

fantasy than I was jolted back to realityby images of my family: my parentsfleeing our burning house, Damasceneslipping sadly away, and Vianney andAugustine wandering in the open withnowhere to hide. Thank God thatAimable was safely away from Rwandain another country! But what about thethousands of displaced Tutsis who hadsought refuge at our house? What hadbecome of them? Had they found shelter,or were they lying somewhere bleedingto death? I felt silly and selfish forindulging in my self-pity when thousandswere undoubtedly suffering far more.

It was my turn to stretch when acommotion erupted outside. There were

dozens, maybe hundreds, of voices,some yelling, others chanting. We knewimmediately that the killers had arrived.

“Let us hunt them in the forests, lakes,and hills; let us find them in the church;let us wipe them from the face of theearth!”

I stood on my tiptoes and peeked outthe window through a little hole in thecurtain. The other ladies grabbed at me,trying to pull me down. Athanasia shookher head wildly, silently mouthing, “Getdown! They’re looking for us! Get downbefore they see you!”

I ignored them, knocking their handsaway and peering through the hole. I

immediately regretted my decisionbecause I was petrified by what I saw.

Hundreds of people surrounded thehouse, many of whom were dressed likedevils, wearing skirts of tree bark andshirts of dried banana leaves, and someeven had goat horns strapped onto theirheads. Despite their demonic costumes,their faces were easily recognizable, andthere was murder in their eyes.

They whooped and hollered. Theyjumped about, waving spears, machetes,and knives in the air. They chanted achilling song of genocide while doing adance of death: “Kill them, kill them,kill them all; kill them big and kill themsmall! Kill the old and kill the young . . .

a baby snake is still a snake, kill it, too,let none escape! Kill them, kill them, killthem all!”

It wasn’t the soldiers who werechanting, nor was it the trainedmilitiamen who had been tormenting usfor days. No, these were my neighbors,people I’d grown up and gone to schoolwith—some had even been to our housefor dinner.

I spotted Kananga, a young man I’dknown since childhood. He was a highschool dropout my dad had tried to helpstraighten out. I saw Philip, a young manwho’d been too shy to look anyone in theeye, but who now seemed completely athome in this group of killers. At the front

of the pack I could make out two localschoolteachers who were friends ofDamascene. I recognized dozens ofMataba’s most prominent citizens in themob, all of whom were in a killingfrenzy, ranting and screaming for Tutsiblood. The killers leading the grouppushed their way into the pastor’s house,and suddenly the chanting was comingfrom all directions.

“Find them, find them, kill them all!”

My head was spinning; I fellbackward onto the ladies. I couldn’tbreathe. “Dear God, save us . . . ” Iwhispered, but couldn’t remember thewords to any of my prayers. A wave ofdespair washed over me, and I was

overwhelmed by fear.

That’s when the devil first whisperedin my ear. Why are you calling on God?Look at all of them out there . . .hundreds of them looking for you. Theyare legion, and you are one. You can’tpossibly survive—you won’t survive.They’re inside the house, and they’removing through the rooms. They’reclose, almost here . . . they’re going tofind you, rape you, cut you, kill you!

My heart was pounding. What was thisvoice? I squeezed my eyes shut as tightlyas I could to resist the negative thoughts.I grasped the red and white rosary myfather had given me, and silently prayedwith all my might: God, in the Bible You

said that You can do anything foranybody. Well, I am one of thoseanybodies, and I need You to dosomething for me now. Please, God,blind the killers when they reach thepastor’s bedroom—don’t let them findthe bathroom door, and don’t let themsee us! You saved Daniel in the lions’den, God, You stopped the lions fromripping him apart . . . stop these killersfrom ripping us apart, God! Save us,like You saved Daniel!

I prayed more intensely than I’d everprayed before, but still the negativeenergy wracked my spirit. The voice ofdoubt was in my ear again as surely as ifSatan himself were sitting on my

shoulder. I literally felt the fear pumpingthrough my veins, and my blood was onfire. You’re going to die, Immaculée!the voice taunted. You compare yourselfto Daniel? How conceited you are . . .Daniel was pure of heart and loved byGod—he was a prophet, a saint! Whatare you? You are nothing . . . youdeserve suffering and pain . . . youdeserve to die!

I clutched my rosary as though it werea lifeline to God. In my mind and heart Icried out to Him for help: Yes, I amnothing, but You are forgiving. I amhuman and I am weak, but please, God,give me Your forgiveness. Forgive mytrespasses . . . and please send these

killers away before they find us!

My temples pounded. The dark voicewas in my head, filling it with fearful,unspeakable images. Dead bodies areeverywhere. Mothers have seen theirbabies chopped in half, their fetusesripped from their wombs . . . and youthink you should be spared? Mothersprayed for God to spare their babiesand He ignored them—why should Hesave you when innocent babies arebeing murdered? You are selfish, andyou have no shame. Listen, Immaculée .. . do you hear them? The killers areoutside your door—they’re here foryou.

My head was burning, but I did hear

the killers in the hall, screaming, “Killthem! Kill them all!”

No! God is love, I told the voice. Heloves me and wouldn’t fill me with fear.He will not abandon me. He will not letme die cowering on a bathroom floor.He will not let me die in shame!

I struggled to form an image of God inmy mind, envisioning two pillars ofbrilliant white light burning brightly infront of me, like two giant legs. Iwrapped my arms around the legs, like afrightened child clinging to its mother. Ibegged God to fill me with His light andstrength, to cast out the dark energy frommy heart: I’m holding on to Your legs,God, and I do not doubt that You can

save me. I will not let go of You untilYou have sent the killers away.

The struggle between my prayers andthe evil whispers that I was surebelonged to the devil raged in my mind. Inever stopped praying . . . and thewhispering never relented.

IN THE EVENING, THE PASTOROPENED THE DOOR and found us allin a sort of trance. I was bathed insweat, exhausted, clutching my rosary inboth hands, and oblivious to mysurroundings. I was still mouthing prayerafter prayer while staring vacantly at theothers. Therese was using one hand tocover her eyes and the other to hold her

Bible firmly on top of her head. Andyoung Beata was crouching on her knees,arms in front of her, hands clasped inprayer.

The pastor called our names, but notone of us heard him. Finally, he shook usto awaken us from our stupor. I lookedup at him, blinking, confused, andcompletely taken aback when he beganlaughing at us.

“What are you ladies doing? Forheaven’s sake, relax. The killers leftseven hours ago. I can’t believe you’reall still praying.”

To me, those seven hours had passedin what seemed like a few minutes, yet I

was utterly drained. In all my years ofpraying, I’d never focused so completelyon God, or been so keenly aware of thepresence of darkness. I’d seen evil in theeyes of the killers, and had felt evil allaround me while the house was beingsearched. And I’d listened to the darkvoice, letting it convince me that wewere about to be slaughtered. Every timeI succumbed to my fear and believed thelies of that poisonous whispering, I feltas though the skin were being peeledfrom my scalp. It was only by focusingon God’s positive energy that I was ableto pull myself through that first visit bythe killers. My father had always saidthat you could never pray too much . . .now I could see that he was right.

I realized that my battle to survive thiswar would have to be fought inside ofme. Everything strong and good in me—my faith, hope, and courage—wasvulnerable to the dark energy. If I lostmy faith, I knew that I wouldn’t be ableto survive. I could rely only on God tohelp me fight.

The visit by the killers had left us allspent. Pastor Murinzi brought us a plateof food, but despite our hunger, we weretoo tired to eat. The food was untouchedwhen he returned around midnight.

The pastor returned again in themiddle of the night during a heavy storm.The rain beat down so loudly against the

iron roof that he was able to talk freelywithout the fear of being overheard. “Wewere lucky today. They searched allover the house and looked in everyroom. They looked in the yard and dugthrough the dung heap behind the cowpen. They crawled into the ceiling andunder the furniture—they even stucktheir machetes into my suitcases to makesure that I wasn’t hiding Tutsi babies.They were crazed, like rabid animals.Their eyes were glazed and red . . . Ithink they’d been smoking drugs.

“But when they reached my bedroom,they saw that it was neat, so they didn’twant to mess it up. They said that they’dleave the bedroom for now but warned

that they’d search it next time when theycame back.”

“Next time!” we gasped.

I couldn’t imagine reliving the sameordeal. Surely God wouldn’t put usthrough that suffering twice!

“You never know when they’re goingto come back,” the pastor said. “Theycould come at any time, and God help usall if they find you.”

His parting sentence echoed in mymind, keeping me awake all night andthroughout the next day.

Pastor Murinzi returned the nextevening in a panic. “A friend told me

that the leader of a death squad thinks thekillers did a bad job searching the houseyesterday,” he hissed. “Some of youwere seen in the house a few days ago,and there are rumors that you’re hidinghere. A different group of killers isbeing sent to search more thoroughly.”

I moaned as my body went limp. Isimply didn’t have the strength to livethrough another of the killers’ huntingexpeditions. God, why don’t You justlead them to us now and get it overwith? I entreated. Why do You let ussuffer like this? Why do You torture us?

How could we escape again? Thehouse that once seemed so huge hadbecome my cell, a death trap. I could

think of only one escape: I wanted to goto heaven. Oh, God, I prayedsoundlessly, I have no heart left tofight. I’m ready to give up . . . pleasegive me strength and protect me fromthe demons that are all around me.Show me how to make the killers blindagain.

I raised my head and opened my eyes.When I saw the pastor standing in thedoorway, a crystal clear image flashedthrough my mind. “I have an idea,” I toldhim in a hushed but insistent voice. “Canyou push your wardrobe in front of thebathroom door? It’s tall and wideenough to completely cover it, so if thekillers can’t see the door, they’ll never

find us. It will be as though they’reblind!”

Pastor Murinzi thought for a momentand then shook his head. “No, itwouldn’t change anything; in fact, itwould probably make matters worse. Ifthey look behind the wardrobe and findthe door, they will be even more viciouswith you.”

“Oh, no! Pastor, please, you must . . .”I was certain that God had sent me asign. In my soul, I knew that if thewardrobe were in front of the door,we’d be saved. But the pastor wasimmovable, so I did something I’d neverdone in my life: I got on my knees andbowed down to him. “Please, I’m

begging you,” I said. “I know in my heartthat if you don’t put the wardrobe infront of the door, they’re going to find usthe next time they search. Don’t worryabout making them angry—they can onlykill us once. Please do this for us . . .God will reward you if you do.”

I don’t know if it was the sight of mebegging on my knees or the fear that I’dbe overheard that convinced him, but herelented. “All right, all right. Keep yourvoice down, Immaculée. I’ll move itright now. I hope it helps, but I doubt itwill.”

He disappeared, and a moment laterwe heard the wardrobe sliding in frontof the bathroom door. The other ladies

looked at me and whispered, “That wassuch a good idea—what put it into yourhead?”

I couldn’t remember if I’d ever seenthe pastor’s wardrobe before, but I knewfor certain that the idea to move it cameto me when I prayed for help.

“God,” I simply replied.

CHAPTER 10Confronting My Anger

Several days passed in relative calm.Only occasionally did we hear thekillers outside, singing their sick songs.We prayed silently throughout the dayand communicated with each otherthrough sign language. Every 12 hours orso, we allowed ourselves a fewprecious moments of stretching. Otherthan that, we kept our movements to anabsolute minimum, sitting in the samepositions day and night.

We flushed the toilet according to

Pastor Murinzi’s orders—only whensomeone else in the house flushed theother one. Using the toilet was achallenge: We had so little room that oneof us always had to sit on top of it, sowhen one of us had to relieve ourselves,we all had to shift position. That put usin danger of making noise and beingdiscovered.

Oddly, in all the time that we were inthe bathroom, I can’t recall actuallyseeing someone else use the toilet, eventhough it was in the middle of our littlespace, nor do I recall being bothered byany odors. Our menstrual cycles came,one after the other, and we perplexed thepastor with constant requests for more

toilet paper. None of us wereembarrassed by the situation, though—we learned to ignore these functions andforego the luxury of privacy, especiallysince it all seemed rather trivial incomparison to staying alive.

We ate whenever the pastor showedup with food, which was sporadically.Some days he didn’t come until 3 or 4A.M.; other days he didn’t come at all.(He slid the wardrobe away from thedoor each time he needed to see us orbring us food, but he was alwaysextremely careful not to be heard. Therewas a rug beneath the wardrobe thatmuffled the sound of the movement, soagain, God was looking out for us.)

Worried that someone would notice if hecooked extra food, he brought us hischildren’s table scraps or whatever theservants tossed into the garbage.Sometimes, no matter how hungry wewere, we couldn’t bring ourselves to eatbecause what he gave us looked like pigfood. (I laughed at myself, thinking aboutwhat a fussy eater I’d been at home.)Thankfully, he also brought us water todrink.

It seemed impossible, but after a fewdays of quiet we let our guard down alittle. The pastor snapped us back toreality.

He came in one night and told us thatthe killers were nearby, going from

house to house, ransacking homes, andkilling every Tutsi they found. “Theymay come here in a few minutes, or theymay not come until tomorrow or the nextday. But they will definitely be back, sokeep quiet,” he warned us.

Any fantasy we had of finding somepeace of mind in that bathroomevaporated. Our anxiety about thekillers’ return was constant mental andphysical torture. I felt as if someonewere stinging me with a cattle prodwhenever the floor creaked or a dogbarked. Since we could only sleep forbrief periods at a time, my skin soonbecame dry and flaky, and I had aconstant headache.

The mental anguish was even moreintense. I was trapped alone with mythoughts, and the dark fears and doubtsthat had haunted me since my arrivalbecame relentless—they wormed intomy heart and undermined the foundationof my faith. When the killers were out ofearshot, my thoughts drifted away fromGod, and the negative energy rushed in.Yet whenever I prayed, I immediatelyfelt His love around me, and the anxietyeased.

So I resolved to pray during everywaking moment, beginning as soon as myeyes opened at 4 or 5 A.M. My firstprayer was always to thank God that thepastor’s home had been built so it could

shelter us during the genocide. Then Ithanked Him for having the architectdesign the house with an extra bathroom,and for prompting the pastor to buy awardrobe of exactly the right dimensionsto conceal our hiding place.

After my warm-up devotions ofthanks, I began praying my rosary. Iprayed many different Catholic prayerson the red and white beads. Sometimes Iprayed so intensely that I broke out in asweat. Hours would pass. . . . When Ifinished the rosary and my prayers, I’dtake a “break” to meditate on some ofmy favorite Bible passages.

Because I felt that my faith was underattack, I spent hours contemplating two

verses I’d memorized from Mark, whichtalked about the power of faith. First,there was this one: “Therefore I say untoyou, what things soever ye desire, whenye pray, believe that ye receive them,and ye shall have them” (Mark 11:24).

Then I would reflect on the other one:“For verily I say unto you, thatwhosoever shall say unto this mountain,be thou removed, and be thou cast intothe sea; and shall not doubt in his heart,but shall believe that those things whichhe saith shall come to pass; he shall havewhatsoever he saith” (Mark 11:23).

Even a few minutes not spent in prayeror contemplation of God became aninvitation for Satan to stab me with his

double-edged knife of doubt and self-pity. Prayer became my armor, and Iwrapped it tightly around my heart.

THE PASTOR WAS ALWAYSAFRAID THAT WE’D SLIP UP andmake noise, so he rarely let anyone intohis bedroom. But sometimes, when oneof his kids or servants would visit himthere, we’d be on pins and needles untilthey left. About a week after we arrived,we heard the pastor talking to his sonSembeba.

“What do you make of all this killing,Dad? Don’t you think that it’s good—exactly what we Hutus should be doing?I mean, they taught us in school that

hundreds of years ago the Tutsis did thesame thing to us, so they deserve whatthey get, right?”

“Sembeba, you don’t know whatyou’re talking about. Leave me now. Iwant to sleep,” the pastor replied.

“Those Tutsis have always thoughtthey’re superior . . . always lookingdown on us Hutus. Don’t you think that ifthey were still in power today they’d bekilling us right now? So killing them isself-defense, isn’t it?”

His voice was so loud that I could tellthat Sembeba was standing right besidethe wardrobe, and I was terrified thathe’d notice it had been moved. But as

fearful as I was, I had to fight the urge tostand up and yell at him—his wordsmade me so angry.

I knew that he wasn’t entirely to blamefor his ignorance because he’d learnedhis contempt for Tutsis in school . . . thesame school I went to! Young Hutuswere taught from an early age that Tutsiswere inferior and not to be trusted, andthey didn’t belong in Rwanda. Hutuswitnessed the segregation of Tutsisevery day, first in the schoolyard andthen in the workplace, and they weretaught to dehumanize us by calling us“snakes” and “cockroaches.” No wonderit was so easy for them to kill us—snakes were to be killed and

cockroaches exterminated!

The world had seen the same thinghappen many times before. After ithappened in Nazi Germany, all the big,powerful countries swore, “Neveragain!” But here we were, six harmlessfemales huddled in darkness, marked forexecution because we were born Tutsi.How had history managed to repeatitself? How had this evil managed tosurface once again? Why had the devilbeen allowed to walk among usunchallenged, poisoning hearts andminds until it was too late?

The pastor must have known that wecould hear this conversation because hescolded his son: “You are a stupid,

stupid boy, Sembeba. There is never anexcuse to shed blood without a verygood reason. Now get out of my room.I’m sick of listening to you speak.”

“You think I’m stupid for hatingTutsis, Father? Don’t you think it’s morestupid to hide them? I hope you knowthat that’s what people say you’re doing.Is it true? Are you hiding Tutsis in thehouse?”

My heart jumped into my mouth. Myanger vanished, and once again, all I feltwas fear.

“I’ve had enough of your foolishness,Sembeba. I’m not hiding any Tutsis. Andit pains me to hear your vindictive

words—your own mother was a Tutsi! Ihope you know that your aunts, uncles,and all of your cousins are being huntedand killed. Now get out of my room anddon’t come back. Get out!”

We hadn’t recovered from Sembeba’sawful visit when we suddenly heardgrenades exploding nearby. There was aseries of terrific crashes that soundedlike buildings collapsing. After eachcrash, we heard singing: “Kill them big,kill them small, kill them, kill them, killthem all!”

There was gunfire near the house, andthe singing got so loud that we knew thekillers were moving in our direction. Isaid a silent prayer, and moments later,

we heard a clap of thunder, followed bya heavy downpour of rain. I can onlyguess that the killers ran back to theirhomes to stay dry, because all we heardfor the rest of the night was the rainpounding against the metal roof.

That night the pastor came to us. Hisface was pale, and his eyes werebloodshot and weary. I thought that hewas worried about Sembeba’ssuspicions, but it was much worse. He’dbeen walking about outside and hadwitnessed the depth of the horrorunfolding around us. He told us thatInterahamwe militiamen, soldiers, andHutu civilians were destroying everyTutsi home they came across.

“It is very bad outside,” he said,“very, very bad. I saw the killings in1959 and 1973, and they were nothingcompared to this. You have tounderstand that everything else hasstopped—the schools and markets areclosed, and people aren’t going to work.The country has been shut down until thejob is done.”

“What do you mean ‘until the job isdone’? Until what job is done?” I asked.

The pastor paused. “Killing Tutsis.The job won’t be done until all theTutsis are dead. That’s the government’smain goal, and they’re making everyonework very hard to achieve it. I have seenthings today that I wish I had never

seen.”

My stomach twisted in a knot. Ithought of my family, and I wanted toplug my ears and block out the pastor’svoice.

“They have killed thousands ofpeople,” he continued, “tens ofthousands . . . maybe hundreds ofthousands, who knows? So many Tutsisran into the churches for protection thatthe doors wouldn’t close. Churches havealways been off-limits for killing, butnot this time. The killers burned thechurches with the people still inside, andthey shot anyone who tried to escape.”

“Oh, God, no,” I said. “On the radio

they told everyone to go to the churchesand stadiums for protection!”

“They might have said that, but itwasn’t to protect anyone. The killerswere sent there with machine guns andgrenades. The bodies are piled up ashigh as my house . . . the stench isunbearable.”

“Please, Pastor, enough! Don’t say anymore,” I begged.

I wanted to ask him for news of myfamily, but I didn’t want to hear what hemight say. I couldn’t bear to hear anotherword.

“I’m sorry to tell you these things, butyou must know what’s happening,” he

said. “You may very well be the onlyTutsis left alive in all of Rwanda. If yousaw what I’ve seen today, I don’t thinkyou would want to live.”

The other ladies were crying, but notme. At that moment I had no tears toshed. I didn’t feel sorrow; I felt anger. Iwas angrier than I’d ever been before—more than I believed was even possible.I was angry at the pastor for telling ussuch horrific details when our familieswere out there with nowhere to hide. Iwas angry at the government forunleashing this holocaust. I was angry atthe rich countries for not stopping theslaughter. But most of all, I was angry atthe Hutus—all of them. And as the

pastor droned on about the horriblethings being done to Tutsis, my angergrew into a deep, burning hatred.

I’d never done anything violent toanyone before, but at that moment Iwished I had a gun so that I could killevery Hutu I saw. No, not a gun . . . Ineeded a machine gun, grenades, aflamethrower! I wanted to kill everyone,even Tutsis . . . I wanted to be likeRambo and set the whole country on fire.If I’d had an atomic bomb, I would havedropped it on Rwanda and killedeveryone in our stupid, hateful land.

I looked at the pastor, and I wanted tokill him, too. I never would havebelieved that I would have had such

capacity for rage, and I knew that I’dhave to do a lot of praying to rid myselfof it.

Pastor Murinzi finished talking, andwe just sat there, looking up at him andwaiting for more horrible news. It wouldhave been kinder if he’d picked up awhip and beaten us to death. I couldn’taccept his words without confirmation.As he left, I asked him to turn on theradio in his room so that we could listento news reports. He agreed and shut thedoor.

A few minutes later we heard agovernment minister speaking on thenational radio station: “I am appealing toall Hutus in Rwanda . . . it’s time to

stand together to fight our commonenemy. Let’s put aside politicaldifferences and defend ourselves. TheseTutsi snakes are trying to kill us . . . wemust kill them first. Kill the Tutsiswherever you find them—don’t spare asingle one. Kill the very old and kill thebabies—they’re all snakes. If the RPFrebels come back to our country, letthem find only the corpses of theirfamilies. I urge all Hutus to do your dutyand kill all our Tutsi enemies.”

Now I knew for certain that the pastorhadn’t been lying. I also knew that myfather had been wrong to trust thegovernment. The people he believed inhad planned the genocide and were now

calling on ordinary Rwandans to make ithappen. There is a culture of obediencein Rwanda, and I knew that when manyotherwise peaceful Hutus heard theirleaders on the radio telling them to killTutsis, they’d dutifully pick up theirmachetes.

About an hour later, the pastor tunedin to the BBC news, and we heard areport saying that the RPF (the Tutsirebel soldiers) had successfully foughttheir way from the far north of thecountry down to the capital, Kigali. Thereport said that the extremist Hutugovernment behind the genocide was indanger of collapsing. That news madeour hearts leap—if the RPF reached

Kigali, they should be able to fight theirway south to our province in a fewweeks! Sooner or later, they’d reach ourlittle village and rescue us.

I just hoped that it was sooner, as laterwould probably be too late for us.

CHAPTER 11Struggling to Forgive

I was deep in prayer when the killerscame to search the house a second time.

It was past noon, and I’d been prayingthe rosary since dawn for God to giveHis love and forgiveness to all thesinners in the world. But try as I might, Icouldn’t bring myself to pray for thekillers. That was a problem for mebecause I knew that God expected us topray for everyone, and more thananything, I wanted God on my side.

As a compromise, I prayed the rosary

multiple times, as intensely as I could,every day. Working through all thoseHail Marys and Our Fathers took 12 or13 hours—and whenever I reached thepart of the Lord’s Prayer that calls us to“forgive those who trespass against us,”I tried not to think of the killers, becauseI knew that I couldn’t forgive them.

During that second search, the killers’racket reached the edge of my prayerslike an angry voice waking me from adream. Then I heard four or five loudbangs next to my head, and they had myfull attention. I realized that they wereright there in the pastor’s bedroom! Theywere rummaging through his belongings,ripping things from the wall, lifting up

the bed, and overturning chairs.

“Look in that!” one of them yelled.“Now look under here. Move that chest!Search everything!”

I covered my mouth with my hands,fearing that they’d hear me breathing.They were only inches from my head . . .they were in front of the wardrobe—thewardrobe! I thanked God again for it,but my heart still thumped against mychest.

I could hear them laughing. Theywere having fun while going aboutkilling people! I cursed them, wishingthat they’d burn in hell.

The wardrobe banged against the

door. I covered my ears and prayed:God, please. You put the wardrobethere . . . now keep it there! Don’t letthem move it. Save us, Lord!

My scalp was burning, and the uglywhispering slithered in my head again:Why are you calling on God? Don’t youhave as much hatred in your heart asthe killers do? Aren’t you as guilty ofhatred as they are? You’ve wished themdead; in fact, you wished that youcould kill them yourself! You evenprayed that God would make themsuffer and make them burn in hell.

I could hear the killers on the otherside of the door, and entreated, God,make them go away . . . save us from—

Don’t call on God, Immaculée, thevoice broke in. He knows that you’re aliar. You lie every time you pray to Himto say that you love Him. Didn’t Godcreate us all in His image? How canyou love God but hate so many of Hiscreations?

My thoughts were paralyzed. I knewthat the demon in my head was right—Iwas lying to God every time I prayed toHim. I was so overwhelmed with hatredfor the people responsible for thegenocide that I had a hard timebreathing.

At least 40 or 50 men were in thepastor’s bedroom by this time, and theywere shouting and jeering. They sounded

drunk and mean, and their chanting wasmore vicious than usual: “Kill the Tutsisbig and small . . . kill them one and killthem all. Kill them!”

I began praying, asking God to keepthem away from the wardrobe and out ofthe house altogether.

Beneath the raucous singing, the darkvoice taunted me: It’s no use . . . don’tcall on God. Who do you think sent thekillers here for you? He did! Nothingcan save you. God doesn’t save liars.

I began to pray for the killers and thenstopped. I desperately wanted God’sprotection, but I believed in my heartthat they deserved to die. I couldn’t

pretend that they hadn’t slaughtered andraped thousands of people—I couldn’tignore the awful, evil things that they’ddone to so many innocent souls.

Why do You expect the impossiblefrom me? I asked God. How can Iforgive people who are trying to killme, people who may have alreadyslaughtered my family and friends? Itisn’t logical for me to forgive thesekillers. Let me pray for their victimsinstead, for those who’ve been rapedand murdered and mutilated. Let mepray for the orphans and widows . . . letme pray for justice. God, I will ask Youto punish those wicked men, but Icannot forgive them—I just can’t.

Finally, I heard the killers leaving.First they left the bedroom, then thehouse, and soon they were walking awaydown the road, their singing fading in thedistance.

I resumed my prayers. I thanked Godfor saving us and for giving me the ideato put the wardrobe in front of thebathroom door. That was so smart ofYou, God. You are very smart, I saidmentally, and thanked Him again. Iwondered where the killers were off to,then I started praying for my friends andfamily: Please look over my mother,God; she worries so much about us.Watch over my father; he can be sostubborn. . . .

It was no use—my prayers felthollow. A war had started in my soul,and I could no longer pray to a God oflove with a heart full of hatred.

I tried again, praying for Him toforgive the killers, but deep down Icouldn’t believe that they deserved it atall. It tormented me . . . I tried to prayfor them myself, but I felt like I waspraying for the devil. Please open myheart, Lord, and show me how toforgive. I’m not strong enough tosquash my hatred—they’ve wronged usall so much . . . my hatred is so heavythat it could crush me. Touch my heart,Lord, and show me how to forgive.

I struggled with the dilemma for hours

on end. I prayed late into the night, allthrough the next day, and the day afterthat, and the day after that. I prayed allweek, scarcely taking food or water. Icouldn’t remember when or for howlong I’d slept, and was only vaguelyaware of time passing.

ONE NIGHT I HEARD SCREAMINGNOT FAR FROM THE HOUSE, andthen a baby crying. The killers must haveslain the mother and left her infant to diein the road. The child wailed all night;by morning, its cries were feeble andsporadic, and by nightfall, it was silent. Iheard dogs snarling nearby and shiveredas I thought about how that baby’s life

had ended. I prayed for God to receivethe child’s innocent soul, and then askedHim, How can I forgive people whowould do such a thing to an infant?

I heard His answer as clearly as ifwe’d been sitting in the same roomchatting: You are all my children . . .and the baby is with Me now.

It was such a simple sentence, but itwas the answer to the prayers I’d beenlost in for days.

The killers were like children. Yes,they were barbaric creatures who wouldhave to be punished severely for theiractions, but they were still children.They were cruel, vicious, and

dangerous, as kids sometimes can be, butnevertheless, they were children. Theysaw, but didn’t understand the terribleharm they’d inflicted. They’d blindlyhurt others without thinking, they’d hurttheir Tutsi brothers and sisters, they’dhurt God—and they didn’t understandhow badly they were hurting themselves.Their minds had been infected with theevil that had spread across the country,but their souls weren’t evil. Despitetheir atrocities, they were children ofGod, and I could forgive a child,although it would not be easy . . .especially when that child was trying tokill me.

In God’s eyes, the killers were part of

His family, deserving of love andforgiveness. I knew that I couldn’t askGod to love me if I were unwilling tolove His children. At that moment, Iprayed for the killers, for their sins to beforgiven. I prayed that God would leadthem to recognize the horrific error oftheir ways before their life on Earthended—before they were called toaccount for their mortal sins.

I held on to my father’s rosary andasked God to help me, and again I heardHis voice: Forgive them; they know notwhat they do.

I took a crucial step toward forgivingthe killers that day. My anger wasdraining from me—I’d opened my heart

to God, and He’d touched it with Hisinfinite love. For the first time, I pitiedthe killers. I asked God to forgive theirsins and turn their souls toward Hisbeautiful light.

That night I prayed with a clearconscience and a clean heart. For thefirst time since I entered the bathroom, Islept in peace.

CHAPTER 12No Friends to Turn To

I found a place in the bathroom to callmy own: a small corner of my heart. Iretreated there as soon as I awoke, andstayed there until I slept. It was mysacred garden, where I spoke with God,meditated on His words, and nurturedmy spiritual self.

When I meditated, I touched the sourceof my faith and strengthened the core ofmy soul. While horror swirled aroundme, I found refuge in a world thatbecame more welcoming and wonderful

with each visit. Even as my bodyshriveled, my soul was nourishedthrough my deepening relationship withGod.

I entered my special space throughprayer; once inside, I prayed nonstop,using my rosary as an anchor to focus mythoughts and energies on God. Therosary beads helped me concentrate onthe gospels and keep the words of Godalive in my mind. I prayed in silence, butalways mouthed the words to convincemyself that I was really saying them . . .otherwise, doubt would creep in and thenegative energy would come calling.

I spent hours contemplating themeaning of a single word, such as

forgiveness, faith, or hope. I spent dayswith the word surrender, and I came tounderstand what it meant to surrenderone’s self to a Higher Power. I gavemyself over completely to God. When Iwasn’t praying, I felt that I was nolonger living in His light, and the worldof the bathroom was too bleak to endure.

Toward the end of our first month inhiding, Pastor Murinzi came to us lateone night with a plate of scraps. He’dacted with compassion when he took usin, but that seemed to be waning. On thisnight, his face was set in a scowl insteadof its usual expression of concern andpity. “Your father was a very badTutsi!” he snapped at me.

“What? What do you mean?” I wastaken completely off guard, not so muchby the attack on my father as by the factthat the pastor referred to Dad in the pasttense. I refused to acknowledge thepossibility that any member of my familycould be dead. “My father is a goodman, Pastor—maybe the best man I evermet!”

“No, Immaculée, he was a bad Tutsiand a bad man . . . he was helping theRPF rebels plan a civil war.” He lookedat the other ladies, pointed at me, andsaid, “If they catch you and kill you, itwill be because of Immaculée. Thekillers are hunting for her because of herfather’s activities.” He was glaring at

me, and I could feel the eyes of the otherwomen on me.

“They found 600 guns in your house,”he continued, turning back to me. “Theyalso found grenades and a death list ofHutu names. That’s the reason you Tutsisare being hunted and killed. If Hutushadn’t acted first, we’d be the onesbeing killed by Tutsis now!”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying.The poisoned lies that the extremistHutus were spreading had robbed PastorMurinzi of his reason. He’d been friendswith my father for years and knew thathe’d dedicated himself to improving thelives of the poor and less fortunate. Dadhad built schools and chapels for Tutsis,

Hutus, and Twas alike, so how could thepastor accuse him of hiding weapons orplotting murder? Hadn’t my father evenurged the desperate Tutsi refugees at ourhouse not to kill Hutus, even if the Hutuswere trying to kill them?

Pastor Murinzi told me that he’dgotten his information from theauthorities. Unfortunately, like so manyother Rwandans, he blindly believedwhat he was told by people in power.

My spirits plummeted. I felt certainthat no one would spread such blatantlies against my father . . . not unlessthey’d killed him first. Making him out tobe a dangerous man was obviously howthey planned to justify his murder. But I

couldn’t think about that. I refused toentertain the idea of anyone in my familybeing dead—not now. I wasn’t strongenough yet.

I was so angry with the pastor that Iwanted to scream, but how could I doanything? He was all that stood betweenus and death. We were completelydependent upon his charity—even if hewasn’t being very charitable at themoment. We could tell that he no longersaw us as his neighbors who were indanger and in need of help. Now heviewed us the way the killers did: asnonhumans, cockroaches that weredestined to be exterminated before thewar was over.

My anger boiled inside me as PastorMurinzi abused my father’s good name. Icouldn’t control my temper—my fatherhad suffered enough indignities! I raisedmy voice for the first time since he’dlocked us away in the bathroom: “If myfather had so many guns, why didn’t hepass them out to the thousands of Tutsiswho came to us looking for protection?If my father had so many weapons, whydidn’t he stop the killers when theyburned our house to the ground? If he’dplanned to kill Hutus, he would havekilled them before they drove his familyinto hiding and destroyed his life! Tellme, Pastor, why didn’t he use the guns toprotect his wife and daughter from

killers and rapists?”

Pastor Murinzi was shocked by myoutburst (and so were the ladies—theireyes opened wide in disbelief as theywatched me challenge the man who heldtheir lives in his hands). He waved at meto be quiet—then he told me that gunshad also been found in the church ofFather Clement, the kindly old priest I’dasked to make me a nun when I was achild. Father Clement was the gentlestsoul I’d ever met. He was a lifelongvegetarian because he couldn’t stand tosee an animal hurt; he was also repulsedby violence and hated guns. The pastor’sclaims were such obvious lies that I hadto challenge him.

“Did you see any of these weapons,Pastor?”

“No . . . but I heard about them fromimportant people. They’re honest andwouldn’t lie.”

I couldn’t believe that it was possiblefor an educated man to be so naive,especially with what was happening inthe country. “So, you have no proof ofthe things you accuse my father of?”

He took a blank piece of paper out ofhis pocket and said that it was the typeof paper RPF rebels gave to people whodonated guns and money. “It was foundat your house,” he said, waving it infront of me as if he were holding a

smoking gun.

“It’s just a blank piece of paper.”

“But it’s the kind of blank paper thatthe rebels use.”

I couldn’t stand talking to himanymore. “Well, if that’s the kind ofevidence you use to condemn a man, thenI can understand why killing comes soeasily to people around here.”

The pastor stuffed the little piece ofpaper back into his pocket and turned toleave.

“Wait,” I called to him. “Do you havea Bible you could lend me? I forgot mineat home.”

He seemed embarrassed—he knew myhome was a charred ruin—and agreed tobring me one. I was grateful . . . I neededto cleanse my mind with God’s beautifulwords.

The other ladies looked at me asthough I’d lost my senses. They thoughtthat I’d needlessly, recklesslychallenged the pastor’s patience andauthority. Maybe I had, but I didn’t care.I felt obligated to defend my father, andat that moment, the pastor seemed morelike a jailer than a savior.

Besides, the fact that Pastor Murinzifelt comfortable speaking ill of Dad wasa pretty good indication that he thoughtour days were numbered. Rwandans are

intensely private and secretive peoplewho keep their emotions to themselves—the pastor would never have bared hisfeelings to me if he thought that I wouldsurvive the holocaust and meet him againone day as an equal.

I WAS PRAYING TO RID MYSELFOF MY NEGATIVE ANGER whenPastor Murinzi turned on the radio in hisbedroom.

The new president of Rwanda wasspeaking, and our ears perked up whenwe heard him say the name of our homeprovince, Kibuye. His voice wasexuberant—could it be that the war wasover? Would we finally be able to leave

the bathroom and go find our families?The six of us looked at each othereagerly, thinking that we were going tohear some good news at last. But ourhopes were smashed as we listened inhorror.

“I want to personally congratulate thehardworking Hutus of Kibuye for theirexcellent work,” the president said.“More of our Tutsi enemies have beenkilled in Kibuye than in any otherprovince.”

I felt sick. Did the world not see themadness that had seized this country?Was no one going to come and help us?

The president was so pleased with the

“good work” being done in Kibuye thathe promised to send thousands of dollarsto buy food and beer so that the killerscould celebrate properly: “After youfinish the job and all the enemies aredead, we will live in paradise. We willno longer have to compete for jobs withcockroaches. With no little cockroaches,there will be plenty of space for Hutuchildren in our schools.” It must havebeen a live broadcast, because we couldhear people clapping and cheering.

“You have been doing fine work inKibuye—almost all our enemies aredead. But we must kill them all. Let’sfinish the job!”

We looked at each other in despair.

Could he really mean that almost all theTutsis in our area were dead? Therewere more than a quarter million Tutsisin Kibuye . . . how could this be? Whatabout our families? Where were myparents and Vianney and Augustine? Oh,where was my sweet Damascene? Iasked God if He was testing me—andonce again, I put my hands together topray. Yet it was difficult to find my quietplace to talk to God while the devil wasscreaming in my ears.

After the president’s broadcast, weheard voices through the window, one ofwhich belonged to my old friend Janet.She was standing in the yard on the otherside of the bathroom wall, and she was

talking about me. “Immaculée?” shesaid. “Nobody has found her yet. Ithought that she was a friend of mine, butshe was a liar. She just pretended to likeme to trick me into feeling safe. Sheknew that her father was planning to killmy family . . . I really don’t care if theyfind her and kill her.”

Oh, God, what next? I wondered.How could Janet say such things? Iknew that she’d been upset when I sawher last, but I figured that it must be herfather’s influence and the stress of thewar. But here she was, my oldest anddearest friend, saying that she didn’tcare if I lived or died.

Hearing Janet renounce me made me

feel so terribly lonely that I desperatelyneeded to talk to a friend. I wished that Iwere back in my dorm, laughing withSarah and Clementine, or unburdeningmy sorrows to them while they held myhands and comforted me.

The devil must have beeneavesdropping on my thoughts becauseno sooner had I heard Janet deny myfriendship than another report cameacross the pastor’s radio—this oneannounced the death of hundreds ofstudents on my campus. It was amassacre.

“We have scorched the earth in Butare. . . we have killed more than 500 snakesand their Hutu traitor friends at the

university,” the announcer bragged.

It pained me to think of all myuniversity friends, many of whom hadbeen close friends since high school. Iknew for certain that a lot of them hadstayed on campus over the Easterholiday. I thought about all those lovelygirls that I’d laughed with, cried with,and prayed with . . . and all the dreamswe shared about growing up, falling inlove, and having families. We were surethat we’d be friends for life—now theirlives were over, extinguished. I prayedthat they hadn’t been tortured. Then Irealized that I would have been withthem if I hadn’t received my father’sbeautiful letter pleading with me to come

home for the holidays.

My heart ached. Had I lost everyoneI’d ever loved? I closed my eyes andprayed for God to show me a sign thatHe was with me. He was the only One Ihad left, the One I could trust. Butinstead of a sign, I heard a cry for help.

“Pastor Murinzi, thank God you’rehere! Please, you must help me. They’recoming for me . . . they’re coming to killme!”

I recognized the woman’s voice: Itwas Sony, an elderly widow whosehusband had been murdered in the 1973killing spree. She was a kind old womanwho always greeted me when I got off

the bus from school with fruit and littlepresents for my brothers. She was like agrandma to me, and I wanted to stand upand shout to her to come and hide withus.

But then I heard the pastor say: “Getaway from here. I can’t hide Tutsis, I’msorry. You can’t come in here.”

“Have mercy on me, Pastor, please.You are a man of God—please spare mylife . . . I won’t tell anyone. I’ll be quiet.I don’t want to die, Pastor. I’m just anold lady, I’ve done no one any harm.”

“You are an enemy of the country, andI can’t shelter you. I am a good Hutu, soleave.” And he slammed the front door.

In the distance I could hear the killerssinging their hunting song as theyapproached the house. Poor Sony beganto scream again. I could see her in mymind, hobbling away on her cane andbowed legs—she wouldn’t get very farbefore the killers caught up with her.

I wanted to cry, but no tears came. Myheart was hardening to the constantonslaught of sorrows. I didn’t even feelanger toward the pastor. Perhaps thekillers were very close when Sonyarrived and he had no choice but to turnher away.

I closed my eyes and asked God toreceive Sony’s kind soul and make surethat there was a place in heaven for her.

Then I once again asked Him for a signthat He was watching over us.

The pastor opened the door and,without saying a word, handed me theBible I’d asked for earlier.

I opened it immediately and lookeddown at Psalm 91:

This I declare, that Healone is my refuge, my placeof safety; He is my God, andI am trusting Him. For Herescues you from every trapand protects you from thefatal plague. He will shieldyou with His wings! They

will shelter you. His faithfulpromises are your armor.Now you don’t need to beafraid of the dark any more,nor fear the dangers of theday; nor dread the plaguesof darkness, nor disasters inthe morning.

Though a thousand fall atmy side, though ten thousandare dying around me, theevil will not touch me.

CHAPTER 13A Gathering of Orphans

More than a month passed, and wethought that we’d never see the skyagain. The killers came and went as theypleased, arriving unannounced at thepastor’s door at all hours of the day ornight. It could be a few dozen or a fewhundred of them—they came when theywere ordered to, when they received atip, or if they grew bored and wanted tohunt for new Tutsis to torture or kill. Butthey always came, and we knew thatthey’d keep on coming until they foundus, or until they lost the war.

The news reports on the pastor’s radiowere bleak: Government leaders hadturned every single Rwandan radiostation into a propaganda death machine.The announcers told Hutus everywherethat it was their duty to kill Tutsis onsight, no questions asked. And thecountry was still completely shut downto ensure that work didn’t interfere withkilling. When some farmers complainedthat their crops were dying, agovernment official announced over theradio that if someone had to take a dayoff from killing to tend to their fields,then they must arm themselves whilethey worked.

“You must not let your guard down!

These Tutsi snakes are hiding in thegrass and bushes,” he said. “So makesure that you have your machete ready tochop the snakes in half. Better yet, takeyour gun and shoot them! If you don’thave a gun, the government will bringyou one. If you’re working your fieldand spot a Tutsi woman in the bushesbreast-feeding her baby, don’t waste agolden opportunity: Pick up your gun,shoot her, and return to work, knowingthat you did your duty. But don’t forgetto kill the baby—the child of a snake is asnake, so kill it, too!”

The local officials handed outmachetes at the village gas station whilethe militia went door-to-door delivering

guns and grenades. In fact, one nightwhen Pastor Murinzi came to give us ourfood, he sported a rifle slung across hisshoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m not planningto shoot you,” he said, waving the gun infront of him. “Some government soldierscame by today and gave this to me. If I’drefused to take it, they’d have accusedme of being a moderate and shot me.”He turned the weapon over in his handbefore slinging it back over his shoulder,promising, “I won’t use it unlessabsolutely necessary.”

It seemed that every Hutu in Rwandahad a gun or machete, along with ordersto use them on Tutsis—and no one in theworld was lifting a finger to stop them.

We knew from radio reports that helpwas not on its way, and I couldn’tunderstand how other countries,especially the so-called civilized onesin the West, could turn their backs on us.They knew that we were beingmassacred, yet they did nothing.

The UN had even withdrawn itspeacekeeping force shortly after thekilling began. However, RoméoDallaire, the Canadian general in chargeof the UN peacekeepers, refused to obeyhis orders to leave and remained with acouple hundred soldiers. He was abrave and moral man, but he was alsoalone in a sea of killers. We heard himoften on the radio begging for someone,

anyone, to send troops to Rwanda tostop the slaughter, but no one listened tohim. Belgium, our country’s formercolonial ruler, had been the first to pullits soldiers out of the country;meanwhile, the United States wouldn’teven acknowledge that the genocide washappening! It was impossible for themnot to know that our politicians wouldn’tstop the killing until every Tutsi man,woman, and child was dead. Anybodycould hear what they planned to do—what they were doing—by tuning in toany radio station.

Sometimes the pastor would tell usdetails of the official genocide plans thatweren’t included in the radio

broadcasts. “Once the Tutsis are alldead, they’re going to make it look likethey never existed. They will eraseevery trace of them,” he told us matter-of-factly. “The government officials Iknow in town have orders to destroy allTutsi documents. They’ve alreadyburned most of the school and workrecords and have moved on to the birth,marriage, and death certificates. It’s thesame in every town and village: Theorders are to make sure that not even asingle Tutsi footprint is left on Rwandansoil.”

The only good news we heard wasabout the war. The Hutu government keptreporting that it was killing all the rebel

Tutsi soldiers in the RPF, but then we’dhear on the BBC and other foreignstations that in some parts of the country,the RPF was winning the war.Sometimes we’d hear RPF leader PaulKagame encouraging Tutsis not to losefaith because the rebels were fighting tosave them. He was a hero to us, althoughwe knew that the rebels were fightingaround Kigali and farther north—a longway from Mataba. Kagame’s wordsdidn’t change our situation, but they didgive us a little hope that Tutsi soldiersmight rescue us one day.

AS THE WAR DRAGGED ON, THEPASTOR BECAME INCREASINGLY

worried about what he was going to dowith us. “If the fighting lasts manymonths more, I’ll run out of food to feedyou. It will be impossible for me to keepyou,” he fretted.

I remembered the gun that had beenslung over his shoulder and wonderedwhat he planned to do when the food ranout. I couldn’t allow myself to believethat he’d turn into a killer—not afterrisking his life to save us. But I certainlyknew that he was capable of kicking usout of the house in the middle of thenight, just as he’d done to Augustine andVianney. I also knew that the countrysidewas crawling with killers and that wewouldn’t last an hour outside of the

bathroom.

The pastor must have thought a lotabout it, and finally he decided that heneeded God’s help. One night he askedus to pray with him that God would helpthe government soldiers win the war.We just looked at him . . . didn’t herealize what he was asking us to do? Icouldn’t believe how insensitive he’dbecome to our suffering.

Nevertheless, we were in a tight spot—what else could we do? We all putour hands together and pretended to praywith him. What I actually prayed forwere the souls of the thousands andthousands of Tutsis who had alreadybeen murdered. Then I prayed for the

killers to come into God’s powerfullight and be changed by His love: Touchthem with Your Divine love, God. Onlythen will they drop their machetes andfall to their knees. Please, God movethem to stop their slaughter. Forgivethem.

I also prayed that the pastor would notgrow too callous toward us, that hisheart would not harden at the sight of us,and that he would remember that wewere human beings.

As soon as we’d finished praying withhim, Pastor Murinzi shocked us byrevealing what he intended to do with usafter the war: “There will be no Tutsisleft in Rwanda once the killing is over,

so I’ll have to smuggle you out of herewithout anyone seeing. And you’ll haveto go someplace where no one knowsyou, where no one can find out that I wasthe one who hid you during the war.”

It turns out that he planned to send usto live on a remote island 50 miles awayin the middle of Lake Kivu to becomewives of Abashi tribesmen!

We looked at each other in disbelief.The Abashi were a primitive tribe wholived deep in the forest and had virtuallyno contact with the outside world. Theyhad no schools, churches, or even jobs;they wore no clothes except loincloths;and they ate only what they could forageor hunt in the forest. Rwandan parents

scared unruly children into behaving bythreatening to send them to live with theAbashi—it was like being sent to livewith the bogeyman. Just about the worstthing you could tell a Rwandan lady wasthat she’d marry an Abashi man.

“What else is left for you? There isnothing to discuss,” the pastor said withfinality, and left us to ponder our fate.

I HATED THE WAY THE PASTORHAD COME TO THINK OF US, but Icould understand his mind-set. If theHutu extremists finished what theystarted, we’d be the last living Tutsis inRwanda—we’d be orphans in a hostilehomeland.

But I didn’t feel like an orphan at all.I’d been praying continually for weeks,and my relationship with God wasdeeper than I’d ever imagined possible.I felt like the daughter of the kindest,most powerful king the world had everknown. I surrendered my thoughts to Godevery day when I retreated to thatspecial place in my heart tocommunicate with Him. That place waslike a little slice of heaven, where myheart spoke to His holy spirit, and Hisspirit spoke to my heart. He assured methat while I lived in His spirit, I’d neverbe abandoned, never be alone, and neverbe harmed.

I sat stone-still on that dirty floor for

hours on end, contemplating the purity ofHis energy while the force of His loveflowed through me like a sacred river,cleansing my soul and easing my mind.Sometimes I felt as though I werefloating above my body, cradled inGod’s mighty palm, safe in His lovinghand. In my mind, I heard myselfspeaking in exotic languages I’d neverheard before—I instinctively knew that Iwas praising God’s greatness and love.

During my waking hours I was inconstant communication with God,praying and meditating for 15 to 20hours every day. I even dreamed ofJesus and the Virgin Mary during the fewhours I slept.

In the midst of the genocide, I’d foundmy salvation. I knew that my bond withGod would transcend the bathroom, thewar, and the holocaust . . . it was a bondI now knew would transcend life itself.

I lifted my heart to the Lord, and Hefilled it with His love and forgiveness.Being in that bathroom had become ablessing for which I’d be foreverthankful. Even if my parents hadperished in the bloodshed outside, Iwould never be an orphan. I’d been bornagain in the bathroom and was now theloving daughter of God, my Father.

ONLY THE YOUNGEST OF PASTORMURINZI’S TEN CHILDREN, his son

Lechim and daughter Dusenge, had beenliving with him when we arrived. But asthe war progressed, his other kidsreturned home, and the house began tofill up. It became more difficult for thepastor to watch over us alone—so afterfive weeks or so of keeping ourexistence a carefully guarded secret, heunburdened himself to Lechim andDusenge, the two people he trusted mostin the world.

Lechim was a good man with awonderful heart, and Dusenge was avery kind girl who’d been a dear friendof mine for a long time. I’d overheardthem speaking on many occasions andknew that they were truly appalled by

what was being done to the Tutsis.

The pastor told us that he was bringingthem to see us, and when he opened thedoor, all I saw in his children’s eyeswas pity and compassion. Dusengegreeted me kindly, while Lechim tookmy hand in his and held it tightly. “Oh,Immaculée,” he whispered before fallingsilent. We’d last seen each other on theday I went into hiding, and we couldn’tfind the words to describe what hadhappened since. He squeezed my handand said, “I’m so happy that you’rehiding here . . . thank God my family cando something for you. We will keep yousafe.”

His kindness reminded me of the good

feelings of our innocent relationshipyears ago. I was coming to see that Godcreated no coincidences—He’d broughtLechim and me together years ago so thatnow I could be saved while hiding in hishouse.

Seeing my old friends was a greatcomfort to me, even though neither hadnews of my family or the whereabouts ofmy boyfriend, John. (It was difficult tocommunicate in the country becausephone lines had been down since thebeginning of the war.) But Lechim andDusenge did bring some tenderness tothe bathroom, and on occasion, the rarepleasure of a simple cup of tea.

Pastor Murinzi may have written us

off as orphans, but his youngest childrenhad adopted us.

LATE ONE NIGHT IN THE MIDDLEOF MAY, the bathroom door flew open.Suddenly, two young Interahamwekillers towered above us. We flinched,expecting a machete blow at any second,but then we heard the pastor’s voicewhispering that we should sit still andnot worry. A moment later we realizedthat the figures weren’t killers at all, buttwo Tutsi women desperate to join ourhidden sorority.

We were happy to see two otherliving, breathing Tutsis, but we couldn’tfind a place for them to sit. The pastor

shoved them into the room, and they fellon top of us. “Don’t make any noise,” hereminded us again, and closed the door.The girls’ faces were just visible in thedim light seeping through the window.We tried talking to them in our signlanguage, but of course, they didn’t knowwhat we were saying. We risked a fewminutes of hushed conversation to findout where they’d come from and whatwas happening in the outside world.

Their names were Malaba andSolange: Malaba was about my age—I’dseen her a couple of times whilegrowing up but didn’t know her well,and Solange was a teenager whom I’dnever met before. Unbeknownst to us,

Marianne, one of the pastor’s elderdaughters, had been hiding the two girlsat her home in northern Rwanda sincethe genocide had started. The civil warwith the rebels was fiercest in the north,and the Hutu extremists were lookingeverywhere for Tutsi spies. Mariannehad a reputation for being kind andcompassionate, which made her highlysuspicious in the eyes of the extremists.Her house had been searched severaltimes, and she feared that sooner or laterMalaba and Solange would bediscovered.

Somehow Marianne managed toobtain a fake identity card for Malabaand disguised both of them in costumes

similar to the ones the killers liked towear. She put the machetes, guns, andhand grenades that the Interahamwe hadgiven her to kill Tutsis into her car andseated the girls beside the weapons.Then, as the fighting raged all aroundthem, they began the long, dangerousdrive south to her dad’s house, whereshe hoped they’d all find safety.

Malaba and Solange told us that everyfew miles, Interahamwe killers wouldstop them at roadblocks and ask for theiridentity cards. Because Solange didn’thave a card, the women thought thatthey’d be killed at every stop. Having noidentity card was as bad as having aTutsi one . . . which was a death

sentence.

“One man handed them his Tutsi cardand they chopped his head off right infront of us,” Solange whisperedhoarsely, shaking her head, unable tobelieve what she’d witnessed with herown eyes.

“They even killed Hutus who hadforgotten their identity cards at home,”Malaba said. “I recognized one of themen they killed—I knew he was a Hutu,but they didn’t. He was a little taller thanthey were . . . that’s all it took. Theycalled him a Tutsi spy and shot him.Then they killed another Hutu because heargued with them . . . all he said was thatit was wrong for them to be killing

Tutsis.”

Before they began their journey,Marianne told the girls that they’d betterbe able to act like killers if they wantedto survive. So every time they werepulled over at a roadblock, they pickedup a machete or gun and shook it in theair.

“We screamed like crazy women,”Solange said. “We’d shout, ‘HutuPower! Hutu Power! Kill all thecockroaches! Kill those Tutsi dogs!’ Thekillers loved seeing us act like that—they’d tell us to keep up the good workand wave us through. Wanting to killTutsis is like having a passport . . . thecountry has gone mad. And most of those

guys were drunk or high on marijuana. Infact, we saw soldiers pull up in Jeeps attwo checkpoints and pass out drugs andalcohol to the killers to keep themmotivated.”

The two sisters told us that they’dpassed so many dead bodies on the roadheading south that it took them a longtime to realize that they were seeingcorpses. “There were so many, and theywere stacked so high that we thought wewere passing by piles of old clothes andgarbage. But when we looked closer . . .when we stopped and rolled down thewindow, we knew. You could hear thebuzz of the flies over the sound of the carengine. And there were hundreds of dogs

eating the bodies, fighting over bodyparts . . . it’s all so sickening. The wholecountry reeks of rotting flesh,” Solangesaid. Her face was pale, and shetrembled as she spoke. “I can’t get thoseimages out of my head . . . even when Iclose my eyes, all I see are deadbodies.”

We would have had a hard timebelieving what they described if wehadn’t already heard similar horrorstories on the radio and from the pastor.It sounded like the apocalypse hadarrived, and Rwanda was the first stop.

We asked if they had any news of ourfamilies, but they didn’t even knowwhere their own were. Marianne was

Malaba’s godmother, which was whythey’d been visiting her when thekillings began.

Malaba was weeping as she adjustedher position in our laps. “If Mariannehadn’t taken us in, we’d be lying in oneof those piles of corpses, being eaten bydogs.”

The image made me shiver. Iwondered for the millionth time wheremy parents and brothers were andsilently asked God to watch out forthem: You’re the only family I can talkto now, God. I’m relying on You to takecare of the others.

IT WAS MUCH MORE CROWDEDTHAN USUAL IN THE BATHROOMTHAT NIGHT. As I cradled sweetseven-year-old Sanda in my lap whileshe fell asleep, I thought about how eachone of us in that little room had been tornaway from our families, or had had ourfamilies torn from us. I stroked Sanda’shair and wished that my own mothercould have been there to cradle me.

I drifted off to sleep shortly beforedawn and had the most intense dream ofmy life. I saw Jesus standing in front ofme, his arms outstretched as though hewere about to embrace me. He waswearing a piece of cloth wrapped abouthis waist, and his long hair spilled down

around his shoulders. I remember beingstruck by how thin he looked: His ribsprotruded, and his cheeks were lean andhollow. Yet his eyes sparkled like starswhen he looked at me, and his voice wasas soft as a gentle breeze.

“When you leave this room, you willfind that almost everyone you know andlove is dead and gone,” he said. “I amhere to tell you not to fear. You will notbe alone—I will be with you. I will beyour family. Be at peace and trust in me,for I will always be at your side. Don’tmourn too long for your family,Immaculée. They are with me now, andthey have joy.”

I awoke relaxed and happy. Dreaming

of Jesus was a beautiful treat, and Irelished the warm afterglow, thankingGod for sending me such wonderfulthoughts. But as the day wore on, myheart became heavy. Jesus had said thatmy family was dead . . . and Idesperately wanted them to be alive. Iwanted to see my parents, tell Vianneyhow sorry I was for letting him go thatnight, and watch Damascene’s smilespread across his face. After all myprayers, why couldn’t God spare theirlives?

I closed my eyes and comfortedmyself, thinking that if it were only adream, my family could very well bealive . . . and if it hadn’t been a dream,

then God had promised to care for mealways, and I’d never known God tobreak a promise.

NOT LONG AFTER THAT DREAM, IHEARD PEOPLE TALKING outside thebathroom window about some recentkillings they’d witnessed. One of themen chose to tell the story of the captureof a young man who’d been hiding in thearea since the beginning of the war:“This boy had a master’s degree fromuniversity, and the killers kept tauntinghim about it—they asked him why they’dcaught him if he was so smart. One ofthem said he wanted to see the brains ofsomeone with a master’s degree, so he

chopped the boy across the head with hismachete. Then he looked inside theskull.”

My heart broke. There were not thatmany young Tutsi men in the area who’dearned a master’s degree . . . I was surethat they were talking about my brotherDamascene!

Oh, God, please don’t let it be him, Iprayed. I tried to calm down, tellingmyself that I couldn’t be certain theywere talking about Damascene. I keptpraying that it wasn’t my brother andwaited for Pastor Murinzi to come withour food. When he finally opened thedoor hours later, I told him what I’dheard and asked him point-blank if the

people had been talking aboutDamascene’s murder.

I’d surprised him with my questionand noticed that his eyes wouldn’t meetmine. “No, no, not at all,” he said.“They’ve been killing many young men,so there’s no reason to think that theymeant your brother. I haven’t heardanything about any of your brothers,Immaculée.”

Oh, Pastor, I thought, I wish you werea better liar! The expression on his facetold me that Damascene was dead . . .but how could I be sure? I bit my lip andthanked him for keeping me informedand for protecting all of us. He noddedand left in a big hurry.

The other women told me not toworry, that my brother was all right, andthat there was no way of knowing whomthe men had been talking about. I smileda little, outwardly agreeing with them.After all, there was still a good chancethat my beautiful Damascene was alive,and I’d soon see his smiling face againand laugh at his silly jokes.

But my heart wouldn’t listen to myhead. I began weeping, softly at first, butsoon I was sobbing inconsolably. Islapped my face and pinched myselfhard all over, hoping that the pain woulddistract me and stop my tears. Butnothing worked. I knew that the otherwomen were panicking, afraid that I’d

be overheard, but I couldn’t stop myself.I bit my hand to stifle my crying, but thetears kept pouring down my face, and mysobbing grew louder. To make mattersworse, the younger girls began crying,too. The older ladies were waving theirhands in the air, silently begging me tostop my bawling.

An hour later I did stop. And I nevercried in that bathroom again.

CHAPTER 14The Gift of Tongues

Seven weeks in the bathroom had left usall frighteningly gaunt—our bonespushed into our flesh, and our skinsagged. Sitting on the hard floor becameincreasingly uncomfortable as ourmuscle and fat disappeared, leaving uswith no padding on our bottoms. Despitehaving two additional women with us,the bathroom grew roomier every day.We were shrinking, and our starvationdiet left us weak and light-headed muchof the time. I could tell by my clothesthat I’d lost at least 40 pounds (and I

was only about 115 pounds to beginwith).

Our skin was pale, our lips werecracked, and our gums were swollen andsore. To make matters worse, since wehadn’t showered or changed clothessince we’d arrived, we were plagued bya vicious infestation of body lice.Sometimes the tiny bugs grew soengorged with our blood that we couldsee them marching across our faces.

We may not have been a pretty sight,but I’d never felt more beautiful. Eachday I awoke and thanked God for givingme life, and each morning He made mefeel loved and cherished. I knew that Hehadn’t kept me alive so long and through

so much suffering just to let me be killedbeneath the machete of a blood-drunkkiller! And I knew that He wouldn’t letme die from some silly everydayailment. I was sick twice in thebathroom with illnesses that I could havetaken care of in a day with a couple ofpills . . . if we’d had any. The firstsickness came with a 105-degree feverthat left me shaking and delirious. Thesecond was a nasty urinary-tractinfection, which was one of the mostpainful experiences I’ve ever endured.The only thing the pastor had to offer mewas a thermometer and his best wishes—he had no medication to spare.

All I could do was pray, so that’s

what I did. When the pain and feverbecame too much to bear, I asked God tolay His healing hands on me while Islept. Both times I awoke refreshed andwell, without fever or pain. I’d beencured by the power of His love.

No, illness wasn’t going to take me. Iwas certain that God had a greaterpurpose for me, and I prayed every dayfor Him to reveal it to me. At first I wasexpecting Him to show me my entirefuture all at once—maybe with a flash oflightning and a clap of thunder thrown infor good measure. But I came to learnthat God never shows us something wearen’t ready to understand. Instead, Helets us see what we need to see, when

we need to see it. He’ll wait until oureyes and hearts are open to Him, andthen when we’re ready, He will plantour feet on the path that’s best for us . . .but it’s up to us to do the walking.

GOD PUT MY FEET ON THE RIGHTPATH WHILE I WAS LISTENING toPastor Murinzi talk about the war oneday. The pastor was excited because theUnited Nations was considering sendingpeacekeeping troops to Rwanda, whichhe thought might hasten an end to thewar. The UN had pulled most of itssoldiers out after ten Belgianpeacekeepers were murdered by Hutusoldiers on the first day of the genocide.

In fact, every Western country hadevacuated its citizens from Rwandawhen the killing started, leaving theTutsis to face their fate alone. There hadbeen virtually no outsiders in the countrysince the genocide began—that had senta signal to our government that the worlddidn’t care if it were committinggenocide, and that the lives of Tutsisdidn’t matter, so the killing continued.

Even the mere possibility of the UNsending new troops meant a lot . . . itcould even stop the genocide! But thepastor said that there was a problem.“The Tutsis in the RPF don’t want theUN to send troops because they want tokeep the war going. They think they can

win the war and take over!” he snorted.“They are so arrogant. They aredemanding that if the UN does sendtroops, they had better be English-speaking troops . . . such nerve!”

The pastor told us that most soldiersin the RPF had grown up in exile inUganda, which was colonized byBritain, so they spoke English. Thiscontrasted with Rwanda, which hadbeen colonized by Belgium, whereFrench was spoken—so in high schoolmany of us were taught French as asecond language.

“The RPF would refuse to speakFrench, even if they knew how,” PastorMurinzi added. “They claim that the

French military trained the Interahamwekillers. They hate the French . . . if theRPF were to win the war, they wouldprobably make us all speak English!”

God turned on a light in my brain.

Actually, it was more like a cannongoing off. At that moment, I wasabsolutely convinced that the RPF wouldwin the war. This meant that I wouldmeet English-speaking people after thegenocide and would have to tell themwhat had happened to us. I also had apremonition that I’d be working at theUnited Nations, where practicallyeverybody spoke English. I suddenlyknew with crystal clarity that I wouldspend the rest of my time in the bathroom

learning the English language. I felt as ifGod had handed me the winning numbersto a big lottery . . . all I had to do wasmake sure that I was ready when thenumbers were drawn. I had to prepare tomeet my destiny!

I knew that learning a completelyforeign language would require manyhours of study, which would force me tocut back on my prayers. I worried thatthis would give the devil the opportunityhe’d been waiting for: to jump back intomy head, fill me with fear and doubt, anddrag me down into darkness and despair.

I did the only thing I could. I askedGod what to do. Dear God, You put thisidea to learn English into my head, so

You better help me keep the devil awaywhile I study! Now please show me howI’m supposed to learn a new languagewhile I’m stuck in this bathroom.

I didn’t bother informing the otherladies about my study plans—theyalready thought I was soft in the head forpraying the way I did. If I told them that Iintended to master a foreign languagewhile we were fighting for our lives,they might have asked the pastor to packme off to an Abashi tribesman rightaway. So I kept my dreams to myself.

The next day when the pastor broughtus food, I asked him if he could lend mea French-English dictionary and anyother books he might own written in

English. He looked at me as though I’djust ordered a steak dinner.

“I only want to occupy my mind alittle. We’ve been staring at the wallsfor nearly two months, and we can’teven talk to each other,” I whispered.

He shook his head, turning away asthough he were dismissing a lunatic.

“If I learn English, I’ll be able to tellthe UN peacekeepers after the war howbravely you acted to save our lives,” Iquickly added.

Pastor Murinzi suddenly warmed up tothe idea, promising to look through hiscollection. I was lucky: Very fewRwandans owned any English books, but

the pastor found two, as well as aFrench-English dictionary.

“But I don’t have any English booksfor beginners, Immaculée. The books Ido have would be very difficult foryou,” he said.

I smiled up at him. I had no way ofknowing how long the war would last,but I didn’t intend to take baby steps—Iwanted to make giant strides toward mynew life. “That’s okay, Pastor,” Iresponded. “I don’t want beginner booksbecause I’m in a hurry. Please bring methe biggest, most difficult English bookyou have.”

The pastor became quite enthusiastic

about my plan, even telling me how I’dbe able to recognize the UNpeacekeepers. “They are the onlysoldiers who wear blue hats,” he said,handing me the two thick English booksand the dictionary.

I opened them immediately, feastingmy eyes on the exotic-looking words. Iheld the books like they were pieces ofgold—I felt as though I’d been awardeda scholarship to a fancy Americanuniversity.

I took a deep breath and thanked Godfor answering my prayers and bringingme the tools I needed to learn English.Even though I’d be losing prayer time, Iknew that God would be with me while I

studied. He intended for me to learn thislanguage, and I could feel the power ofHis intention coursing through me. Iwould not waste a minute of my time inself-pity or doubt. God had presented mewith a gift, and my gift in return wouldbe to make the most of His kindness. Iopened the biggest book and began toread.

I DEDICATED THE REST OF MYSTAY IN THE BATHROOM topraying, meditating on God, and studyingas hard as I could. I learned English oneword at a time: I’d see a new term in theEnglish book, then use the dictionary totranslate it into French and unlock its

meaning. It was slow going at first, but itwas fascinating . . . and fun!

The first thing I did was memorize theimportant words I knew I’d need as soonas I was back in the real world. I’ddiscovered that I meant “Je” in French,and realized that it was a very importantword for me to remember. I needed to beable to say, “I am Tutsi, I need help,” “Ihave been in hiding for three months,” “Iam looking for my family,” or “I want ajob.”

At the end of my first day studyingEnglish, I’d read the first page of thefirst book many times. I wish I couldremember the name of the work now, oreven what it was about, but it’s a blur.

What I do remember is holding it tightlyto my chest when it became too dark toread and silently mouthing my firstEnglish sentence: “I am Immaculée.”Thank You, God!

At the end of each day, I wasexhausted but exhilarated. I knew that thenew life God had planned for me wouldreveal itself in this language I couldn’tyet understand. As the days passed, Imemorized many of the terms I’d need totell my story in English. Escape, hiding,war, prayer, job, and God became thecornerstones of my growing Englishvocabulary—and each new word was asprecious as a jewel. I also committed thewords before and after to memory

because by then I knew that I’d alwaysrefer to my life in terms of before orafter the holocaust.

While browsing the dictionary onemorning, I discovered a section onEnglish grammar. Rules! I was ecstatic—it was like manna from heaven! I’dfound the keys that would unlock themystery of English: verbs, nouns, andadjectives; conjugation; past, present,and future—it was wonderful! While theother ladies slept or stared into space, Iexplored a new universe. I said myprayers and read my books all day. Iread until well past midnight beneath thefaint light from the window, and I readuntil my eyes refused to stay open. And I

thanked God for every second Hegranted me to study.

Three weeks after I started thisendeavor, I’d already read the twobooks that the pastor had given me fromcover to cover. I was ready to move onto the next level: to teach myself to writein English. I borrowed a pen and paperfrom the pastor and began composing aletter.

I wrote to a man who didn’t exist yet,but who was someone I believed in withall my heart—our rescuer. I was soconvinced that we’d be rescued that Igave my imaginary hero all sorts offeatures and characteristics to make ourfuture meeting seem more real. He was a

tall, dark-skinned UN soldier with asmall moustache and a thick Britishaccent. He wore a clean, freshly pressedblue uniform with a blue beret pulledtightly down toward his right ear. Hehad a kind, open face; an honest smile;and warm brown eyes that filled withtears of compassion when he read myletter describing our tale of hardship.The image I had of him was exactly theopposite of one I’d formed of the killers.

Writing that letter was an importantstep for me in developing my newoutlook on life. In my mind I painted myrescuer as kind and caring, because thatwas the kind of person whom I wantedto rescue us. Someone had once told me

that it was important to visualize whatyou want to happen in the future, becausedoing so could actually help make itcome true. Well, thanks to God, I’dbecome a big believer in thatphilosophy.

God had planted a seed in my mind.He’d told me to learn English, and thatpractice was showing me that a rich andexciting life was waiting for me on theother side of the genocide. I knew thatwhatever I envisioned would come topass if I had faith and visualized it witha pure heart and good intentions, and if itwere something God thought was rightfor me. It was then that I realized I coulddream and visualize my destiny. I vowed

that I’d always dare to dream for what Iwanted. And I would only dream forbeautiful things like love, health, andpeace, because that is the kind of beautyGod wants for all His children.

IN EARLY JUNE, I CAME FACE-TO-FACE WITH MY PAST. My boyfriend,John, and I had been a serious couple fortwo years, and we’d even talked aboutgetting married after I finisheduniversity. Although we’d had a prettybig falling-out before Easter (he’dembarrassed me by calling off anengagement party to formally introduceour families), I still thought that we’dpatch things up.

We hadn’t been in touch since thekillings began, but I thought about himoften during my time in the bathroom,praying that he was safe and unhurt.Because he was Hutu, I knew that hewas probably out of harm’s way andfree to move around the countryside ashe wanted. Many times I wondered if hewas searching for me, trying to find outif I was dead or alive and hidingsomeplace, waiting for him to come tomy rescue. Those questions, and a fewothers, were answered for me when Ileast expected it.

Late one morning we heard a bigcommotion at the front of the house. Iautomatically assumed that another

search party of killers had arrived tohunt for us . . . but I quickly realized thatthis ruckus was different. We didn’t hearvile killing songs or the usual threats,cursing, and shouts of anger—instead,there was happiness in these voices,even joy. Arrivals at the house hadalways brought fear to my heart, but thistime it brought tenderness and warmth.Amid the welcoming sounds of oldfriends reuniting, I heard John’s laughter,and my breath caught in my throat.

It turns out that he’d come down fromKigali with much of Pastor Murinzi’sextended family. Like thousands ofHutus, they were fleeing the capital asthe rebel Tutsi soldiers pushed closer

and closer to the city. Afraid of reprisalkillings, they’d abandoned their homesand headed south, where there was nofighting. At least 40 of the pastor’srelatives, including John, planned toresettle in our village in the hopes thatthe war would pass them by.

I was so thrilled to know that myboyfriend was alive, healthy, and evenin good spirits—it was exciting to thinkthat we could soon actually see eachother. I spent much of the day wonderingif he knew that I was hiding in the house.

Very late that night, when everyoneelse was asleep, the pastor brought Johnto the bathroom. I was so happy to seehim that I actually forgot where I was for

a few minutes—and I hugged him sohard that I nearly passed out from theexertion. After weeks of communicatingin whispers and sign language, I hadtrouble finding my voice to tell him howmuch I’d missed him and had prayed forhim.

John stepped back quickly, looking meup and down before finally saying, “Ican’t believe how skinny you are,Immaculée. Hugging you is like holdinga bag of bones!”

I looked at him, laughing and crying atthe same time. I was taken aback by hisfirst words to me, though—I was hopingthat he might tell me he loved me, or atleast say how happy he was to see me

alive.

“Well . . . you don’t have that greatbody anymore,” he went on, “but youstill look good! I’ve been praying you’dstill be alive and that no one had rapedyou. And here you are, alive andunraped!”

His words made me feel awkward; infact, it was as if somebody else weresaying them, not my boyfriend. Heseemed different from when we’d lastbeen together. He certainly lookeddifferent—he’d grown his hair out in awild Afro style, and his face was hiddenbehind a shaggy beard. He explained thathe hadn’t been able to find a barberbecause everything in the country was

closed down while the genocide wasbeing carried out.

Pastor Murinzi cut off our visit after afew minutes, saying that someone mightoverhear us. I wished that we could havestayed together longer and talked fromthe heart, but it wasn’t to be. John and Ihugged one more time before the pastorclosed the bathroom door.

I thanked God for keeping John aliveand safe . . . but I soon found hispresence in the house disturbing. He wasfree, living like a prince—walkingoutside, eating real food, sleeping in abed with clean sheets, and even talkingwith his mother—while I was trappedlike an animal. Every day I heard him

through the bathroom window enjoyinghimself, laughing, telling stories, andmaking wisecracks while playingbasketball with his Hutu friends. And heknew that I could hear him. I didn’texpect him to sit around and mope, butcarrying on the way he did beneath thewindow of my bathroom prison seemedhighly insensitive. He acted like he wason vacation, while people—my people—were being slaughtered all aroundhim, and his girlfriend was being huntedby thugs and killers.

Sometimes when I listened to himhaving fun outside, I’d open my Bibleand read the following:

Love is patient and kind;love is not jealous orboastful; it is not arrogant orrude. Love does not insist onits own way; it is notirritable or resentful; it doesnot rejoice at wrong, butrejoices in the right. Lovebears all things, believes allthings, hopes all things,endures all things. Lovenever ends. (1 Cor. 13:4–8)

That was the love I wanted, and Iknew it was what God wanted each andevery one of us to have.

John saw me once or twice after thatfirst night, and I enjoyed the few minuteswe had together. But the visits were tooshort and infrequent for us to share ourthoughts and feelings—and God knows, Ihad a lot I wanted to share. He didn’tseem to make any effort to talk to me, toreach my heart even a little. I knew thatit was difficult and dangerous for him tovisit, especially with so many of thepastor’s Hutu relatives in the house, butstill!

I remember pleading with him in oneof our brief encounters: “Please, justtake the time to write me a little note andsend it with the pastor or Dusenge whenthey bring food at night. That’s all I

need, John . . . just a few words to knowthat you’re thinking about me, that youstill care how I am, and that you want tokeep our love alive!”

He promised that he’d write, but henever did. The next time he came to seeme, I used a few of our preciousmoments to chastise him. “Why didn’tyou write to me like you promised? Doyou realize what I’m going through?”

“Well, I know one thing—there are noother men looking at you, and that’s oneless thing for me to worry about, right?”

With those words, John killed anylove left between us. God gave us all thegift of love to share and nurture in one

another. It is a precious gift, one thatJohn had squandered.

CHAPTER 15Unlikely Saviors

The first really good news I had in awhile came when the killings were attheir worst, and evil deeds had becomethe norm.

In mid-June, more than two monthsafter we went into hiding, I overheardthe pastor’s son Sembeba talking tosome friends beneath the bathroomwindow. They were discussing recentkillings in the neighborhood that they’dwitnessed or had been told aboutfirsthand, and the atrocities they

described were among the worst I’dheard.

I thought I was going to vomit as oneof the boys described unimaginablewickedness as casually as if he weretalking about a soccer game: “Theygrabbed one mama, and all of them tookturns with her. She was begging for themto take her children away, but they heldher husband and her three little kids withmachetes at their throats. They madethem all watch while eight or nine ofthem raped her. When they finished withher, they killed the whole family.”

I cradled my head as they swappedhorror stories. They talked aboutchildren who were deliberately left

alive to suffer after their limbs had beenchopped off, infants who were dashedagainst rocks, and HIV-positive soldiersbeing ordered to rape teenage girls toinfect them with their disease.

There was so much more, but Icovered my ears and silently pleaded,Oh, God, if this is what is waiting forus, please take me into Your lovingarms now! Let me live in Paradise withYou, not in the hell this country hasbecome.

Eventually the conversation outsideturned from the crimes of war to the waritself. Some of the boys said that thegovernment soldiers were getting beatenso badly that Kigali might soon fall to

the rebels. They were all worried aboutwhat would happen to the Hutus if therebels won the war.

Sembeba said he’d heard that Francewas sending troops to Rwanda. He andhis friends all sounded relieved becauseFrance had very close ties with the Hutugovernment. The boys seemed to thinkthat the French would help thegovernment troops fight the rebel Tutsisand drive the RPF out of our country. Ifthat were the case, the war would end,and the killers could complete their evilmission in no time.

At first I wasn’t sure how to feel aboutthe arrival of French soldiers. Manypeople said that France’s military

helped train the Interahamwe killers, somaybe the troops actually were comingto help the government complete thegenocide.

But I couldn’t believe that wouldhappen. No, if the French came toRwanda, the rest of the world would bewatching them. There would be TVcameras and reporters, which meant thatthe world would see the killings, themassacres, and the rapes. And if thepeople in the rich countries saw—reallysaw—what was happening with theirown eyes, they’d have to do something.They’d have to stop the genocide . . .wouldn’t they?

I decided that even if they had helped

train the killers, it was a good thing forthe French to come, because anyforeigner would bring attention to ourplight. I prayed for the safe arrival of thetroops and thanked God for sending themto us. It was true that, given their historyin our country, the French were unlikelysaviors. But one thing I’d come toembrace while in the bathroom was thatGod really did move in mysteriousways.

A few days later we heard a radioreport about Operation Turquoise, whichwas France’s plan to send troops toRwanda. Soldiers from several French-speaking countries would be setting upcamp near Lake Kivu, which wasn’t that

far from us.

Hutu officials threw a big welcomingceremony at the airport when the troopslanded in Goma, which is near theRwandan border in the neighboringcountry of Zaire. We listened to theradio as a Hutu choir greeted thesoldiers with a song written especiallyfor the occasion. They praised theFrench and celebrated the long-standing,loving relationship between our twocountries.

The pastor informed us that theceremony proved that the French came toRwanda to kill Tutsis, but I didn’t agree.I was sure that God was once againanswering my prayers, this time by

sending someone to rescue us. TheUnited Nations had thrown its supportbehind the French plan, which was agood sign. And soon after they arrived,the French themselves announced theirintentions on the radio: They said thatthey were in Rwanda to set up “safehavens” for Tutsi survivors; if Tutsiscould reach their camps, the Frenchsoldiers would protect them.

“Thank You, God,” I whispered.

A few days later a French helicopterstarted circling our area. We were surethat they were looking for survivors—for us—and our hearts soared! Fromradio reports, I knew that the Frenchwere still too far away for us to reach

them, and since the war wasn’t over,thousands of armed killers still roamedthe countryside hunting Tutsis. But it wasclear to me what we had to do.

The next time Pastor Murinzi broughtus our table scraps, I spoke up. “I thinkthat we should go stay with the Frenchsoldiers,” I informed him.

“That is a bad idea, Immaculée. Youshouldn’t believe that they are here tohelp Tutsis—they would probably killyou as soon as they saw you,” he said,dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

“That doesn’t matter, Pastor. I wouldrather be shot quickly by a foreignsoldier than give these Interahamwe

killers the satisfaction of murdering me.Better to die cleanly at the hands of theFrench than to die after being abused anddegraded by our tormentors.”

The pastor seemed shocked by whatI’d said, and he told me that the otherwomen and I should all stay in thebathroom and hope for the best. But thenhe noticed the seven others pointing atme and vigorously nodding their headsin agreement with my suggestion.

“I’d also rather go live in a refugeecamp with the French than go to theforest to marry an Abashi tribesman,” Iadded, as the ladies kept nodding theirheads. “The French will save us or theywill kill us . . . either way, Pastor, I

think we’d like to take our chances withthem.”

He let out a long sigh and shrugged hisshoulders—he actually looked relievedby our request. The man had many morepeople living with him now than at thebeginning of the war, and sheltering uswas a constant worry for him.

“If going to the French is what you allwant, I’ll find out where they are and seeif it is possible to take you there,” hefinally consented. “But I wouldn’t getyour hopes up too high. It is still verydangerous outside . . . a Tutsi seen on theroad will be killed instantly.”

PASTOR MURINZI WAS WORRIED.He was afraid that three months ofconfinement in his little bathroom hadaddled our minds, so he decided that hehad to stimulate them. One night whilewe were waiting for news about thelocation of the French troops, he came tous with a surprise invitation. For the firsttime since he’d locked us away, heasked us to join him in the main housefor a visit. And not just any visit—heinvited us to the movies.

In the wee hours of the night, wheneveryone else in the house was soundasleep, the pastor led us down thehallway to an empty bedroom wherehe’d set up a TV and video machine. He

shushed us along the way because of thenoise we were making. After months ofsitting, our legs were wobbly, and wekept bumping into the walls.Nevertheless, I was very grateful to thepastor for giving us a respite from thebathroom, and we were all smiling fromear to ear.

The pastor was worried that we mightbe overheard, so we watched the videowith the volume turned off. Luckily, bythat point we’d become expert lipreaders and had no troubleunderstanding the entire movie. I missedthe name of the film, but I remember thestory vividly. It was about a nursestationed in a desert village that had no

doctors, so to save lives, she was forcedto practice medicine without a license.She was persecuted for her good deeds,but was ultimately vindicated—and bythe end, she was both triumphant andcelebrated.

The story was inspiring, but what Iremember most about the movie was ascene where a young boy was singing asong while riding his bicycle through apark. My first reaction was of concern: Iwas worried that he’d be spotted by thekillers and attacked, and I wanted to yellat him to go and hide. Then Iremembered that it was only a movie,and it wasn’t even set in Rwanda. I’dforgotten that there were places in the

world where being born Tutsi wasn’t acrime punishable by death. Once I knewthat the boy was safe, I desperatelywanted to jump through the screen andjoin him. I wanted to run in the grass,sing a beautiful song, and make a joyfulnoise unto the Lord! I wanted to live in aworld where children laughed and noone was forced to hide.

Unfortunately, the pleasure of ourmovie night was short-lived. One of thepastor’s houseboys had been outside andhad seen the blue light of the TVflickering in the window of what heknew should have been an empty room.Hoping for a reward, he reported whathe’d seen to a group of killers and told

them that he’d long suspected PastorMurinzi was hiding Tutsis somewhere inthe house.

A friend of the pastor warned him thata very large group of killers waspreparing to search his home. He toldthe pastor that they thought he’d beenlying to them for weeks and were veryangry.

When the pastor came to tell us whathad happened, he looked very nervous.I’d never seen him so scared. Hedropped onto his knees, and for the firsttime since we’d arrived, clasped hishands together and prayed for our souls:“Dear God, if it is time for these ladiesto go to You, please take them quickly.”

I didn’t find his prayer at allcomforting. He’d frightened us more thanwe’d ever been—if that was evenpossible. “Pastor, do you think that thehouseboy saw us go back to thebathroom after the movie? Do you reallythink that they know exactly where weare?” I whispered.

“I’m not sure what they know, butwe’ll find out soon enough. The killersare on their way. If they know about thebathroom and find you here, they’ll killus all.”

CHAPTER 16Keeping the Faith

I heard the killers call my name.

A jolt of terror shot through me, andthen the devil whispered in my earagain: Now they know who you are . . .now they know where you are. . . .

My head snapped back, and I wasthrown completely off guard. Why didthey call out my name—how did theyknow I was here? Were they coming tothe bathroom?

I tried to call on God, but all I could

hear was the negative voice blaring inmy mind . . . along with the vicious,sadistic chants of the killers echoingthrough the house. Clothes soaked insweat, I fumbled with my faith.

There were hundreds of them thistime. They were yelling at the pastor,accusing and threatening him. “Where isshe?” they taunted. “We know she’s heresomewhere. Find her . . . findImmaculée.”

They were in the pastor’s bedroom,right on the other side of the wall. Lessthan an inch of plaster and woodseparated us. Their footsteps shook thehouse, and I could hear their machetesand spears scraping along the walls.

In the chaos, I recognized the voice ofa family friend. “I have killed 399cockroaches,” he boasted. “Immaculéewill make 400. It’s a good number tokill.”

As I cowered in the corner, the devilwas laughing at me: They know yourname . . . they know you’re here. Whereis your God now?

The killers were pressuring thepastor: “Where are the Tutsis? Youknow what we’ll do if we find them.Where is she, Pastor? Where isImmaculée? This is the last place shewas seen. Where are you hiding her?”

My spirit tumbled back into the arms

of fear and doubt, and I was even morefrightened than I’d been the first time thekillers came. Their voices clawed at myflesh, and I felt like I was lying on a bedof burning coals. A sweeping wave ofpain engulfed my body, and a thousandinvisible needles stabbed my flesh. Yet Itried again to pray: Dear God, forgiveme for my lapse of faith . . . I trust inYou, God . . . I know that You will saveus. You are stronger than the evil inthis house.

The killers were in the room wherewe’d watched the movie, overturning thefurniture and calling out my name againand again. “We want Immaculée . . . it’stime to kill Immaculée.”

I covered my ears, wishing that I hadone of their machetes so that I could cutthem off to stop from hearing. “Oh, God .. .” I began to pray out loud, but couldn’tform any other words. I tried toswallow, but my throat closed up. I hadno saliva, and my mouth was drier thansand.

I closed my eyes and prayed that I’ddisappear, but the voices grew louder. Iknew that they would show no mercy,and my mind echoed with only onethought: If they catch me, they will killme. If they catch me, they will kill me.If they catch me, they will kill me.

I put the Bible in my mouth andclenched it tightly between my teeth. I

wanted to swallow God’s words, togulp them down into my soul. I wantedto find His strength again, but thenegative spirit that had haunted me for solong was planting horrid images in mymind. I saw what the killers would do tome when they found us: I saw the torture,the humiliation, the murder. . . .

Oh, God, please! I screamed silently.Why do You want me to go throughthis? Why? What else can I do to showYou my love? I want to believe that Youwill save us, God. How can I have morefaith? I’m praying so hard, God, sohard . . . but they’re so close, and I’mso tired! Oh, God . . . I’m so tired.

I felt faint—consciousness slipped

away from me until the killers’thundering voices were only a soft,distant rumble. Then I was sleeping . . .and dreaming a sweet dream of Jesus.

I floated like a feather above the otherwomen. I saw them trembling below meon the floor, holding their Bibles on theirheads, begging God for mercy. I lookedup and saw Jesus hovering above me ina pool of golden light, and his arms werereaching toward me. I smiled, and theconstant aches and pains that hadbecome part of my body after weeks ofcrouching disappeared. There was nohunger, no thirst, and no fear—I was sopeaceful . . . so happy.

Then Jesus spoke: “Mountains are

moved with faith, Immaculée, but if faithwere easy, all the mountains would begone. Trust in me, and know that I willnever leave you. Trust in me, and haveno more fear. Trust in me, and I willsave you. I shall put my cross upon thisdoor, and they will not reach you. Trustin me, and you shall live.”

Suddenly I was back on the flooragain with the others. Their eyes werestill closed, but mine were wide open,staring at a giant cross of brilliant whitelight stretching from wall to wall in frontof the bathroom door. As I looked,radiant energy brushed my face,warming my skin like the sun. I knewinstinctively that a kind of Divine force

was emanating from the cross, whichwould repel the killers. I knew that wewere protected and safe, so I jumped tomy feet, feeling like I had the strength ofa lioness. I thanked God for touching mewith His love once again, and then Ilooked down at the others.

For the first and last time while I wasin the bathroom, I shouted at mycompanions: “We’re safe! Trust me . . .everything is going to be okay!”

The loudness of my voice hit them likea slap in the face. They looked at me likeI was a madwoman, and then theyreached up and pulled me down to thefloor. I smiled—even though I could nolonger see the cross on the door, I knew

it was there. The killers had already leftthe house . . . I heard them singing asthey walked away.

The pastor came to see us later thatnight. “They went straight to where I’dshown you the movie,” he explained.“They tore the room apart. When theyfound nothing, they almost tore thehouseboy apart. They apologized andleft, but it isn’t safe here for youanymore. I fired the houseboy . . . nowhe’s angry and suspicious. He’s friendswith the other servants, and I’m sure thatthey’ll all be watching my every movefrom now on. Let’s hope that the Frenchsoldiers arrive in our area soon.”

For the next week or so, we lived on

tenterhooks. The killers visited again,turning Pastor Murinzi’s bedroom upsidedown in their search for any sign that hewas hiding Tutsis. And again, theypromised to be back.

The pastor was so worried he wasbeing spied on that he cut back on thenumber of times he’d bring us food. Wetried to joke that we’d found a sure wayto escape the killers—starving to death—but hunger gnawed at us greatly.

IN EARLY JULY WE HEARD ONE OFTHE OTHER HOUSEBOYS knock onthe bedroom door. “Pastor, it’s beensuch a long time since I’ve gotten to thebathroom in there. Why don’t I clean it

for you now?”

Our spines stiffened . . . would thistorture never end?

“Don’t worry about the bathroom,” thepastor replied. “I’ve cleaned it myself.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t do that—that’s myjob. Let me in, and I’ll scrub thatbathroom good for you.”

“No. I’ve lost the key, so I’m not usingthe toilet in there . . . now go away. Idon’t want to be disturbed.”

“Maybe I can open it without a key.”

“Go away! Didn’t I just tell you that Idon’t want to be disturbed?”

It was the first time in three months

that someone had asked to clean thebathroom, so it seemed clear that thehouseboy had figured out where wewere hiding. We were beside ourselveswith worry, certain that he’d go to thekillers and tell them exactly where tosearch: the only room in the house wherethey hadn’t already looked!

The pastor came to us after thehouseboy left and said that he didn’tthink he’d go to the killers right away.“They almost killed the last houseboywhen they didn’t find Tutsis in the placehe told them to look,” he explained, “so Ithink this one will wait until he hasproof. He might not go to them today, buthe will definitely go to them soon.”

We looked at each other, knowing thatwe’d run out of time.

“I heard this morning that the Frenchsoldiers are in the area looking for Tutsisurvivors—I will talk to them today.Make sure that you’re extra quiet whileI’m gone,” the pastor said, and hurriedfrom the house.

As soon as he left, the houseboy begantormenting us. We could hear himmoving around outside the bathroomwindow all afternoon. We knew that hewas listening for voices or anymovement, trying to confirm hissuspicions before going to the killers.We didn’t move a muscle for hours.

At one point, he dragged a stool ortable beneath the window and climbedup. We held our breath as he clamberedup the wall, and we nearly fainted whenhis shadow appeared against the curtain.Thank God the window was just beyondhis reach, but he still stood there for therest of day, waiting and listening.Eventually someone called him away,and we relaxed a bit, although I feltnauseated from the adrenaline that hadbeen pumping through my bloodstreamall day.

The pastor returned that evening, butthis time he brought good news—maybethe best I’ve ever received: “I found theFrench soldiers, and I told them all

about you. They’re not far away fromhere, and they said to bring you to themvery early tomorrow, between 2 and 3o’clock in the morning.”

We could hardly believe our ears—we were finally going to leave thebathroom! “Thank God,” we whisperedsimultaneously.

But the pastor immediately dampenedour spirits. “Yes, thank God,” he said. “Ijust hope it isn’t going to be too late foryou. After I left the soldiers, I met afriend who told me that the killers arecoming back to search my house. Theywill be here either tonight or tomorrowmorning—pray that it is tomorrow.”

We prayed very hard.

WE DIDN’T HAVE ANY LUGGAGETO PACK—all we had were the clotheswe’d been wearing every day for threemonths. Showering was still out of thequestion, so we contented ourselveswith braiding each other’s hair. Wewanted to be as pretty and presentableas possible for our meeting with theFrench soldiers. We didn’t quiteunderstand that making ourselves looknice was not possible at this point.

Pastor Murinzi came at 2 A.M. andtold us to wait in his bedroom while hewoke his children and told them aboutus. While we were waiting, we looked

at ourselves in his bedroom mirror. Itwas the first time we’d seen ourreflection since we arrived, and theshock almost killed us—we looked likethe living dead. Our cheeks hadcollapsed, and our eyes were set so farback in their sockets that our headslooked like empty skulls. Our rib cagesjutted out, and our clothes hung from usas though they’d been draped over abroom handle. I’d weighed 115 poundswhen I went into the bathroom; I was 65pounds when I came out. We all wantedto cry.

When the pastor returned with his tenchildren, all of them (except Lechim andDusenge) quickly backed away. They

were genuinely shocked and completelyconfused. The girls began crying; one ofthem even ran out of the room yelling,“Ghosts! Tutsi ghosts! They’ve comeback from the dead to kill us!” Thepastor told her to keep quiet and settledown, and then he explained to themwho we were.

None of them could believe that we’dbeen in the house for so long withoutthem knowing. They touched us—feelingour cheekbones, ribs, and arms—in anattempt to convince themselves that wewere really human. They had a hundredquestions: “Where have you been? Howcould you all fit in there? What did youeat? How long have you been here?

How could you be so quiet? Did youshower? Didn’t you talk? How couldyou sleep sitting up?”

We tried to answer them, but wereexhausted from standing; our musclesand joints were screaming at us forbeing upright after so many months onthe floor.

The pastor told his children to take agood look at us. “There, but for the graceof God, go any one of you,” he remindedthem. “If you have a chance to helpunfortunates like these ladies in times oftrouble, make sure you do it—even if itmeans putting your own life at risk. Thisis how God wants us to live.”

My heart softened toward the pastor.Sure, there had been many times duringthe past few months I’d been furiouswith his behavior, and some of the thingshe’d said were insensitive, ignorant, andcruel . . . but he had risked everythingfor us, and he had saved our lives. As Istood there waiting to begin the nextchapter of my life, I was very thankful. Iasked God to watch over this man afterwe were gone.

All of the pastor’s children looked athim with pride, and then looked at uswith compassion—all of them exceptSembeba, that is. Sembeba was the sonwe’d overheard weeks before telling hisfather that Tutsis deserved to be killed,

and now he stood in the corner,scowling at the floor. I prayed that oneday he would find God’s truth andforgiveness, and that he wouldn’t tell thekillers about us before we got away.

Shimwe, the pastor’s daughter whohad run out of the room when she firstsaw us, gave me a towel and one of herown pullovers to wear. She hugged meas hard as she could and told me thatshe’d pray for me. After so muchisolation and depravation, that momentof tender human contact moved mebeyond words.

The eight of us said good-bye to therest of the pastor’s children, and then heled us away from the bathroom and into

the fresh night air.

CHAPTER 17The Pain of Freedom

The sensations of the nightoverwhelmed me. The coolness of theair against my skin; the crispness in mylungs; and the brilliant, hypnotic beautyof the billions of stars dancing in myeyes made my soul sing out, “PraiseGod!”

“What are you staring at? Let’s go—we must leave now!” Pastor Murinzisaid impatiently as I drank in my firsttaste of freedom. He was waiting by thegate with the other ladies and John, who

wanted to escort us to the French camp.It was a nice gesture, but it came toolate. I didn’t know if I would survive thegenocide—or even live to see the dawn—but I did know that our relationshipwas dead.

The pastor opened the gate, and hissons (with the exception of Sembeba),burst from the house carrying spears,knives, and clubs. They formed a tightcircle around us as we passed throughthe gate, shielding us from the dangerouseyes of suspicious houseboys andmalicious neighbors.

And then we were in the open,walking quickly along the dirt road thathad brought me to the bathroom three

months earlier. As my eyes adjusted tothe darkness, I saw that both PastorMurinzi and John were armed: Johncarried a long spear, and the pastor hadthat rifle of his slung over his shoulder. Iwondered what they’d do if we cameacross a gang of killers. I soon foundout.

We didn’t see them coming—theyappeared out of the night, coming over asmall rise in the road. Perhaps 60Interahamwe were marching in a doubleline, and while they weren’t wearingtheir frightening uniforms, it was still aterrifying sight. They were heavilyarmed and moving fast, coming towardus carrying machetes, guns, grenades,

spears, and long butcher knives—one ofthem even had a bow and arrow.

We passed by them so closely that Icould smell their body odor and thealcohol on their breath. Remarkably, Iwas less afraid walking next to themthan I’d been hiding from them in thebathroom. Still, I called on God to keepus safe and quell my fear.

The ladies and I stayed in the center ofour group escort with our heads down,hoping that the Interahamwe wouldn’tnotice that we were women. We passedwithout incident—a few of the killerseven said hello and wished John and thepastor good luck as they went by. Eitherthey assumed that we were fellow

killers on a late-night hunt, or God hadblinded them . . . I thought it was likelyboth. Besides, at this point in thegenocide they wouldn’t have expected,or believed, that so many Tutsis couldstill be alive in one place. They hadgood reason to think that way, sincethere were dead bodies everywherealong the road.

God had answered my prayer and hadtaken away my fear of the killers, butapparently He hadn’t extended the sameblessing to John and Pastor Murinzi.Both were visibly shaken by ourencounter with the Interahamwe. Assoon as they were out of view, John andthe pastor reassessed their situation.

“You ladies will have to go on fromhere on your own,” the pastor said. “TheFrench are close by . . . go ahead, we’llwatch until you’re out of sight.”

I shook the pastor’s hand quickly, andthen he, his sons, and John hurried fromthe road to hide in the bushes. The otherwomen and I were now completelyexposed and had no time to waste. TheFrench camp was about 500 yards away,and we ran as fast as our weak legswould carry us.

My heart was pounding when wereached the camp, which was set up onthe grounds of an abandoned Protestantnunnery. The rest of the group huddled infront of the gate, looking very frightened,

while I rattled it and called out as loudlyas I could, “Please help us! Please, weneed help!”

It had been so long since I’d spokenabove a whisper that my throat achedfrom trying to shout. My voice washoarse, and so low that it was nearlyinaudible. The ladies panicked when wesaw no one waiting to save us, and theystarted to wail. A few seconds later, sixor seven soldiers appeared on the otherside of the fence with their machine gunstrained on us. I shushed my companions,and because I was the only one whospoke French, told the soldiers who wewere and where we’d come from.

The soldiers looked at us skeptically,

and their guns were raised and ready.

“It’s true! Everything I told you is true. . . we’ve been waiting for you to saveus,” I said desperately.

The smallest soldier in the group—agrim-looking, light-skinned man with ashaved head—came to the gate andshone a flashlight in our faces. It wasobvious that he was inspecting the shapeof our noses. The old myth was thatHutus had flat, broad noses and Tutsinoses were long and narrow. Apparentlywe passed the test because he openedthe gate and let us in. However, hedidn’t lower his gun while asking to seeour identity cards.

I could hear the ladies’ breathingquicken—none of them had their identitycards, and they thought that the Frenchwere going to shoot them on the spot.Luckily, I’d put mine in my back pocketwhen I left home three months earlier.The soldier examined my card, whichhad the word Tutsi stamped across it,and then nodded in approval. Iimmediately vouched for the otherwomen and told them, “I think we’regoing to be okay.”

An emotional dam burst in us asmonths of pent-up fear, frustration, andanxiety flooded from our souls, and afew of the ladies began to sobuncontrollably. The demeanor of the

soldiers changed immediately—theylowered their weapons and spoke gently,their voices filled with kindness andconcern. We were given water andcheese, the first palatable food we’dseen in months. We ate greedily,realizing that the French were not goingto kill us, as the pastor had predicted.

“It’s all right, ladies, it’s all right,” thesmall soldier said. “You don’t have toworry anymore . . . your nightmare isover. We won’t let anyone hurt you. Doyou understand? You’re safe now; we’regoing to take care of you.”

I translated for the others, and soonwe were all crying. It seemedimpossible that it was over, but here we

were, surrounded by trained soldierswith big guns who were promising not tolet the killers get near us ever again.

When we settled down, our rescuersexplained that we were in a fieldencampment and that they’d radio for atruck to transfer us to their base camp tenmiles away. They told us that we shouldget some sleep while we waited.

I wandered away from the others,feeling a desperate need for somethingI’d been missing for so long—a momentof privacy. I lay down on the ground,absorbing everything around me: therocks digging into my back, the dampearth in my fingers, the dried leavesscratching my cheek, and the sounds of

animals scurrying through the darkness. Iwas alive, and it felt wonderful.

Staring into the night sky, I was againtransfixed by the breathtaking beauty ofthe milky illumination cast by God’scountless stars. The starlight was sointense that I could easily see the roadwe’d arrived on, the same one that led tomy home—that is, if I still had a home. Iwondered if my family was safe andhiding somewhere nearby . . . or ifthey’d crossed over to the next life andnow existed somewhere on the otherside of the eternal galaxies above me.

My gaze returned to the road. I thoughtabout how my brothers and I hadfollowed it wherever we went. Whether

it was to Lake Kivu for the morningswims of our childhood, to school everymorning, to church on Sundays, to visitfriends and family, or to head off onsome wonderful adventure duringsummer vacations, that road had takenme everywhere I loved. It had runthrough my life, but that life was gone.The road existed now only as a highwayfor killers and rapists. I was filled witha deep sadness as it slowly dawned onme that, no matter what happened in thehours and days ahead, things wouldnever be the same.

I closed my eyes and told God that itwas up to Him to find me a new road totravel.

I SHIVERED. THE COOL AIRBROUGHT GOOSE BUMPS to my skin,reminding me that I was no longer in thecramped, humid bathroom. I stood up,stretched toward the sky, and thenwalked about the camp. I wascompletely unafraid, even when Istumbled across two men sitting in theshadows.

I startled them, and one jumped to hisfeet. After a second, he cried,“Immaculée, is it you?”

“Jean Paul?”

“How is it you’re alive?”

“God has spared me. How is it youare alive?”

“God has spared me.”

“It’s good to see you!”

“It’s good to see you!”

I wanted to laugh and cry at theridiculous course of our conversation,and at how wonderful it was to betalking out loud to a friend again. JeanPaul was a good pal of my brothers’.

“Hello, Jean Baptiste, I’m glad so seeyou, too,” I said to Jean Paul’s brother,who was still sitting down. JeanBaptiste didn’t respond—and I couldsee why when I knelt down to shake his

hand. There was a ragged, inch-widescar across his neck that disappearedbeneath his shirt. It hadn’t healedcompletely, so it was an angry, whitish-red color that stood out in painfulcontrast to his dark skin. He also haddeep cuts on his head, one of which wasso deep that I wondered how he’dmanaged to survive the blow.

“He’s not saying much right now . . .too sad,” Jean Paul said quietly.

Although Jean Paul himself wasextremely sorrowful, we sat down andexchanged stories. I told him where I’dbeen and described my time at thepastor’s. And he told me that thegenocide had died down a bit in the

north since Kigali had fallen, but it wasstill very bad in Kibuye province, wherewe were.

“Kigali has fallen?” I asked, shockedand delighted.

“Yes, but there’s still plenty ofkilling,” he replied. “In fact, around hereit’s even worse than before. The worsethe war goes for them, the more viciousthey become. They’re getting frustrated,too—they’ve slaughtered so many Tutsisalready that they’re having a hard timefinding more of us to murder.”

I was surprised to see that Jean Pauland his brother were at this campbecause I’d always thought they were

Hutu. They were very dark-skinned;fairly short; and had flat, broad noses—the typical European idea of what a Hutushould look like. It didn’t make muchsense anymore, as generations ofintermarriage had made that conceptarchaic and deeply prejudicial. But JeanPaul explained that their Hutu lookswere part of the reason they were able tostay alive. “That . . . and the kindness ofa murderer,” he said, before sharingwhat had happened to his family.

“The killers came a week after thepresident’s plane was shot down. I wasvisiting my friend Laurent, a Hutu wholived a few houses away, when I heardthem arrive at my parents’ home. I saw

about 300 killers—mostly neighbors andold family friends. They broke throughthe front door and chopped upeverybody: all my brothers, my foursisters, my mom, and my dad. Theykilled everyone . . . at least they thoughtthey had. Jean Baptiste was still alive,but he was bleeding to death.

“I dragged him for miles through thebushes to a hospital where the doctorswouldn’t know us. Then Laurent hid usuntil the French arrived, but it wasawful. He saved us by hiding us, but itwas agony to be alive. Laurent wouldwake us to say good morning every day,then go out and spend hours huntingTutsis with the people who killed my

family. When he’d come back in theevening and make supper, I’d see flecksof blood on his hands and clothes, whichhe just couldn’t wash off. Our lives werein his hands, so we couldn’t sayanything. I don’t understand how peoplecan do good and evil at the same time.”

“The genocide is happening inpeople’s hearts, Jean Paul,” I said. “Thekillers are good people, but right nowevil has a hold on their hearts.”

I told Jean Paul that I would pray forhis family. Then I realized that heprobably knew what had happened to myparents and brothers, since he’d been inthe area throughout the genocide. Thequestion was: Did I want to know what

had happened to them? Was I strongenough to take it? If I knew for certainthat they were dead, there would be nogoing back to my old self, my old life.

I decided that it was better to face thetruth. I’d have to pretend that I alreadyknew my family was dead, otherwiseJean Paul would try to spare my feelingsand tell me nothing. I’d have to trick himinto telling me what I needed to know. Ireached into my pocket for my father’sred and white rosary and asked God togive me strength.

“So, Jean Paul, about my father . . . Iknow they killed him, I just don’t knowwhere. I was wondering if you mightknow any details.”

“Oh yeah, I know everything. Laurentwas there and saw it all. They killedyour father in Kibuye town.”

His words pierced my heart like aspear. I pushed my fists into my eyes andturned my face to hide my tears.

“Your dad was killed a day or twoafter my parents were murdered,” JeanPaul went on. “I think it was on April14th. He’d gone to the government officeto ask the prefect to send food to thestadium because there were thousands ofrefugees there who hadn’t eaten for days.That was a big mistake.”

Oh, Daddy! Why did you have to beso sweet . . . and how could you have

been so stupid? The prefect of Kibuyewas like the governor, and he’d beenclose to my father. But other extremistHutus who were Dad’s friends hadbetrayed him, so I couldn’t understandwhy he continued to trust them. But Iknew that he would have sacrificed hislife trying to feed starving people—forhim, there would have been no otherchoice. My eyes were burning and mystomach ached as Jean Paul continued.

“Laurent told me that the prefectcalled your father a fool and had hissoldiers drag him outside. They shot himon the steps of the government office andleft his body in the street.”

“I see . . . thanks for telling me all this,

Jean Paul. It helps,” I said, using all myenergy to steady my voice. I thankedGod for the darkness hiding my face.“And what about my mom? I know shewas killed, too, but I don’t know how—”

“Oh, Rose?” he broke in. “She wasone of the first in the area to die. Shewas murdered a few days before yourfather. I think Laurent may have been oneof the killers because he knew all thedetails. Anyway, she was hiding in theyard of your grandmother’s neighbor.Someone was being killed nearby, andyour mom heard the screaming andthought that it was your brother. Shewent running into the road shouting,

‘Don’t kill my child! Don’t kill myDamascene!’

“It wasn’t Damascene, but as soon asthe killers saw your mom, they wentafter her. They told her that if she gavethem money, they’d leave her alone. Sheagreed and went to borrow some fromher friend Murenge. But Murengeordered her to leave her alone: ‘Getaway from my house—we don’t helpcockroaches here!’ Murenge told thekillers to take your mother into the streetto kill her because she didn’t want themmessing up her yard. They dragged yourpoor mom to the side of the road andchopped her to death. Some neighborsburied her, though. She was one of the

few who got buried . . . soon there weretoo many bodies and no one left to diggraves.”

Every word he told me was torture,but I was a prisoner to the information. Ipushed him to tell me more. “Did youhappen to hear about my little brother,Vianney?” I asked, feeling a stab of guiltas I remembered how I’d sent my babybrother away from the pastor’s house inthe middle of the night.

“Vianney was killed at the Kibuyestadium with his friend Augustine. Therewere thousands of people there—andthey were all annihilated. First thekillers shot them with machine guns, andthen they threw grenades at them. I don’t

think anybody survived.”

My hands were shaking, and I washaving a hard time getting air into mylungs. I calmed myself as best I couldand tried to ask about Damascene, but Icouldn’t bring myself to say his name. Iclung to the hope that he was alive andwaiting for me somewhere. Finally, Isaid, “My brother Aimable is in Senegaland doesn’t know any of this . . . I don’teven have an address where I could sendhim a letter . . . ”

“You should ask Damascene’s friendBonn. I know he has all of Damascene’spapers and things . . . or at least he usedto.”

“Why is that?” I asked, my heartracing.

“Oh, because he was hiding yourbrother, and when Damascene left to goto Zaire, he left all his stuff with Bonn.But he might have gotten rid of his thingsby now—I heard he went mad after yourbrother was killed.”

The words struck me like a bullet.Please . . . no . . . not Damascene, too!

I didn’t want to know any more. Istood up, staggered a few feet away, andcollapsed. I pressed my face into theearth—I wanted to lie on the cold, coldground and sleep with the rest of myfamily. I wanted to hear nothing, see

nothing, feel nothing. I had so many tearsto cry, and I sobbed into the dirt. JeanPaul was at my side, trying to comfortme. He wiped the dirt from my face andgently rubbed my neck, but I pushed hishand away.

“Please let me deal with this. I have tolearn to be on my own now, Jean Paul.No one in this world can comfort menow . . . leave me alone for a while.” Hewalked away to the other side of thecamp, taking his silent brother with him.

I lay on my back, looked at heaven,and cried. I cried until I had no moretears. I thought about what Jesus hadpromised me in my dream and begantalking to him. “You told me they would

all be dead when I left the bathroom, andyou were right,” I said. “They are alldead. Everything I loved in this worldhas been taken away. I’m putting my lifein your hands, Jesus . . . keep yourpromise and take care of me. I will keepmy promise—I will be your faithfuldaughter.”

I closed my eyes and pictured thefaces of my family, and I prayed thatGod would keep them close and warm.

THE METALLIC WHINING OF ATRUCK’S GRINDING GEARSSTARTLED ME. A couple hours beforedawn, twin beams of light cut through thecamp, illuminating the other ladies in an

incandescent halo as they stood by thegate with Jean Paul and Jean Baptiste.

The truck sputtered to a stop by thefence. It was a big military transporttruck covered with a camouflage-colored canvas tarpaulin. The Frenchsoldiers told us to climb in the back andkeep quiet.

“There are Hutu roadblockseverywhere,” one of them warned.

We reached the first block about amile from camp, and I could hear thekillers’ voices on the other side of thecanvas. It was all too familiar, exceptthis time we had armed bodyguards.Even so, there were a couple hundred

killers and only a handful of soldiers.

“What do you have in the back of thetruck?” one of the killers asked.

“We’re delivering food and cleanwater to the Hutu refugees coming downfrom Kigali,” the driver replied.

“Good man! Those Tutsi snakes arekilling us in Kigali . . . you can pass, goahead.”

The driver shifted gears, and the trucklurched ahead—we were on our wayagain. I admired the clever answer thedriver had given to get us through theroadblock. Tens of thousands of Hutusfrom Kigali were running south since thecapital had fallen to the Tutsi rebels.

Unfortunately, most of the refugees werecoming to our province of Kibuye, eitherto resettle or to try to get to Lake Kivuso that they could cross to Zaire. Therewere many scared Hutu families tryingto escape the fighting, but there werealso plenty of new Interahamwe killersin the area as well.

At the next roadblock, the killerswaved us through right away. “TheFrench are our people . . . go ahead, letthem go!” said one of them. It was thesame at the next five roadblocks.

The truck rolled through the night andtoward a new day—I wished that itwould keep right on rolling into a newcountry. My soul wanted to fly away

from Rwanda to another world. Ibelieved that God was planning a newlife for me; I just didn’t know when orwhere it would begin. When the truckreached the base camp 30 minutes later,I was keenly disappointed—yes, wewere free, but we were still in themiddle of Rwanda, still in the middle ofthe horror.

THE FIRST THING I SAW WHEN ICLIMBED DOWN FROM THETRUCK was a dilapidated schoolhouse.I noticed that the wooden sign tackedabove the door had the word Rwimpiliscrawled across it, and I realized thatwe’d come to the school where my

mother had her first teaching job.

Sorrow welled up in me, and I had tostep away from the others and have aquick talk with God: “Lord, I don’tknow why You brought me here. I knowI will have to mourn my family, but rightnow I can’t . . . please give me thestrength I need to survive, and I’ll grievelater.”

A few minutes later I felt strongenough to walk into the schoolhouse andsmile. I remembered my mom’s fondnessfor the run-down, one-room, dirt-flooredclassroom. “The important thing is whatwe learn at this school, not the way itlooks,” she’d say.

Dawn was breaking, and the morningsun filled the schoolhouse, giving me myfirst look at my fellow survivors. Therewere about 20 other Tutsis millingabout, and suddenly I could see howblessed the ladies and I had been to havestayed in the pastor’s bathroom. Theother refugees looked far worse off thanwe did: The poor souls had been livingin the open forest for the past threemonths, sleeping in holes and eatingnothing but leaves and grass.

The sun became so bright that I had toshield my eyes, and in the shadow of myfingers, I saw a familiar face.“Esperance!” I cried out. It was mymom’s sister, but she didn’t seem to hear

me.

“Esperance! Don’t you know me? It’sImmaculée! Thank God someonesurvived!” I said, hugging her tightly.

She returned my embrace with afeeble squeeze, staring at me vacantlyfor a long while before speaking. I wasworried that perhaps her mind had gone.“It’s okay,” she said weakly. “I’m happyyou’re alive. Come see your other aunt.”She shuffled listlessly across theschoolyard to where her sister Jeanneand three of my female cousins, allyoung teenagers, were sitting on theground.

I stopped about ten yards away and

looked at the wretched scene in front ofme in disbelief: Their faces wereswollen from insect bites; their lipswere cracked and bleeding; and theirbodies were covered with open sores,blisters, and cuts that must have beeninfected for weeks. I could smell thesickness from where I stood.

Aunt Jeanne, a teacher, had been afastidious dresser, and so obsessed withcleanliness that she used to insist thatvisitors at her house wash their handsbefore greeting her children. Now shesat in the dirt with her kids, like a groupof primitives, their clothing sothreadbare I could see their buttockshanging out.

I dropped to my knees and tried to hugJeanne, but she avoided my touch andtried to hide her tears from me. “Oh,Immaculée, forgive me . . . I must look afright. I have something in my eyes that’smaking them water.”

I smiled, thinking that that’s exactlywhat my mother would have said in thesame situation, embarrassed by hertears. “Jeanne, I’m so happy to see you.”I gently hugged her, then embraced eachof the girls. The light slowly returned intheir eyes, and tentative smiles creptacross their faces.

I said a silent prayer for all of them,asking God to heal their hearts, andpromised myself that I’d do everything I

could to heal their bodies.

I sat down with them and we began asad conversation, telling each other whoin our family had been killed, and whateach of us had been through. Jeanne lostthree sons and her husband, while almostall of Esperance’s family had beenkilled. My wonderful grandparents hadbeen murdered, and so had at least sevenof my uncles. Soon we were all crying . .. I wondered if our tears would everstop.

After we’d talked for an hour or so,Esperance handed me a letter. I had noidea how she’d managed to keep it safeand intact all those weeks in the forest.“Damascene found me while I was

hiding and gave me this letter for you,”she said. “He was on his way to Zaire . .. but he didn’t make it.”

I took the letter from her hand andlooked at the envelope, which wasstained with teardrops. I turned and ranfrom my aunts and cousins—I couldn’tbear to be near anyone. Just hearing mybrother’s name was enough tooverwhelm me, and now I was holdingthe last words he had ever written me.Reading them would be like hearing himspeak to me one last time.

CHAPTER 18A Letter from Damascene

I stood alone behind the school andopened Damascene’s letter. My heartached as soon as I saw his quirkyhandwriting, remembering all the lettershe’d written me during the years wewere in school—letters that were neversentimental, but always filled with loveand tenderness, encouragement andpraise, sound advice and gentlechastisements, gossip and humor . . . somuch humor. I sat down with my backagainst the schoolhouse wall and beganto read.

May 6, 1994

Dear [Dad, Mom,Vianney, and] Immaculée,

It has been nearly amonth since we wereseparated, and we are allliving a nightmare. Despitewhat the circumstancessuggest, I believe that atribe can exterminateanother tribe only if it’sGod’s will; maybe our livesare the price that must bepaid for Rwanda’ssalvation. I am only certainabout one thing: We willmeet again—there is no

doubt in my mind.

I’m going to try to getout of the country, but Idon’t know if I’ll make it. Ifthey kill me along the way,you shouldn’t worry aboutme; I have prayed enough .. . I am prepared for death.If I do manage to make itout of Rwanda, I willcontact you all as soon asthe peace returns. Bonnwill tell you everything thathas happened to me. . . .

Damascene’s friend Bonn later toldme that at this point in writing the letter,Damascene put down his pen, looked up

at him, and said, “Bonn, I know thatyou’re my friend and have tried to sparemy feelings, but now’s the time to tellme—has anyone in my family beenkilled?”

Bonn was Hutu, so he could travelfreely during the genocide and find outwhich Tutsis had been murdered in thearea. He’d kept my parents’ andVianney’s death to himself because he’dcared for my brother so much andwanted to protect his feelings.

But when Damascene asked himdirectly, Bonn told him what he knew.He couldn’t bring himself to letDamascene finish writing the letterwhile believing everyone he loved was

still alive. So Bonn told his friend thatour dad, mom, and younger brother hadbeen killed, and that I was the only onewho might possibly be alive. Damascenecried for most of the day, which explainsthe teardrops that became a permanentpart of his letter.

Before Damascene left to try to catcha boat across Lake Kivu, he took theletter out again and placed bracketsaround the words Dad, Mom, andVianney, and added these lines:

Immaculée, I beg you tobe strong. I’ve just heardthat Mom, Dad, andVianney have been killed. Iwill be in contact with you

as soon as possible.

Big hugs and kisses!

Your brother, who lovesyou very much!

It was the most painful thing I’d everread. I ran my fingertips across the tear-stained words and knew that I’d neverbe able to read this letter without crying.

I DISCOVERED LATER THAT BONN,who will forever be a hero to me, triedto hide my brother in his house againsthis family’s wishes. He succeeded inkeeping Damascene safe during the firstdays of the genocide by secretly stowinghim beneath his bed. But when Bonn’s

family found out what he was doing, theypressured him to turn Damascene over tothe killers.

Unfortunately, one of Bonn’s uncleswas Buhoro, my old teacher who lovedto humiliate Tutsi children during ethnicroll call. Buhoro turned out to be one ofthe most rabid Hutu extremists in thecountry, and a vicious and prolificmurderer—and when he becamesuspicious, Bonn knew that he absolutelyhad to get Damascene out of the house.Late one night he dug a pit at the far endof the family’s property and covered itup with wood and leaves. He gotDamascene safely out of his bedroomand hid him in the hole only hours before

the killers—who’d been tipped off byBuhoro—showed up to search the house.

At Buhoro’s insistence, the killersrepeatedly searched Bonn’s house whileDamascene hid in the hole for more thanthree weeks. But the killers wererelentless—they monitored Bonn’sactivities and eventually spotted himcarrying food outside. Worried thatthey’d search the yard, Bonn andDamascene decided that my brothershould head across Lake Kivu to Zaire.(Bonn knew a Hutu Good Samaritan, afisherman who was using his boat tosmuggle Tutsi refugees across the lake tosafety.) He pulled Damascene out of thehole after midnight and they made their

way to the lake, staying in the shadows,moving from bush to bush. But thejourney took too long and they missedthat night’s boat.

It was almost dawn, and Damascenedidn’t want to risk the long hike back toBonn’s house, so he stayed with Nsenge,a very good friend of his and Bonn’swho lived near the lake. Nsenge was amoderate Hutu who loved our family—my dad had even helped to pay schooltuition for several of his brothers—so hewas happy to hide Damascene for theday.

Nsenge’s brother Simoni was not asgenerous, however. He welcomedDamascene when he arrived at the house

with smiles and friendship . . . but thenext afternoon, while my brother sleptand Nsenge was out arranging his boatpassage, Simoni snuck out of the house,located a group of killers, and betrayedDamascene.

Before supper, Simoni woke mybrother and offered to wash his clothesbefore he left for Zaire. Damascenestripped down to his underwear, andSimoni took his clothes (he laterconfessed that he’d wanted my brother tofeel ashamed and humiliated before hedied). After he’d taken the clothes,Simoni called Damascene into the livingroom, where dozens of killers werewaiting for him. They fell on my brother,

beating him mercilessly as they draggedhim into the street. He was wearingnothing but his underpants.

One of the women who used to workat our house witnessed the whole thingand told me all the details ofDamascene’s final hour. “Where is yourpretty sister?” the killers had asked mybrother. “Where is Immaculée? We’veseen the bodies of the other cockroachesin your family, but we haven’t had ourfun with her yet . . . where is she? Tellus and we’ll let you go; don’t tell us andwe will spend all night killing you. Tellus where Immaculée is and you can walkaway.”

Damascene looked at them through his

broken, swollen face, and—as he hadthroughout my entire life—stood up forme: “Even if I knew where my beautifulsister was, I wouldn’t tell you. You willnever find Immaculée . . . she’s smarterthan all of you put together.”

They beat him with the handles oftheir machetes, taunting him: “Is she assmart as you? You have a master’sdegree and we caught you, didn’t we?Now tell us where your sister is hiding!”

Damascene managed to get to his feetone more time, and then he smiled at thekillers. His fearlessness confused them—they’d murdered many Tutsis andalways enjoyed listening to their victimsplead for their lives. Damascene’s

composure robbed them of that pleasure.

Instead of negotiating or begging formercy, he challenged them to kill him.“Go ahead,” he said. “What are youwaiting for? Today is my day to go toGod. I can feel Him all around us. He iswatching, waiting to take me home. Goahead—finish your work and send me toparadise. I pity you for killing peoplelike it’s some kind of child’s game.Murder is no game: If you offend God,you will pay for your fun. The blood ofthe innocent people you cut down willfollow you to your reckoning. But I ampraying for you . . . I pray that you seethe evil you’re doing and ask for God’sforgiveness before it’s too late.”

These were my brother’s last words.Although nothing will ever take away thepain of his brutal murder, I’m proud thathe stood up to his killers and died withthe same dignity that he lived with.

One of Simoni’s brothers, a Protestantpastor named Karera, scoffed atDamascene’s speech. “Does this boythink that he’s a preacher? I am thepastor around here, and I bless thiskilling. I bless you for ridding thiscountry of another cockroach.” Then helooked at the killers and said, “What areyou waiting for? Are you cowards? Acockroach is begging you to kill him—why do you stand there? Kill him!”

Karera shamed the killers into

committing murder.

“You Tutsis have always acted sosuperior to us Hutus,” one of the youngkillers shouted in Damascene’s face ashe raised his machete. “You think thatyou’re so much smarter than we are withyour master’s degree? Well, I want tosee what the brain of someone with amaster’s degree looks like!”

He swung his blade down into mybrother’s head, and he fell to his knees.Another killer stepped forward and,with a double swing of his machete,chopped off both of his arms. The firstkiller took another turn with his machete,this time slicing Damascene’s skull openand peering inside. Covered in my

brother’s blood, he began prancingaround the neighborhood, bragging thathe’d seen a master’s degree insidesomeone’s brain.

I never allow myself to dwell on thedetails of Damascene’s murder. I thinkonly of how he faced death, how hesmiled before he died, and how heprayed for those who killed him. He wasmy heart, my brave brother, my sweetDamascene. . . .

Later I heard that one of the killers (ayoung man named Semahe, who hadbeen schoolmates with Damascene)broke down and cried for days after themurder. He talked incessantly about allthe things he and Damascene had done

together, such as playing soccer, singingin the choir, and being altar boys. Hewas haunted by the kindness my brotherhad shown him and all the other boysthey’d known. Semahe expressed hisremorse to anyone who would listen.

“I will never kill again,” he said. “Iwill never get Damascene’s face out ofmy head. His words will burn in myheart forever. It was a sin to kill such aboy—it was a sin.”

CHAPTER 19Camp Comfort

The French camp was an armed fortthat kept Tutsis in and Hutus out. Thesoldiers parked eight tank-like armoredvehicles in a semicircle in front of theschool buildings, and the outer perimeterof the camp was patrolled day and nightby at least 100 guards. We stayed insidethe semicircle of armored vehicles with30 soldiers who were assigned toprotect us around the clock, and to escortus into the forest whenever naturecalled.

The French soldiers continuallyapologized for the deplorable conditionswe were forced to live under, whichmade me laugh. Compared to wherewe’d come from, we were living a lifeof total comfort. For starters, we couldfetch water from a stream and washourselves and our clothes with soap!

We slept outside, which the Frenchalso thought was a major hardship, but Iwelcomed it. Even though I often wokeup covered in dirt and twigs and achingfrom lying on rocks and stones, I lovedfalling asleep staring at the stars—it waslike seeing the face of God at the end ofthe day.

We weren’t allowed to cook, which

didn’t really matter because there wasno fresh food. The soldiers fed uspackaged cheese and crackers, tins ofpowdered milk, and canned fruit. It wasa limited diet, but I slowly began fillingout a bit and stopped adding notches tomy belt.

The French said that their job was toprotect us, and they did it well—I neveronce felt threatened by the killers while Iwas at the camp. However, Hutus didoften gather along the outer perimeter,peering between the armored cars tocatch a glimpse of us. They stared at uslike we were zoo animals . . . solesurvivors of a species hunted to thebrink of extinction.

“They look at you like you’re animals,but they are the animals,” the captain ofthe troops said to me one morningshortly after my arrival. When helearned that I was fluent in French, wehad a long conversation. I told him mystory, and he seemed very sympathetic.He knew what Tutsis had been throughin Rwanda and about our history andethnic conflicts.

“Between you and me, I don’t knowhow the president of my country can livewith himself,” he said. “France hasblood on its hands, since we trained alot of these Hutus how to kill.”

This was the first time I’d heard aforeigner accept blame for what had

happened in Rwanda, and it did my soulgood. I often despaired listening to thepastor’s radio, realizing that the worldknew what was happening to us butchose to ignore it.

“Thank you for being sounderstanding,” I replied. “The peoplewho are doing this are very bad.”

“Bad? Bad! Immaculée, they’re evil.They’re monsters! I want you to knowthat you’re safe. As long as I’m in chargehere, no harm will come to you,” hesaid, patting the gun holstered on his hip.“I’ll do more than protect you—I’ll giveyou some justice. Again, this is justbetween you and me, but if you wantrevenge, it’s yours for the asking. Give

me the names of the Hutus who weresearching for you, or the ones who killedyour parents and brothers, and I’ll havethem killed for you.”

His offer shocked me. It’s what I’dwished for during my early days in thebathroom, when the pastor told us aboutthe atrocities being committed againstus. I’d wished for weapons—for gunsand cannons to kill the Hutus—because Iwanted vengeance so badly. But that wasbefore I’d opened my heart to God’sforgiveness and made my peace with thekillers.

The captain offered me the perfectrevenge: trained and well-armedsoldiers who would kill at my command.

All I had to do was whisper a name andI could avenge my family . . . and thefamilies of the thousands of corpsesrotting in the street. His offer came fromhis heart, but I could hear the devil in hisvoice. He was tempting me withpromises of murder, when all I wantedwas peace. I slipped my hand into mypocket and wrapped my fingers aroundmy father’s rosary. “Thank you foroffering to—”

“I’ll kill any Hutu you want me to!”He was so eager to kill that he didn’t letme finish my sentence. “If there’s a Hutuyou know about in this camp, tell me andI’ll shoot them myself. I hate them all.”

“Well, Hutus aren’t evil, Captain, it’s

just these killers. They’ve been trickedby the devil . . . they’ve wandered awayfrom God and—”

“Immaculée, Hutus are evil,” he cut inagain. “What they’ve done is evil. Don’ttell me that this is God’s will or thework of the devil—it’s the work of theHutus, and they’ll pay for it. If youchange your mind, let me know. I don’toffer to kill for just anyone, you know.”

I prayed that God would touch thecaptain’s heart with His forgiveness, andI prayed again for the killers to put downtheir machetes and beg for God’s mercy.The captain’s anger made me think thatthe cycle of hatred and mistrust inRwanda would not easily be broken.

There would certainly be even morebitterness after the killing stopped,bitterness that could easily erupt intomore violence. Only God’s Divineforgiveness could stop that fromhappening now. I could see thatwhatever path God put me on, helpingothers to forgive would be a big part ofmy life’s work.

The next day the captain proved goodto his word—he really did hate Hutus. Ableeding man wandered into campclaiming to be a genocide survivorwounded while fighting with the Tutsirebels, but the captain didn’t believehim. The soldiers forced the man to hisknees, pressing their guns to his head

while they interrogated him. They askedhim if he was a member of theInterahamwe, which at first he denied.But after more questioning, he brokedown and confessed. The captainnodded to his soldiers, they dragged himaway, and we never saw him again. Oneof the soldiers later told me that the manadmitted to being an Interahamwe spy.

“Don’t worry about him—he won’t bebothering anyone ever again,” he said.

I CARED FOR MY AUNTS ANDNIECES AS BEST I COULD, ensuringthat they had enough food, bringing themmedicine from the soldiers, and tendingto their wounds—I even made sure to

sleep close to them in case they becamefrightened in the night. But I didn’t spendas much time with them as one mightthink. I was happy that they were aliveand safe, but they couldn’t replace thefamily I’d lost. I felt that I had to start anew life.

It was even difficult for me toassociate with the ladies I’d been in thebathroom with. We lived in oppositecorners of the camp, and while we’dsmile at each other, we rarely spoke.Although we’d been in such closequarters for so long, we didn’t reallyknow each other. All our communicationhad been through hand signals and lipreading, and it had almost always

conveyed fear, terror, and desperation.Maybe we would have become friends ifwe’d been able to talk in the bathroom,but as it was, seeing each other in thecamp brought back too many painfulmemories.

Anyway, there was plenty ofopportunity to make new acquaintances.New groups of Tutsi survivors arrivedevery day, most of whom were confusedand disoriented and spoke onlyKinyarwanda. Because I was bilingual,the captain asked me to register allincoming refugees, and I was happy tohelp. I recorded their names and ages,and reported their injuries and medicalneeds to the French soldiers. I also

wrote down their personal stories and ahistory of what they’d been though.Through this process, I heard manyhorrific tales, but made some lastingfriendships.

One new pal was Florence, a youngwoman about my age with a sweet,innocent smile. She was very pretty,despite the deep scar running down herface from being chopped between theeyes with a machete. I jotted down herstory, which, sadly, was as common as itwas gruesome.

Florence was from a small town notfar from my village. When the genocidebegan, her family and 300 of herneighbors sought asylum at their local

chapel, thinking that the killers wouldrespect the sanctity of the church. Butfinding Tutsis jammed together in oneroom only made it easier for the killers,who simply walked between the pewsswinging their blades.

“We had no weapons, no way todefend ourselves,” Florence said, herbig, kind eyes filling with tears. “Therewas some screaming and begging, butmost of us just sat there waiting for ourturn to be slaughtered. It was like wethought that we deserved to be murdered—that it was all perfectly natural. Theyreached me, and all I can remember isthe machete coming down toward myface. Then I woke up in the truck.”

Florence’s wound was deep, but notlethal—yet the killers had tossed herinto the back of a big truck with the restof the corpses. When she woke up, shediscovered that she was on top of herparents’ bodies, and her sister was ontop of her.

“My sister had a spear still stuck inher chest . . . she was almost dead butstill making gurgling noises. I tried toreach out to her, but one of the killersriding in the truck saw me move andstarted sticking me with his spear. Hestuck me here, here, and here,” she said,pointing to her chest, stomach, andthighs. “I didn’t flinch when he stabbedme; instead, I asked God to take my pain

and save my life. The killer must havethought that I was dead because I wasbleeding so much.”

The truck then stopped at the edge of acliff high above the Akanyaru River, afavorite spot of the Interahamwe fordumping corpses.

“They threw all the bodies over thecliff and into the river,” Florencecontinued. “I remember them grabbingme by my feet and swinging me into theair, and I heard the sound of the waterrushing in the distance, but I don’tremember falling. I woke up in the mudby the riverbank the next morning. Myparents and sister were lying there, too,but they were all dead. I looked up at the

cliff and couldn’t imagine how Isurvived—it was at least a 200-footdrop. I can only believe that God sparedme for something.”

Florence lay by the riverbank for aday before she could get up and walkaway. She stumbled to the nearest housewhere some kind Hutus took her in,dressed her wounds, and hid her. “Eventhough they saved my life,” shecontinued, “their son left the house everymorning, met with the Interahamwe, andkept killing Tutsis in my town until therewere none left to kill. Nothing makessense to me anymore, Immaculée. Whydo you think I lived and my parents andsister didn’t?”

“God has spared you for a reason,” Ianswered. “I’m writing down your story,and someday someone will read it andknow what happened. You’re like me—you’ve been left to tell.”

I DID A LOT OF TRANSLATINGBETWEEN THE REFUGEES and ourFrench hosts; consequently, I got toknow quite a few of the soldiers. One ofthem, Pierre, took a special interest inme. He was assigned to patrol the innercircle of the camp during the day, but atnight he’d pass the time chatting with meas I sat watching the stars.

Pierre was a very nice young man whowas a few years younger than I was, and

he was polite, empathetic, and a goodlistener. I told him what had happened tomy family and our village, and he toldme about his parents, his life in France,and the girlfriend he’d broken up withbefore coming to Rwanda. When heasked if I had a boyfriend, I told himabout John and the empty-hearted waywe’d left things.

I felt very comfortable around Pierre,and I enjoyed his company. Talking tohim could get my mind off my dailyreality, at least temporarily. As the dayswent by, Pierre began finding excuses tobe near me: He’d bring me food, escortme to the stream to fetch water, and dropby with books for me to read. His

friends kidded him about it, but I didn’tmind. Having a close friend who wasn’tdirectly suffering from the genocide wasa relief, and telling him my hopes anddreams made me feel human again.

One day Pierre’s friend Paul told methat the young soldier was smitten withme, which made me laugh. I hadn’tchanged my clothes or had a propershower in more than three months.

“No, Pierre talks about you all thetime,” Paul assured me. “He says thatdespite everything you’ve been through,your heart is open and you have a greatsense of humor.”

“The way you guys are joking with me

about this, I have to have a sense ofhumor,” I said. But I soon came torealize that Paul wasn’t kidding—Pierredid have a crush on me.

I was flattered, but not interested. I’djust lost my family, and I wasn’t sure ifI’d live to see the end of the war. I’dalso given up on romance after John hadlet me down so badly. Even so, Pierremade me wonder if my broken heartcould ever love another person again.

When he came calling that night,asking me to go for a walk, I resolved totell him not to waste his affection on me.But he began speaking with suchconviction and passion that I was caughtoff guard.

“You’ve become so much more to methan a friend, Immaculée,” he earnestlytold me. “You’re a very special person.I know that with all the death, pain, andviolence around us, this is the last thingyou want to hear, but I think I love you. Iwant to be with you.” Even though I wasexpecting him to say something alongthose lines, I was still surprised by howgenuine he sounded.

“Pierre,” I replied softly, “my heart isfull of sorrow, and right now there’sonly room in there for God. I can’t thinkof falling in love . . . and I can’t losefocus on the struggles ahead. I have totake care of myself.”

He took my hand. “But I mean what I

say . . . I love you and will take care ofyou. I want to be with you, and I don’twant to lose you.”

I was a little overwhelmed by hisintensity, but I felt that we’d beenbrought together by circumstance, not byGod. He had let me know that John wasnot the man He had meant for me, andnow He was letting me know that neitherwas Pierre. It just didn’t feel right—andI knew that when I was ready, Godwould bring love to me. And when Hedid, there would be no doubts ormisgivings.

“No, Pierre . . . no. Right now myheart belongs more to the dead than tothe living—I haven’t even begun to

mourn yet. Your friendship means somuch to me, and I want to keep it. Soplease, let’s just be friends.”

“I see,” he said sadly. “If I can’t haveyour heart, then I’ll let you go. I’ll saygood-bye, and . . . goodnight,sweetheart.” He bent toward me andsurprised me by kissing me on the mouth.I closed my eyes, and for the briefmoment that his lips touched mine, I feltthe warmth of the kiss lift my pain andsadness. Pierre walked away to join theother soldiers, leaving me with aresigned smile on my face. I’d put mytrust in God, which was the only thing todo.

I DESPERATELY WANTED TO TALKTO MY BROTHER AIMABLE and lethim know that I was alive, but there wasno mail service and the phones weren’tworking—and it’s not as if I had anumber for him or money to pay for thecall. Aimable was 3,000 miles awaystudying in Senegal, and I prayed thathe’d stayed there. If he’d come back toRwanda, he was sure to be dead like therest of my family. So the war wouldhave to end before I’d be able to reachhim.

But when would the war be over? TheFrench didn’t share news with us, andwe had no radio we could listen to. Theonly news we received came from new

arrivals to our increasingly crowdedcamp.

Toward the end of July, I did learnthat the Tutsi rebels of the RPF hadclaimed victory in the north, but thatfighting continued in the east and south.The French had control of westernRwanda, where we were, including theshore of Lake Kivu and the border ofZaire. It was good news for us, but thesituation was still extremely dangerous.Hundreds of thousands of Hutu refugeeswere in our area trying to reach LakeKivu and escape to Zaire.

Each day new Tutsi survivors weredropped at our gates. In the three weekssince I’d arrived at the camp, our

number had grown from a couple dozento nearly 150—and I continued to recordtheir stories and medical conditions.Many of the refugees were severelywounded, missing limbs or maimed fromother types of torture. Often theirwounds had become badly infected, andI knew that they wouldn’t survive. Andthose who hadn’t lost limbs had oftenlost their minds, driven mad by loss,grief, and the horror locked in theirmemory.

Among the most difficult things for meto deal with at the camp were theorphans. For example, I’ll never forgetthe two brothers, ages three and four,who came to us from Kigali. Their

parents had hidden them in the ceiling oftheir house when killers arrived at theirdoor. The parents were murdered, andthe boys were retrieved a few days laterby kindhearted Hutu neighbors whobrought them south when they fled thecapital to escape the fighting. Theydelivered the boys to some Frenchsoldiers, explaining that they were aboutto cross into Zaire, which was tooperilous a journey for the children.

For some reason the soldiers hadn’ttaken down the names of the children orthe neighbors. In addition, both boyswere running high fevers when theyarrived at our camp. They were theyoungest children in the camp, with no

parent or relative to mind them, so Itemporarily adopted and cared for them.With the French captain’s help, I set up abed for them inside the schoolhouse andgot medicine to bring their fever down.

It broke my heart to listen to them talk.They’d seen their parents’ corpses butwere too young to understand thepermanence of death. The older boytried to take care of his younger brotherby reminding him to be polite tostrangers. The three-year-old keptpestering his big brother for French friesand soda, and the big brother wouldalways reply with gentle patience.

“You have to remember that we’re nothome . . . we can’t get French fries or

soda here. We have to wait for Mommyand Daddy to come get us—then we canhave treats again. We can’t act spoiled,or more bad things will happen.” Whenhis little brother cried, he cradled him,saying, “Don’t cry . . . Mommy andDaddy will be here soon, and then youcan have all the French fries you want.We have to wait, but Mommy and Daddywill make everything okay.”

I knew that those boys would neversee their parents again, and that in alllikelihood, all their relatives were dead.I feared that their future would be filledwith sadness, abuse, and deniedopportunities —the kind of lives wherebitterness and hatred easily take root.

I saw the circle of hatred and mistrustforming in those innocent eyes, and Iknew that God was showing me anotherreason He’d spared me. I vowed thatone day, when I was strong and capableenough, I would do everything I could tohelp the children orphaned by thegenocide. I would try to bring hope andhappiness to their lives, and to steerthem away from embracing the hatredthat had robbed them of their parents,and of a family’s love.

AT THE BEGINNING OF AUGUST,THE CAPTAIN TOLD ME the campwas so full that he was going to movethe majority of the refugees. The new

camp was indoors, in a high school inKibuye town, with running water, betterfood, and real beds. I made sure “my”boys were the first to go so that theycould be more comfortable. I also madesure that my aunts and cousins weretransferred—yes, they were doing better,but they needed a roof over their heads,and walls around them, to make themfeel more secure. I was planning to gomyself and take care of everybody, butthe captain begged me to remain behindand help run the camp. They still neededa translator, and there were newsurvivors coming in all the time.

“You’ll help save lives if you stay,”he told me. How could I refuse? I stayed

on at the camp, and I never saw the littlebrothers again. But I didn’t forget mypromise to take care of other childrenorphaned by violence, which there wasnever any shortage of in Rwanda.

About 30 refugees remained in the oldcamp, including 8 friends I’d made, suchas Florence and Jean Paul. Our smallgroup had become quite close and feltlike a little family. In fact, our bond wasso tight that all nine of us refused to betransferred from the camp unless wewere allowed to leave as a group.

We continued to receive Tutsirefugees, but the camp was now runninglike a transit station. I registeredsurvivors, and within a day or two they

were transferred to the larger camp intown. And then, in early August I wasprivy to something I hadn’t heard inmonths: deep, rumbling, hearty laughter.It was coming from a woman who’darrived with the new batch of refugees.She was sitting in a wheelchair, and thesoldiers were lifting her down from thetruck. She was a heavy woman, and herlegs were so withered that I could seeshe’d never be able to walk. I wonderedwhat on earth she had to laugh about inthe midst of so much sadness. As itturned out, she was laughing at the joy ofbeing alive.

I watched as the soldiers carefully sether wheelchair on the ground and then

handed her two young children. The kidskissed her all over her face, and shebegan laughing again—and it echoedthrough the camp.

“That’s Aloise,” said Jean Paul. “Wehave a celebrity in the camp.”

Indeed, I’d heard of Aloise. Myparents had spoken highly of her to mewhen I was a child as an example ofhow far a person can go in life with hardwork and determination. They’d told methat Aloise had contracted polio whenshe was nine and had never walkedagain, but she’d maintained high gradesin school and was considered to be oneof the brightest students in Rwanda. Thatwas all I could remember hearing about

her, but apparently she’d become quitefamous in the country—many people inthe camp had heard of her.

Jean Paul told me that her husbandworked at the United Nations in Kigali,and Aloise had gotten to know all thediplomats and ambassadors. “She’sconnected to everyone and can getanyone a good job,” he said withadmiration. “People say that if shewasn’t handicapped, she’d have becomeprime minister. I know she’s a Tutsi, butshe bought a Hutu identity card years agoso that she could get governmentcontracts . . . she’s a very smart lady.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go and register ourfamous guest,” I said, and headed over

to the truck with my notebook.

Aloise looked up at me from herwheelchair. Her mirth stopped abruptly,and she burst into tears. “Oh, my God, Ican see your mother’s face in yours . . .and your father’s, too. I always wantedto visit you and your family, but Icouldn’t, not with these legs.”

I thought the woman was mad or hadmistaken me for someone else. I’d nevermet her, so how could she know who Iwas?

“Don’t look at me like I’ve lost mymind, Immaculée Ilibagiza. I know verywell who you are. Your parents—Godrest their souls—were very good friends

of mine.” Aloise set her children down,wiped away her tears, and held her armsout to me.

I approached her tentatively, offeringmy hand for her to shake, but shegrabbed my arm, pulled me to her, andgave me a mighty squeeze. She wouldn’tlet go. “Your mother saved my life—Ibet you didn’t know that! When I waseight years old, your mom heard that Iloved school but that my parentscouldn’t afford to send me anymore.Well, she paid for my whole year’sschooling . . . and she kept paying, evenafter I got sick and couldn’t walkanymore. I was so grateful that Ipromised to make something of my life

and studied harder than anyone I knew.Everything I have today I owe to yourmother, Immaculée. She was a saint!”

Aloise finally released me from herlong embrace, and I staggered backward.I was flabbergasted by my strangeencounter with this overpoweringwoman, and I needed to step away toregain my composure. “Let me get somefood and water for you and yourchildren,” I said. “I’ll come right back,and then I can register you.”

As I was walking away, Aloise calledout, “Immaculée, I think your mother’sspirit brought me here for you! I owe hera debt, and I’m going to repay it byhelping you. Let me think about it . . . I’ll

come up with a way to help you out.”

I waved at her and kept walking,wondering what a refugee in awheelchair with two young children tocare for could possibly do to help me.Once again, I was to learn that Godmoves in mysterious ways.

When I registered Aloise the next day,she told me that although she was legallya Hutu, her husband, Fari, was a Tutsi.That meant that her children, Sami andKenza, were considered Tutsi as well.She feared for the children’s safety andfled their Kigali home to hide at herparents’ house. Her husband had beenconcealed in their ceiling when she left,and she had no idea if he was dead or

alive.

“I’ve decided what I can do for you torepay your mother’s kindness,” Aloisesaid. “As soon as the fighting iscompletely over, I’m taking you homewith me to Kigali. You can live with uslike you’re our own daughter.”

There was something I didn’t quitetrust about Aloise. I smiled at her andthanked her for the offer, but told her thatI had a little family of friends in thecamp and that we’d promised to sticktogether. She shrugged her shoulders andsaid that I was wise to stay with people Itrusted. I thought that was the end of it,but the next day she came over to mewhile I was sitting with my friends.

“Immaculée, I’ve thought it over anddecided that if you’re worried, I’m goingto kidnap you; you can bring all yourfriends with you to Kigali. I’ll put allnine of you up at my house! It will becozy, but we’ll make room.”

We looked at each other and laughed.We didn’t know how to reply to such astrange and generous offer.

“Think about it,” Aloise said,wheeling away in her chair. “I don’tknow what else you think you can doafter the war. You all must betraumatized . . . I can’t believe I have tobeg you kids to come live in a nicehouse in the city. The war is almost over—start thinking about your future!”

Aloise was right. The capital hadfallen to the rebels, and it was only amatter of time before the fighting ended.We’d all lost our families, our homes,even our clothes, and we didn’t have apenny among us. It didn’t take long for usto decide it was a good idea to acceptAloise’s offer. The next day, we went asa group to accept her offer and thank her.

“Don’t thank me, thank Immaculée’smother,” she said. “I’m doing this forRose, not for you!”

She began chuckling, and kept on until,once again, peals of happy, heartfeltlaughter echoed throughout the camp.

CHAPTER 20The Road to the Rebels

On a hot afternoon in late August, theFrench captain notified me that we werebeing evicted. Operation Turquoise waswrapping up, so the French werepreparing to leave Rwanda. “We’reshutting down our camp today,” he said.“You have two hours to get everyoneready to leave.”

“Leave for where?” I asked. “Thereare 30 people here . . . where should Itell them to go? We have no homes!” Iwas stunned by the sudden news.

“We’re taking you all to stay withTutsi soldiers. The RPF has moved intothe area and set up camp a few milesdown the road. We’ll take you there andhand you over to them. It will be betterfor you, since you’ll be with your ownpeople.”

I was thrilled to hear that the Tutsisoldiers had finally fought their way tous and were chasing the Interahamweright out of the country. I even heard thatour hero, RPF leader Paul Kagame, hadset up a new government in Kigali.Thank God, we were finally safe—thegenocide must really be over!

I moved through the camp tellingeveryone that we were leaving. Some of

the newest arrivals were dubious, sayingthat the French were not to be trustedand that they’d set up refugee camps ashumanitarian fronts to help cover uptheir real mission: smuggling the Hutuswho’d organized the genocide acrossLake Kivu and safely out of Rwanda.

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “TheFrench have kept us safe for weeks, andthey’re about to deliver us to freedom!They’ve done everything they said theywould do.”

It didn’t take long to get ready, sincewe’d been prepared for a long time. Noone owned anything, so we had noluggage to pack. I gathered up mymeager belongings—the sweater and

towel that Pastor Murinzi’s daughter hadgiven me, two books from Pierre, andsome extra soap and T-shirts from thesoldiers—and put them into a plasticbag. But as I did, I thought of my motherpacking her things in suitcases while thekillers gathered near our home . . . and Idecided that I didn’t want to drag thingsfrom my past into my new life. I wantedto make a clean break. I took the bag intothe schoolhouse and left it in a corner,hoping that some other poor, homelessTutsi would find it.

I turned to leave and bumped intoPierre, who was standing in thedoorway. He looked at me forlornly andhanded me a piece of paper. “This is my

address in France, in case you everchange your mind. I will miss youterribly and will keep you in my heart. Ipray that God keeps you safe.”

“Good-bye, Pierre. God bless you,” Isaid, but he was already gone.

I WAS THE LAST ONE TO CLIMBINTO THE BACK OF THE TRUCK.The tailgate slammed shut, the canvastarp was rolled down to conceal us, andthe truck rolled forward. I took out therosary my father had given me—the onepossession I would never surrender—and said a prayer. I asked God for Hisblessing on our new beginning, and toshepherd us safely to the Tutsi soldiers.

The truck pulled past the semicircle ofarmored vehicles, down a service road,and into a sea of killers! Through a crackin the tarp, I saw that thousands of Hutuswere trudging along the main roadtoward Lake Kivu—and hundreds ofthem wore the uniform of theInterahamwe and carried machetes.

“Oh, God,” I said, falling back in thetruck. “Not again!”

We inched along the crowded road,honking at Hutus to give way and let usby. I knew that if we were stopped, or ifthe truck broke down, the Interahamwewould fall upon us within minutes. Ihadn’t felt this frightened since I left thebathroom.

“Please, God,” I prayed. “You havebrought us this far—now take us the restof the way! Blind these killers . . . don’tlet them look in the back of this truck.Merciful God, shield us from theirhateful eyes!”

We were more than halfway to theRPF camp when the truck stopped. TheFrench captain came around to the back,pulled the tarp open, and said, “We havereports of gunfire in the area, and wehave orders to avoid fighting at any cost.We’re turning around, so this is whereyou’ll have to get out.”

I thought I’d misheard him. “You meanthat you’re taking us back with you,right?”

“No, we’re breaking camp. You haveto get out here . . . now. I’m sorry,Immaculée.”

I’d gotten to know the captain wellover the past few weeks. He hated theHutu killers and said that he wanted tohelp the Tutsis in any way he could, so Icouldn’t believe that he’d leave us in agroup of armed Interahamwe. I climbedout of the truck to reason with him.“Please, Captain, you know better thananyone what will happen if you leave ushere. There are killers all around us!Please, I’m begging you . . . take usanother mile to the RPF camp, or take usback with you . . . don’t leave us here tobe killed!”

“I’m sorry, Immaculée. I have myorders.”

“Please, Captain, just take us—”

“No! Now get your people out of theback. We have to leave.”

We couldn’t believe what washappening. A dozen or so Interahamwewere standing about ten feet away,watching us and listening to ourconversation with growing interest. I feltdizzy, the road was spinning, and all Icould see for a moment was a blur ofangry faces. I steadied myself on the sideof the truck, and for the first time noticedall the bodies on the ground—corpseseverywhere along the road, as far as I

could see.

I looked up at the captain, pleadingwith my eyes one last time. It wasuseless—he was immovable. Perhapsthe pastor and the others had been rightabout the French. Maybe they reallywere here to help the killers, becausethey were certainly about to leave us fordead.

“Get out of the truck,” I said to myfriends. “Everybody out . . . the Frenchare leaving us here.”

The cries of disbelief and fear comingfrom the back of the truck drew evenmore attention from the killers, whowere now moving toward us. I looked

one Interahamwe straight in the eye andheld his gaze. My heart told me that hewas a person just like me, and that hereally didn’t want to kill. I held myrosary and summoned all my will tosend a message of love to him. I prayedthat God would use me to touch thekiller with the power of His love.

I didn’t blink . . . and we stared intoeach other’s eyes for what seemed like alifetime. Finally, the killer broke mygaze and looked away. He turned hisback to me and dropped his machete, asif the devil had left his body. But therewere plenty of other devils to take hisplace. At least 15 Interahamwe werenow standing a few yards from the truck,

with machetes in their hands and smirkson their faces. They were figuring outwhat was happening, waiting to see ifany of my companions would dare leavethe truck.

We had no choice but to come out.One by one, my friends hopped out, untilall 30 of us were standing there facingthe killers. When everyone was out, twoFrench soldiers lifted Aloise down ontothe road and deposited young Kenza andSami beside her. Then the soldiersclimbed into the cab, and the truckpulled away at high speed, leaving us ina cloud of dust and uncertainty.

“Look at all these Tutsis,” one of thekillers said in amazement. “How can it

be that they’re still alive?”

“These are the cockroaches that theFrench soldiers were protecting,”another said. “Who’s going to save younow, cockroaches?”

My friends were so scared that theycould barely move. They nudged me,asking me what we should do, as thoughI were somehow an expert in dealingwith ruthless killers. I looked at themachete scar on Florence’s face,remembering the story she told me aboutsitting in a church with her family,waiting their turn for the killers to chopthem to death. Well, I wasn’t going tostand around and wait to die.

“Let’s go,” I said. “We’ll walk to theRPF camp—their soldiers are close by.”

The killers heard me mention the RPFand got nervous.

We began moving but didn’t get toofar. The road was so strewn with rocksand bodies that it was practicallyimpossible to push Aloise’s wheelchair—so when a wheel became stuck in arut, we all stopped. Aloise’s childrenwere also crying and clutching theirmother’s arms.

I pulled my friends Jean Paul andKarega away from the group. “You twocome with me—the rest of you stay withAloise . . . and pray. I’ll find the Tutsi

soldiers and come back with help. Don’tmove from this spot or I won’t be able tofind you in the middle of all these Huturefugees.”

Aloise looked at me doubtfully. “Areyou sure you want to go? They’ll kill youfor sure! Let the men go instead,” sheimplored.

“No, I’m going . . . you justconcentrate on praying.”

With that, I struck out in the directionthat the French had been taking us beforethey abandoned us. As we walked, Iprayed my rosary, talking to God withall my heart and soul: “God, I really amwalking through the valley of death—

please stay with me. Shield me with thepower of Your love. You created thisground that we’re walking on, so pleasedon’t let these killers spill Yourdaughter’s blood on it.”

Three Interahamwe followed us as webroke away from the larger group, andone of them recognized me. “I know thiscockroach,” he said. “This is Leonard’sdaughter—we’ve been looking for herfor months! I can’t believe she’s stillalive . . . we killed the rest of them, butthis little cockroach gave us the slip!”

“Dear God,” I prayed, walking as fastas I could and holding my father’s rosarytightly in my hand. “Only You can saveme. You promised to take care of me,

God—well, I really need taking care ofright now. There are devils and vulturesat my back, Lord . . . please protect me.Take the evil from the hearts of thesemen, and blind their hatred with Yourholy love.”

I walked without looking at my feet,not knowing if I was about to stumbleover rocks or bodies, putting all my trustin God to guide me to safety. We weremoving very briskly, but the killers wereall around us now, circling us, slicingthe air with their machetes. We weredefenseless, so why were they waiting tostrike?

“If they kill me, God, I ask You toforgive them. Their hearts have been

corrupted by hatred, and they don’t knowwhy they want to hurt me.”

After walking a half mile like that, Iheard Jean Paul say, “Hey, they’re gone .. . they’re gone!”

I looked around, and it was true—thekillers had left us. Jean Paul said laterthat it was probably because they knewthe RPF soldiers were close by, but Iknew the real reason, and I neverstopped thanking God for saving us onthat road!

A few minutes later we saw an RPFroadblock and several dozen tall, lean,stone-faced Tutsi soldiers standingguard. I broke into an allout run and

dropped to my knees in front of them. Iclosed my eyes and sang their praises.

“Thank God, thank God, we’re saved!Thank God you’re here. Bless you, blessyou all! If only you knew what we’vebeen through. Thank you for—”

I didn’t get a chance to finish mysentence because I was cut off by thechilling, metallic sound of a machine-gun bolt being pulled back. I opened myeyes, only to see that the barrel of thegun was an inch from my face.

CHAPTER 21On to Kigali

Oh, God, when will You put an end tothis nightmare?

I looked over the gun barrel and intothe cold, angry eyes of a Tutsi soldier.They reminded me of the killer’s eyesI’d stared down not 20 minutes before.

If these were the same RPF soldierswe’d been hoping would rescue us sincethe genocide began, then maybe it reallywas my time to die. My neighbors hadturned on me, the killers were huntingme, the French had abandoned me, and

now my Tutsi saviors were preparing toblow my brains out.

It’s up to You, God, I prayed silently.Live or die, it doesn’t matter to me aslong as I’m serving Your will. You havebrought me here—it’s up to You todecide.

I tried to get to my feet, slowly raisingmy hands in the air while explaining thatmy two friends and I were Tutsis: “TheFrench soldiers left us in the road . . .there are other survivors of the genocideback there surrounded by killers. Please,you’ve got to go help them before it’stoo late.”

“Shut your mouth and sit on the

ground!” the soldier shouted, poking mewith his rifle.

“If you’re Tutsis, why are you stillalive?!” a different one screamed,pointing his gun at me. “Everyone isdead, everyone! You’re killersyourselves . . . you’re Hutu spies! Doyou know what we do to spies? Sit still—don’t say a word, and don’t move amuscle.”

Angry soldiers surrounded us, so therewas no point in talking. I kept my mouthshut and waited for whatever destiny hadin store for me. Minutes passed . . . Ithought about Aloise and the otherssitting in the field of killers, waiting forme to keep my promise and send

soldiers to save them. God help them.

Eventually the rebel commanderarrived to question us. The soldiersguarding us saluted him and called him“Major.” He was tall, skinny as a stick,and one of the calmest-looking peopleI’d ever seen. He looked at us like wewere thieves who’d been caughtbreaking into his house . . . and he hadthe same expression on his face that theFrench soldiers did when they caught theInterahamwe spy. I crossed myself,remembering what had happened to thatman. It was obvious that the major didn’tbelieve that we were genocidesurvivors, so I began praying for thepoor souls we’d left by the roadside.

But of course, that’s when Godstepped in once again.

“Immaculée? Immaculée Ilibagiza?”A soldier standing beside the major wassaying my name and staring at me indisbelief. “Immaculée! It can’t be you,can it? Is it really you?”

“Bazil?”

“It is you!” He dropped his rifle, kneltto the ground, and gave me a big hug.

Bazil was a Hutu neighbor who’dgone to fight with the Tutsi rebels. We’dknown each other since school, and he’dbeen my mother’s favorite student formany years because he was so bright andgifted. We called him “teacher’s pet”

because Mom liked him so much thatshe’d invited him to the house manytimes.

“You know this girl?” the major askedwhen Bazil finished embracing me.

“Oh yes, we went to school together.Her parents are very respected Tutsis inmy village—they’re very good people.She’s all right, Major . . . she’s not aspy. Whatever Immaculée says is true.”

I quickly thanked God for sendingBazil at the very moment I needed him.The soldiers lowered their guns, and themajor reached out and shook my hand.“I’m Major Ntwali,” he said. “I’m sorryabout the confusion, but there are spies

everywhere. It’s still very dangerousaround here, but you’re safe with us. Thewar is over for you . . . we’ll protect youfrom now on.”

“Thank you, Major, but my friends arethe ones who need your protection,” Iexplained urgently. “The French soldiersleft us in the middle of the Interahamwe,and a half mile down the road there are30 Tutsi survivors with killers allaround. I don’t even know if they’re stillalive. Please—”

The major had signaled for someoneto fetch Aloise and the others before I’dfinished speaking. “Don’t worry aboutyour friends. We’ll get to them.”

“Thank you . . . and God bless you!”

After the soldiers left to help theothers, Bazil sat down next to me andanxiously peppered me with questions:“I haven’t been home in months . . . doyou have news from the village? How isTeacher—I mean, your mom? Any newsabout my parents, or my brothers andsisters? The last time I saw them theywere going to leave the country . . . didthey get out?”

I put my hand on Bazil’s arm. I knewthe pain I was about to cause him, so Itried to be as gentle as possible. “I don’tknow how to tell you this, Bazil, otherthan to tell you the truth. Everyone isdead: my family, your family . . . almost

every Tutsi and moderate Hutu in ourvillage—they’re all dead.”

He looked at me as if he’d forgottenhow to speak, and then he crumpled intoa ball at my feet, his chest heaving inspasms as he sobbed onto the butt of hisrifle. Poor Bazil . . . he’d lost hisparents, four brothers, and three sisters.

I understood now why we’d beentreated with such suspicion when wearrived. Many of these soldiers had beenfighting their way down from Ugandaand had no news from home along theway. They were now returning to findtheir families slaughtered by neighbors—people they’d trusted all their lives.There was not much happiness in the

rebel camp.

I wasn’t feeling much happiness at themoment either. I felt heartsick for givingthe news to Bazil, and as the minutespassed, I feared that the worst hadbefallen Aloise and the group. I prayedhard for their safety, and soon I heard mymerry friend’s familiar laughter comingfrom an approaching RPF truck.

“Whatever prayers you’ve beensaying, keep on saying them,Immaculée,” Aloise chuckled. “Thosekillers were looking at us like theywanted to cut us to pieces, but theycouldn’t move. It was as though theywere frozen to the spot! We were likeDaniel in the lions’ den . . . just like

Daniel in the lions’ den!”

Aloise pulled her children to her,hugged them tightly, and laughed andlaughed until tears ran down her cheeks.My heart lifted, and I said, “I didn’tknow if I’d ever live to say this, butwe’ll never have to face the killersagain. The genocide is over—God hasspared us and given us a new life. Praisethe Lord! Thank You, God! Thank You,God!”

Aloise smiled at me and said, “Amen,Immaculée . . . Amen!”

ALOISE’S SUNNY DISPOSITIONAND INDEPENDENT SPIRIT charmed

the hardened soldiers. She spent the firstfew hours at camp amusing them withstories about the famous people she’dmet, and then she kept them laughingwith her bawdy jokes. But they weremost impressed with her unbeatableoptimism: She never complained abouther lot in life, and she made the most ofevery situation, no matter how difficult.

Aloise and I got along so well thatMajor Ntwali asked if she were mymother. “No,” I replied, “but she treatsme like a daughter. My parents and twoof my brothers were actually killed inthe genocide—so were most of my otherrelatives.”

“I’m sorry,” the major said. “Do you

blame us?”

“What do you mean?” I asked,confused by the question.

“A lot of my soldiers blamethemselves for what happened. Theythink that we spent too much timefighting to take over Kigali whilehundreds of thousands of Tutsi werebeing killed, including their ownfamilies. They think we took too long toget here.”

“They shouldn’t think like that, Major—it’s not your fault. You fought to saveus . . . you fought the devil. Now wehave to make sure we never face thesame battle. We have to stop killing and

learn to forgive.”

He shook his head at me, clucking histongue in disapproval. “Don’t talk to meabout God or the devil—I know who didthis. You can forgive all you want to,Immaculée, but maybe you haven’tlooked into as many mass graves as Ihave. The people who filled thosegraves are still out there, and believeme, they don’t deserve your forgiveness.They deserve to be shot, and I intend togive them what they deserve. I’ll forgivethem when they’re dead.”

The major pointed to a nearby Baptistchurch. “You’ll find other survivors inthere. Stay put until we figure out whatto do with you, and don’t wander off.

Remember, you’re still in a war zone. Ifyou run into some Interahamwe, theywon’t be as forgiving as you are.”

My little group and I stayed in thechurch with about 100 other Tutsisurvivors. There were no beds orblankets, but we were happy to have aroof over our heads, and it felt good tobe in a house of God. Bazil had food togive us, which I volunteered to cook. Butas I tried to light a cooking fire outside, Ifelt nauseated by a sickening stench.

“What in the Lord’s name is thatsmell?” I asked one of the soldiersposted to stand guard over us. He tookme by the hand, and without saying aword, led me behind the church. It was

an image from hell: row upon row ofcorpses, hundreds and hundreds of themstacked up like firewood. A black carpetof flies hovered about them, and crowspicked at the top layer of the dead. Anold man stood at the edge of the pileshooing away dogs with a stick.

I covered my mouth, my eyes wide inhorror. Then the soldier pointed beyondthe piles to a deep pit at least 30 yardsacross and 20 feet deep. It was filledwith bodies, maybe tens of thousands ofthem. I turned my head, vomited, andstaggered back to the front of the church.The soldier followed me, still sayingnothing.

“Are you from this area?” I asked. He

nodded, and I understood then thatsomewhere in that rotting pit of humanitywas his family. His pain was beyondwords.

How many years—how manygenerations—would it take beforeRwanda could recover from suchhorror? How long for our woundedhearts to heal, for our hardened hearts tosoften? Too long for me, I decided.Looking into that soldier’s eyes, Irealized that I was going to have to leaveRwanda.

I’d have to leave the sorrow andsuffering of this country behind, at leastfor a while. In order to help heal others,as I knew God wanted me to, I needed

the perspective that only space and timecould provide. I had to first heal myselfto be able to assist the others: theorphans at the French camp, the majorwhose heart harbored vengeance, thekillers who still had murder in theireyes, and the soldier before me whosegrief was smothering his soul.

I would leave, but not yet. I had muchto do first, and besides, I had no job, nomoney, and no prospects. All I ownedwere the clothes on my back and myfather’s rosary in my pocket.

WE STAYED WITH THE REBELSOLDIERS FOR A FEW DAYS,spending most of our time trying tofigure out how we could get to Kigali

without any money. All 12 of us couldstay at Aloise’s house once we got there,but we had no way of making the still-dangerous, five-hour journey. I prayedfor days about it and asked everyone todo the same. Eventually God answeredand sent Major Ntwali to see us with thesolution.

The major offered us a truck anddriver to take us right to Aloise’s frontdoor. Not only that, but when the truckpicked us up, the major had his soldiersload it with sacks of rice, flour, sugar,beans, coffee, tins of milk, and cans ofoil. It was more food than I’d seen inmonths, more than enough to last us formonths. We thanked the major

repeatedly for his generosity as wewaved good-bye and headed off forKigali.

We arrived in the capital in the middleof what would have been a busy workingday a few months earlier. As it was, wedrove into a ghost town. The streetswere deserted except for the occasionalUnited Nations truck or RPF Jeepdarting along the empty roads, swervingto avoid the corpses in the street . . . orthe carcasses of the hundreds of dogs thesoldiers had shot to stop them fromscavenging on human remains. The airreeked of death, and I could hear thewind shrieking through abandonedhomes like evicted spirits. So many

buildings lay in ruins, burned out andpockmarked by machine-gun fire andmortar rounds. Shop doors were rippedfrom their hinges, the stores were looted,and every once in a while we’d hear anexplosion in the distance. I couldn’trecognize the beautiful city whose brightlights and busy boulevards had thrilledme so much as a teenager.

“Watch where you step,” our driverwarned. “There are land mineseverywhere . . . we can’t rememberwhere we put them all. You could go fora walk around here and end up withoutyour legs.”

We drove straight to the UnitedNations headquarters to see if we could

find Aloise’s husband, Fari. As she said,“It’s only a 15-minute walk from ourhouse to the UN. If he survived hiding inour ceiling, this is where he would havecome. It’s the safest place in Kigali.”

We parked in front of the big metalgate and lifted Aloise out of the truck.She was shaking—it was the first timesince meeting her that I’d seen her spiritfalter. “I don’t know how I’ll go on ifFari was killed,” she admitted. “He ismy heart and soul, and he gives me mystrength. I’ve prayed so hard for him tobe alive . . . I hope God listens to myprayers the way He listens to you,Immaculée.”

God did listen to Aloise’s prayers. No

sooner had she finished speaking thanshe spotted a familiar figure walkingacross the compound. “Oh, my God . . .that’s him! I’m sure that’s him—I’drecognize his walk anywhere. Call him,somebody call to him!”

We pleaded with one of the UNguards to run and get the man Aloisepointed out. The man walked toward uscautiously until he saw Aloise . . . andthen he began running as fast as he could.He pushed through the gate, dropped tohis knees, and began kissing her. “Mydarling, my darling,” he said. LittleKenza and Sami jumped into his arms,smothering him with hugs and kisses. Itwas one of the happiest family reunions

I’d ever seen, until Fari asked, “Whereis the baby?”

Aloise’s eyes filled with tears. “Godtook her,” she croaked. “She had a feverand didn’t make it.”

Fari put his head into Aloise’s lap andthey cried for 15 or 20 minutes, whilethe rest of us stood around awkwardly,looking at each other. None of us knewthat Aloise had lost a child beforereaching the French camp. We marveledat her strength.

Eventually, Fari looked up and askedher who we were. “Orphans I adopted atthe refugee camp,” Aloise told him.“They’ll be staying with us.”

“You’re all welcome,” Fari said.

“The tall one there is the daughter ofRose and Leonard . . . both of our oldfriends are dead.”

“Oh my,” Fari said, getting up andtaking my hand. “I see your parents inyou, young lady. Be strong—your momand dad were beautiful, kind people.God has spared you for a reason . . . youcan stay with us until you find out whatthat reason is.”

I didn’t know what to say except“Thank you.”

WE CLIMBED BACK INTO THETRUCK AND DROVE to Aloise’s

house. On the way, Fari told us that he’dabandoned their home and had beenliving at the UN for the past four months.“If Aloise hadn’t returned to me with thechildren,” he said, “I would never havecome back here. A home is a prisonwithout love.”

The place was a mess: The windowshad been blown out, the walls wereriddled with bullet holes, and part of theroof had caved in. Yet we all pitched in,spending the next week repairing andcleaning the house. With hard work, andconstruction materials we scroungedfrom several destroyed buildings, theplace soon looked like a home again.Jean Paul and the other boys had their

own rooms, while Florence and Ibecame roommates. For the first timesince I’d left my parents’ house, I wasable to sleep in a real bed. We were allin heaven!

While we had the food that MajorNtwali had supplied us with, we had nomoney—and after months of constantwear, our clothes were practically wornto threads. So we went to abandonedhomes looking for shoes and newerthings to wear. In one house I found apair of gold earrings. I convinced myselfthat I deserved something pretty to makeme feel good after all I’d been through,and I put them in my pocket. But when Itried them on in front of a mirror at

Aloise’s, I couldn’t bear my ownreflection. All I could see was the faceof the woman who had owned them. Theearrings didn’t belong to me and heldnone of my memories; someone else hadworked hard for them or had receivedthem as a loving gift. I felt like atrespasser in another person’s life. Ididn’t want possessions I hadn’t earnedand didn’t deserve, so the next day I tookthe earrings back to where I’d foundthem.

Meanwhile, a little voice waswhispering in my head, and I nodded inagreement with what I heard: It is timefor me to move on. It is time to get ajob.

CHAPTER 22The Lord’s Work

God only knew where I would find ajob in a city where people were afraidto walk the streets. Leftover land mineslittered the streets of Kigali, but if Iwanted to work, I had to pound thepavement. The buses weren’t running,and I had no money for taxis.

I asked Fari if he knew of anybusinesses within walking distance thathad any job openings. “Your options arepretty limited because nobody is hiringnow,” he replied. “The only possibility

is the United Nations . . . but the peoplethey hire usually have to speak English.”

My mind snapped to attention. Ofcourse! After all, the United Nations wasthe reason God had led me to studyEnglish in the bathroom in the firstplace. I’d even had a vision of workingin a UN office.

I washed my clothes especiallythoroughly that night and prayed hard forGod to help me find a job at the UnitedNations. I was so excited about finallyputting my English to use that I stayed upmost of the night looking in the mirror,practicing the phrases I’d taught myself:

“Good morning to you.”

“How do you do?”

“I am looking for a job.”

“My name is Immaculée Ilibagiza.”

“I am Rwandan.”

“I studied science at the university inButare.”

“I am looking for a job.”

Oh, how thrilling! I was speaking realEnglish sentences, and tomorrow I’dhave a real conversation in the newlanguage . . . and by the end of the day Icould be working at my new job! PraiseGod!

I was standing in front of the gate ofthe UN building at 8 A.M. sharp. AGhanaian guard greeted me warmly inwhat sounded like English. I’m sure hesaid something like “Good morning, howcan I help you?” But what I heard was“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah?” I didn’thave a clue what he was saying, butpretended I did. I held my head up, stuckmy chin out, and said, “How do you do?My name is Immaculée Ilibagiza. I amlooking for a job.”

Ouch. The look in his eyes told mehow ridiculous I must have sounded.Nevertheless, I tried again. I hadn’tcome this far to be turned away. “Howdo you do? My name is Immaculée. I am

looking for a job.”

“Ah! You’re Rwandan . . . you mustspeak French,” he said. I smiled andnodded. He opened the gate, and anotherguard escorted me to a small waitingroom, where I filled out a lot of formsand was told to wait. So I waited . . .and waited . . . and waited . . . andwaited. When the UN employees startedleaving at the end of the day, I asked thereceptionist how much longer I’d have towait to get my job.

“You’ll be waiting a long time, dear.There are no jobs.”

I went home disappointed but notdiscouraged. It was my destiny to work

at the UN—I had envisioned it and I wasdetermined. If God wanted me to workthere, nothing could stop me fromreaching my goal.

I returned the next day, filled out thesame forms, and again waited allafternoon. I did the same thing thefollowing day, and the day after that, andthe day after that. I spent more than twoweeks filling out forms and waiting.Every day the receptionist told me as Ileft, “I wouldn’t bother coming back if Iwere you, dear. There are no jobs.”

By the end of the second week, I wasgetting discouraged. I dreaded goingback to Aloise’s without a job, so Iwandered the battered streets of our

Kigali neighborhood feeling sorry formyself. I wanted to sit in quietcommunication with God to focus myenergies, but Aloise’s house was toonoisy for me to meditate. Believe it ornot, I actually longed for the days in thepastor’s bathroom, when I could talk toGod for hours without interruption. Iremembered the joy and peace He filledmy heart with during those long stretchesof silent prayer, along with the mentalclarity I enjoyed afterward.

Two blocks from Aloise’s, I walkedinto the shell of a burned-out house,dropped to my knees on top of thecharred rubble and broken glass, andbegan to pray: “Dear God, in the Bible,

Peter was discouraged after fishing allnight and catching nothing, but You toldhim to go fish again in the same spot—and he caught so many fish! He was sohappy! Well, You guided me to the UN,and I’ve been ‘fishing’ for a job for days. . . but there are no fish here. God, Idon’t know what to do. I have no money,my clothes are falling apart, and theywon’t give me a job. So I need Yourhelp. Let’s make these UN people noticeme and give me a good office job; Youknow how badly I need it. Help me, andI will help myself! Amen.”

I BRUSHED MYSELF OFF AND LEFTTHE RUINED HOME with renewed

confidence. I’d asked God for His help,and now I knew it was up to me to makeit happen. I began visualizing that I wasalready working at the UN, taking notes,answering phones, and helping makeimportant decisions.

As I walked home, I thought about thethings I’d need once the UN job wasoffered to me. I’d have to get somepresentable clothes, and I’d definitelyneed my high school diploma and proofthat I’d attended university for threeyears. Unfortunately, all my belongingswere in my dorm room in Butare, whichwas a four-hour drive away, and Iobviously had no money to pay for a taxito take me there.

Since I was so lost in thought, I almostdidn’t notice a car pulling up beside meand the driver calling out my name. Itwas Dr. Abel, a professor from myuniversity in Butare. “I hardlyrecognized you, Immaculée,” he said.“You’re so skinny! I’m so happy you’vesurvived . . . but are you eating, and doyou have a place to live?”

Dr. Abel was a medical doctor, so heasked me all sorts of questions aboutwhat I’d been through and about myhealth. He invited me to come live withhis wife and family in Butare so that Icould build up my strength. I thankedhim, but explained that I already had afamily to stay with. But if he were

driving to Butare in the near future, I’dgladly accept a lift.

“Of course. In fact, I’m leavingtomorrow.”

Again, I saw God’s hand at work inwhat I’d thought was a chance encounter.The next day Dr. Abel dropped me off atthe front gate of my old university. Theschool had been looted, and soldierswere posted at the gate. They refused tolet me go to my room, saying, “Theschool is off limits indefinitely.” Thenthey told me to go back to Kigali.

I sat at the side of the road and prayedwith my father’s rosary, waiting for Godto show me how He was going to get me

onto campus. Within ten minutes a carcarrying an army colonel stopped at thegate. While the soldiers fell over eachother trying to salute him, I walked up tothe car and introduced myself.

“What are you doing here, little girl?”he replied. “Where are your parents? It’sdangerous for you to be out here byyourself.”

I was 24, but I’d lost so much weightthat I looked more like a 12year-old.

“My parents are dead, sir. They werekilled with the rest of my family in thegenocide. All I have left in the world isin my dorm room, but your soldierswon’t let me into the school. Will you

help me?” I asked as sweetly aspossible.

The colonel opened the door, and I gotin along with one of the soldiers. Wedrove through the gate and made theshort, depressing drive to my dorm.

The beautiful campus where I’dformed so many wonderful memoriesand loving friendships was no more.There was garbage everywhere, andmany of the buildings were charred andcrumbling. Student records blew acrossthe campus like tumbleweeds, and afterall these weeks, there were still so manybodies on the ground. I couldn’t bear tolook, fearing that I’d see the corpse ofSarah or one of my other dear

girlfriends. I tried to conjure the memoryof the school dances I’d enjoyed, theplays I’d performed in, the romanticwalks I’d taken with John . . . but allwere obliterated by the devastation Isaw before me.

The colonel dropped me at my dorm,and the soldier followed me to my room,which had been thoroughly plundered.The door had been smashed in with anax, and everything I owned was gone—my suitcases, clothes, shoes, and evenmy mattress were all stolen. Thankfully,a few pictures of my parents were stillhanging on the walls—my onlymementos of our life together. I pickedup a few scattered envelopes from the

floor, but the soldier grabbed them frommy hands and began reading them. Heslung his rifle off his shoulder anddemanded rather menacingly, “Who’sAimable?”

To his surprise, I started laughing. Itstruck me as funny that I’d survived thegenocide, but could end up being shot bya Tutsi soldier for looting my emptydorm room.

“Aimable is my brother. That letterwas mailed from Senegal, where he’sstudying,” I said. The soldier gruntedand stepped into the hall to continuereading my private letters.

I sorted through some of the other

papers on the floor, and I couldn’tbelieve what I saw. There, in one bigenvelope, was my high school diploma,my university progress report, andnearly $30 of my scholarship money thatI’d tucked away. Suddenly I was rich . . .and could prove that I was educated!

I left campus right away and used oneof my American dollars to pay for a taxiback to Kigali, thanking God all the wayhome for answering yet another prayer.He truly was keeping His promise andwatching over me like His owndaughter.

A few shops had reopened in the city,and I bought some secondhand clothes,new shoes, perfume, and deodorant.

Then I had my hair done for the first timein five months. I went home feeling likea lady again. Aloise almost had a heartattack when she saw me emerge from myroom, dressed up and looking beautiful.

“Whatever it is you pray for, pray I getsome, too,” she said, laughing her big-hearted guffaw. She laughed even harderwhen I showed her all the groceries I’dbought with the money I had left over—enough to last us another month!

THE NEXT MORNING I HEADEDOFF TO THE UN to resume my jobhunt. I looked good, I smelled good, Ihad my diploma, and I felt fit andconfident—I was a young career woman

ready to take her place in the world.

The Ghanaian security guard didn’tquestion me at the gate this time; in fact,I don’t think he even recognized mebecause he buzzed me in withoutquestion, smiling as I passed. As soon asI was in the building, I found my way tothe personnel director’s office andknocked on the door, interrupting thedirector in the middle of a conversation.

“How can I help you, miss?” he askedin French.

“I need a job, sir,” I said in English . .. or at least I thought I did.

He looked confused. “Are you tryingto say that you need a job?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right—I need a job,” Ianswered in French. It was obvious thatmy English was going to need somework.

“I see . . . wait here,” he said, anddisappeared into his office. A fewminutes later his secretary came to talkto me and thoroughly looked me up anddown. She was Rwandan, and for somereason disliked me instantly. “How didyou get into the building? What are youlooking for?” she asked in Kinyarwanda.

“I’m looking for a job.”

“What experience do you have?”

“I’ve been to university, where Istudied electronic engineering and

math.”

“The jobs here are secretarial—thatis, when we have jobs. Can you use acomputer or speak English?”

“I’ve never done secretarial work, butI have a little English.”

“I see,” she said brusquely. “Well, wedon’t have anything—maybe in three orfour months. But with the skills youhave, I doubt we’ll find you anything.Please shut the door on your way out.”

I was so upset when I left the officethat I ran down the back stairs so no onewould see me crying. Halfway down thesteps a middleaged gentleman called outto me in French: “Wait! Wait a minute,

young lady! Can I talk to you?”

I wanted to keep running, but respectfor my elders compelled me to answer. Iquickly wiped away my tears. “Yes,sir?”

The man looked at me like he’d seen aghost. “Um . . . um . . . I was wondering,why are you here?”

I worried that he was going to callsecurity, yet I replied, “A job, sir . . .I’m looking for a job.”

“Oh, have you seen the personneldirector?”

The stairwell interrogation annoyedme, but again I answered out of respect.

“Yes, sir, I saw him. But I was told thatthere are no jobs.”

“Oh well, then.” He scribbledsomething on a business card and handedit to me. “Show this at the gate tomorrowmorning,” he said. “I’ll expect you in myoffice at 10 A.M. We’ll see what we cando about getting you a job.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I juststared at the card as he continued up thestairs. It read:

PIERRE MEHUSPOKESMAN, UNAMIR

UNITED NATIONS ASSISTANCEMISSION FOR RWANDA

I had no idea what a spokesman was,but it sounded important. And UNAMIRhad been set up before the war to helpbring a fairer government to Rwanda.Maybe I would be part of it!

When I met with Mr. Mehu the nextmorning, he told me that when he sawme on the stairs he’d mistaken me for ayoung Rwandan woman who’d workedfor him before the war. He was veryfond of her, and she’d been killed withher family during the genocide. He thenasked me to tell him my story, which Idid.

“What is your monthly income?” he

asked.

“My what?”

“How much money do you earn in amonth?”

“Nothing, zero. That’s why I’m here.”

“Well, we can’t have that! I’m goingto help you get a job. Your parentsobviously did a good job raising you,and I want you to know that you’ll onlybe an orphan if you want to be. Fromnow on the UN will be a home for you,and you can talk to me like I’m yourdad.”

I smiled until it hurt—God truly waskeeping His promise by sending angels

to look out for me.

“You’ll have to do all the tests, ofcourse,” Mr. Mehu continued, “but withyour education, that shouldn’t be aproblem. How are your typing andEnglish skills?”

“I can’t really type, and I taught myselfEnglish while hiding in the bathroom.”

“Well, then . . . sounds like you need acrash course.”

Mr. Mehu introduced me to hissecretary, Jeanne, and she spent the dayshowing me how to use the computer andwrite memos, along with the ins and outsof their filing system. I memorized everyfunction of every button on the computer,

and then I drew an exact replica of thekeyboard on a piece of cardboard. Ispent three days working on thecomputer, and stayed up three entirenights practicing, typing on my hand-drawn keyboard.

God must have been guiding myfingers, because on the fourth day Ipassed the UN typing test with a perfectscore. A few days later I passed anEnglish test and was declared qualifiedto work at the United Nations. Ienvisioned it, I dreamed it, I prayed forit, and now I had it!

Before I knew it, I was working as aclerk, and soon I was responsible fortracking all UN supplies coming into

Rwanda from abroad—from new Jeepsto cargo containers of food. It was animportant job, and I couldn’t get over thefact that only a couple months earlier I’dbeen crouching in someone’s tinybathroom, not knowing if I’d live or die.

I was living proof of the power ofprayer and positive thinking, whichreally are almost the same thing. God isthe source of all positive energy, andprayer is the best way to tap in to Hispower.

God had brought me a long way fromthe bathroom, and He’d walked with meevery step of the way: saving me fromthe killers; filling my heart withforgiveness; helping me learn English;

delivering me to safety; providing mewith friendship, shelter, and food; andfinally, introducing me to Mr. Mehu andmy dream job. No matter what I’d beenthrough in the past several months, Godhad never left my side; I’d never beenalone.

I LOVED MY NEW JOB; EACH DAYWAS MORE EXCITING THAN THELAST. There were so many nationalitiesat the UN that I felt like a tourist in myown country. I was continually learningnew skills, meeting new people, andhoning my English.

And not only was I rich in God’sblessings, but I was getting a paycheck,

too! Soon I was able to send money tomy aunts and buy food and new clothesfor Aloise and her kids to thank them forall they’d done for me. They’d given mea home and a family when I needed onemost . . . but I also knew that the timehad come to leave.

By early October all my friends fromthe French camp had left Aloise’s, andeverything around me was starting tochange. More than a million Tutsirefugees from the 1959 and 1973genocides were returning to Rwandafrom around the world, bringingchildren, grandchildren, and all mannerof new cultural heritage and strangelanguages with them. They were

changing the sound and look of thecountry. A million exiles returned,which was also the same number ofTutsis murdered in the genocide—anumber beyond my comprehension.

As the Tutsis returned, more than twomillion Hutus fled Rwanda fearingvengeance killings. Most of them endedup living in squalid refugee camps inother countries, while many died ofdisease and malnutrition. There wassuffering everywere. One day, when I’dlearned more and saved enough money, Iwould leave the sadness of my countryfar behind me. But for now, I had smallchanges to make. Life in Rwanda wasshifting, and I was shifting with it.

I asked God to find me a new homewhere I would be surrounded with loveand positive feelings. This time He letme answer my own prayers when Iopened up Aloise’s front door. Standingon the doorstep, weeping with joy athaving found me, was my dear friendand college roommate, Sarah. She’dmanaged to track me down, and we bothscreamed and threw our arms aroundeach other. We spent hours catching upand shedding many tears. My heart brokeall over again when I told her how thepastor had sent our brothers Augustineand Vianney out into the night—and howthey’d died together. We cried for theboys we’d loved so much, and for the

rest of my family—Sarah had known andloved them all.

“You will always have a family withus,” Sarah said. “Come live at my house. . . we’ll be sisters again!”

Sarah was so special to me, and heroffer so generous and inviting, that Iaccepted on the spot. I packed my thingsand moved into her parents’ house thatvery day. Aloise didn’t mind too muchsince Sarah’s home was five minutesaway, and I promised to visit her often.

I couldn’t have asked for a morepeaceful and loving home than Sarah’s.Her elderly parents had been married 55years, but they still teased and cherished

each other like teenagers. They weredevout Christians, went to church everymorning, and prayed together everyevening. It was the perfect place for meto reestablish my close personalconnection with God . . . and the perfectplace for me to mourn my family andbegin to heal.

At Sarah’s, my wounded heart slowlybecame strong enough for me to put thewords I still could barely speak downon paper. The time had come for me towrite my brother Aimable, who was stillin Senegal and didn’t even know I wasalive. I’d put off this painful task, partlybecause there had been no mail service,but more in the hopes that if I didn’t see

the words, then the painful events hadn’treally happened. But they did happen—they were real, and I was finallybeginning to accept it.

I placed my father’s rosary on thetable beside me and began to write: Mydearest Aimable, this is the saddestletter I have ever written, the saddestletter you will ever receive. . . .

CHAPTER 23Burying the Dead

“Where are your parents living?” Thisquestion was put to me a few monthsafter I’d started my job at the UnitedNations.

“They’re not living, except in myheart,” I answered patiently. “They werekilled in the genocide.”

The UN was not the easiest place toignore my sorrow. Most of the peopleworking there were from outside thecountry, and when they learned about thefate of my family, they were very curious

about how I’d survived when the vastmajority of my tribespeople had beenmurdered.

“I’m so sorry,” the person speaking tome said now. “I didn’t know. I hope Ihaven’t upset you.” His name wasColonel Gueye, and he was a Senegaleseofficer responsible for a number of theUN peacekeepers who’d come toRwanda to help stabilize the county.

I told the colonel not to worry aboutupsetting me. After all I’d been through,questions were the least of my worries. Ilet him know that I still had aunts and anuncle living in my home province ofKibuye, although I hadn’t seen themsince the war.

“Ah, Kibuye . . . I have quite a fewsoldiers stationed there,” he said. “If youever want to visit your relatives, I’d behappy to give you a lift and escort youmyself. You can even bring a friend.”

It was a great offer, as travel aroundthe country was still difficult and unsafe.

“Really? You just tell me when, andI’ll be ready, Colonel.”

Two weeks later Sarah and I werestrapped into a helicopter and soaringabove the green hills of Rwanda,holding each other’s hands and gigglingwith wild excitement. Neither of us hadever flown before, so we had no ideathat when the colonel offered to give us

a lift, he’d meant it literally!

Looking down at my beautiful country,it was hard to believe the ugly truth ofthe genocide. How many times had Iwished during those dark days that I’dbeen born a bird? How many times had Idreamed about flying away from mybathroom cell and above the relentlesshorror? And now here I was, flying backto visit the scene of the crime. It hadtaken a lifetime for me to escape fromMataba and get to Kigali—and it tookonly 30 minutes to return.

I wished that Aimable could havebeen with me, but it was impossible.The mail was still slow, and it had takenme weeks to finally get a return letter

from him. He’d written that he was sohappy to hear from me that he couldn’tfind words to express his emotions.He’d watched the news reports duringthe genocide and had resigned himself tothe fact that our entire family hadperished, along with almost every otherTutsi in Rwanda. There was no way hecould have returned to the country duringthe holocaust without being murderedhimself.

Unfortunately, he just couldn’t affordto come home at the moment. He was astudent, had no income, and lived 3,000miles away in Senegal. The airfare alonewould cost 2,000 American dollars,which was an unimaginable sum! The

European organization that was fundinghis scholarship refused to pay for him totravel to Rwanda, saying that it was stilla war zone and far too dangerous. Mybrother wanted to quit school and comelive with me, but I told him that the bestway for him to honor Mom and Dad wasto finish his studies with top marks. Weagreed to write each other every weekand put money aside for a future visit.And now, thanks to the free lift toMataba, I’d be visiting our old homewithout my only remaining brother.

AFTER THE HELICOPTER LANDED,COLONEL GUEYE LEFT US at thesoldiers’ camp in the capable hands of a

young captain named Traore, whointroduced us to everyone as ColonelGueye’s daughters. Unlike my earlierstays in military compounds, here Sarahand I had our own room, beds to sleepin, delicious food, and the respect andgoodwill of each and every soldier. Weeven sat up with them until the weehours as they sang traditional Senegalesesongs and shared jokes with each other.Sarah felt welcome and safe, and I washappy that I’d come home.

The next day we were preparing toleave for the five-mile hike to myvillage, when Captain Traore expressedconcern about our safety. The genocidewas over, but a palpable current of

hostility ran through the country, andkilling was still commonplace. Thecaptain insisted on sending us with anarmed escort—which consisted of noless than two dozen soldiers and fivearmored vehicles. We wouldn’t beslinking into Mataba as returningrefugees; instead, we’d enter with thepride of warriors. I had cowered toolong in that village, and it felt good to goback with my head held high.

My mood quickly dissolved intomorbid sadness as we drove beneath thefamiliar sky of my childhood. I beganweeping as we turned onto the roadwhere my brothers and I had walked sooften, then passed my mom’s now-

deserted schoolhouse, and rolled by thepath we’d followed my dad along to gofor our morning swims in Lake Kivu.

Sarah put her arm around myshoulders to console me, but it was nogood—I was inconsolable. I also sawshadowy faces peering at us throughshuttered windows and closed gates . . .faces that belonged to the extremistHutus who’d hunted and killed so manyof my people. They owned the onlyhouses still standing after theythemselves had burned most of the Tutsihomes.

And then we reached my family’shouse.

It was completely destroyed: no roof,no windows, no doors. A few partialwalls stood watch over the scorchedearth where we’d spent days listening tothe radio while the killers prepared theirmassacre. I wandered through the stoneskeleton, visiting the vacant rooms thathad once formed my parents’ dreamhome. There were no remnants ofdestroyed furniture or burnt clothing—our belongings had obviously beenpilfered before the house was torched.

Several of my surviving Tutsineighbors saw our military escort andcame out to greet me. They informed meof the grim events that had transpiredwhile I was in hiding, telling me how my

mother had been murdered and whereher remains had been buried.

Some of Damascene’s friends took meto the shallow grave where they’dhastily buried what was left of him.Karubu, our housekeeper, had witnessedmy beloved brother’s execution andgave me a word-for-word, blow-by-blow account.

The heartrending memories and thegory, gruesome details were all toomuch for me. I’d just begun to heal, andnow I felt my wounds forced open againby the onslaught of brutal reality. Iwanted to ask my neighbors and thesoldiers to help me give my mother andbrother a proper burial, but I couldn’t

speak. The lump growing in my throatstopped my voice, so I waved for thesoldiers to take me back to the camp.

As we drove away from my home,past the unmarked mounds of dirt thatcovered Mother and Damascene, I feltthe bitter, dirty taste of hatred in mymouth. On the return trip I looked at thefaces peering at us as we passed, and Iknew with all my heart that those peoplehad blood on their hands—theirneighbors’ blood . . . my family’s blood.I wanted the soldiers to douse Mataba ingasoline and let me light the match thatwould reduce it to ashes.

I went straight to bed when we arrivedat the camp without talking to anyone.

My soul was at war with itself. I’dstruggled so hard to forgive but now feltduped for having done so; I had noclemency left in me. Seeing my home inruins and visiting the lonely, forgottengraves of my loved ones had choked thelife out of my forgiving spirit. When myneighbors whispered the stories of myfamily’s sadistic murders in my ear, thefeelings of hatred that I thought I’dbanished from my soul sprang violentlyfrom the depths of my being withrenewed vigor. My heart hungered forrevenge, and I raged inside myself.Those bloody animals! They areanimals, animals, animals!

I tossed and turned for hours. I knew

the devil was tempting me—that he wasleading me away from the light of God,from the freedom of His forgiveness. Icould feel the weight of my negativethoughts dragging me away from the onelight that had guided me through thedarkness. I never felt lonelier than I didthat night. God was my truest friend, andthese feelings were a wall between us. Iknew that my thoughts caused Him pain,and that knowledge tortured me.

I rolled out of bed and got down onmy knees. “Forgive my evil thoughts,God,” I prayed. “Please . . . as Youalways have, take this pain from me andcleanse my heart. Fill me with the powerof Your love and forgiveness. Those

who did these horrible things are stillYour children, so let me help them, andhelp me to forgive them. Oh, God, helpme to love them.”

A sudden rush of air flooded my lungs.I heaved a heavy sigh of relief, and myhead dropped back on the pillow. I wasat peace again. Yes, I was sad—deeplysad—but my sadness felt good. I let itembrace me and found that it was clean,with no tinge of bitterness or hatred. Imissed my family desperately, but theanger that had gripped me like areturning malignancy was gone.

The people who’d hurt my family hadhurt themselves even more, and theydeserved my pity. There was no doubt

that they had to be punished for theircrimes against humanity and againstGod. There was already talk at the UNabout creating an international tribunalto capture those responsible, and Iprayed that it would happen. But Iprayed for compassion as well. I askedGod for the forgiveness that would endthe cycle of hatred—hatred that wasalways dangerously close to the surface.

I knew that my heart and mind wouldalways be tempted to feel anger—to findblame and hate. But I resolved that whenthe negative feelings came upon me, Iwouldn’t wait for them to grow or fester.I would always turn immediately to theSource of all true power: I would turn to

God and let His love and forgivenessprotect and save me.

When I lifted my head, I noticed thatthe moon was already up. I heard thesoldiers laughing and playing music, so Iwent outside. Sarah and I smiled at eachother, and then I smiled at everyonethere. The soldiers were having a party,and they were surprised to see me jointhem looking so happy. They danced allnight, as Sarah and I watched andcheered them on.

THE NEXT DAY I ASKED THECAPTAIN IF HE’D TAKE ME BACKto the village so that I could properly laymy mother and brother to rest. He was

concerned about my reaction the daybefore and asked if I were strongenough. I assured him that I was, and heprovided me with the same militaryescort to the village.

On the way, we stopped to see myaunts Jeanne and Esperance, who wereliving close to my old house. I hadn’tseen them since they’d left the Frenchcamp. Neither had fully recovered fromtheir ordeal and probably never would,but at least they were in much bettercondition now. We had an emotionalroadside reunion, but I kept my heart incheck to prepare for the solemn dutyahead. I told them to find anyone whowanted to say good-bye to Mom and

Damascene and meet me at my old home.

Most of the Tutsi genocide survivorsin my village turned out, and a few Hutuchums joined us as well. One old familyfriend, Kayitare, brought two coffinswith him; someone else brought a shoveland a Bible; and we all went together torecover the remains. First we dug forDamascene; some neighbors crowdedaround me to block my view, gentlypushing me back to protect me fromseeing what was left of him.

I shoved past them. “He’s my brother—I have to see him,” I insisted. I don’tthink I could ever have accepted thatDamascene was really dead if I couldn’tsee his body with my own eyes. Then I

heard the shovel scrape against bone,and I saw him . . . I saw his rib cage.The first thing I noticed was that he hadno clothes on, and I remembered howthey’d tried to strip him of his dignitybefore executing him.

“Don’t look,” Esperance said. But Ihad to—I saw his rib cage but nothingelse. They’d chopped him up—his arms,his head. . . . Oh, God, my sweetDamascene, what did they do to you? Ilet out a kind of animal whimper.

Someone bent down to the grave, thenstood up and turned to me, holding mybrother’s skull in his hand. The jawbonewas protruding, and then I saw the teeth .. . I recognized the teeth. All that

remained of his beautiful smile was rightthere, staring up at me in a twisted,grotesque grin.

“Oh no . . . oh, Damascene . . . oh,blessed Mary, Mother of God!” Theearth rushed up at me, my head hit astone, and then there was only blackness.

I hadn’t expected to faint, but when mymind at long last acknowledged mybrother’s death, it felt as if all theoxygen had been sucked out of theworld. My relatives and neighborsrevived me and lifted me to my feet, andwe put Damascene’s remains into acoffin and took it with us to find Mom.This time they insisted that I not look atthe body, saying it was too decomposed

and would be too upsetting. I acquiescedbecause I’d reached the limit of my pain.No matter how much I steeled my heart,the sight of my mother like that wouldhave been too much for my loving eyesto bear. I agreed to bury her remainswithout seeing them. Instead, I’dremember her as she’d been in life . . .as she would forever stay in my heartand in my dreams.

As someone pounded nails into the lidof my mother’s coffin, I looked at thefaces of my friends and relatives—shattered faces reflecting shattered lives.There was my cousin, who’d beenforced to watch her three boysslaughtered in front of her; my once-

iron-willed Uncle Paul, who was nowreduced to a shadow of his former selfby the deaths of his beloved wife andseven children; and my aunts, whosehusbands were dead and whose childrenwere ill beyond recovery.

We all shared in the misery that haddescended upon the village, but I knewthat the people gathered around me hadlost much more than I had. They’d losttheir faith—and in doing so, they’d alsolost hope. I stared at the coffins of mymother and Damascene and thought ofmy father and Vianney, whose bodies Iwould never recover . . . and I thankedGod. I may have lost everything, but I’dkept my faith, and it made me strong. It

also comforted me and let me know thatlife still held purpose.

“Where shall we put them? Whereshall we bury them?” Uncle Paul asked,sobbing as he ran his hands along thecrude pine caskets.

“Home,” I said. “We’ll take themhome and lay them to rest.”

We carried the bodies of my motherand brother into the ruins of our homeand dug a large grave in the center ofone of the rooms where laughter andlove had once echoed. There were nopriests left in the village, so weperformed the burial rites ourselves. Wesang some of my mother’s favorite

hymns and prayed many prayers. I askedGod to hold my family close to Him andwatch over their beautiful souls inheaven . . . and then I said good-bye.

“It’s time to go home, Sarah—time togo back to Kigali,” I whispered to mysweet friend, my adopted sister who hadtaken me in and given me a new family.

Soon we were in the clouds again,flying high above my village, high abovethe sorrows that had stained our lives . .. so high that I felt I could touch the faceof God.

CHAPTER 24Forgiving the Living

I knew that my family was at peace, butthat didn’t ease the pain of missing them.And I couldn’t shake the cripplingsorrow that seized my heart whenever Ienvisioned how they’d been killed.Every night I prayed to be released frommy private agony, from the nightmaresthat haunted my sleep and troubled mydays. It took a while, but as always, Godanswered my prayers. This time, He didso by sending me a dream unlike anyI’ve ever had.

I was in a helicopter flying over myfamily’s house, but I was trapped in adark cloud. I could see Mom, Dad,Damascene, and Vianney high above me,standing in the sky and bathed in a warm,white light that radiated tranquility. Thelight intensified and spread across thesky until it engulfed the dark cloudhiding me. And suddenly, I was with myfamily again. The dream was so real thatI reached out and felt the warmth of theirskin, the gentleness of their touch. I wasso happy that I danced in the air.

Damascene was wearing a crisp whiteshirt and blue trousers. He looked at mewith a joyful glow and gave me hisbrilliant smile. My mother, father, and

Vianney stood behind him, holding handsand beaming at me. “Hey, Immaculée,it’s good to see that we can still makeyou happy,” my beautiful brother said.“You’ve been gloomy far too long andmust stop all this crying. Look at thewonderful place we’re in . . . can yousee how happy we are? If you continueto believe that we’re suffering, you’llforce us to return to the pain we’ve leftbehind. I know how much you miss us,but do you really want us to come backand suffer?”

“No, no, Damascene!” I cried out, astears of joy poured from my eyes. “Don’tcome back here! Wait for me there, and Iwill come join you all. When God is

done with me in this life, I will come toyou.”

“We’ll be here waiting, dear sister.Now heal your heart. You must love, andyou must forgive those who havetrespassed against us.”

My family slowly receded into the skyuntil they disappeared into the heavens. Iwas still hovering over my house, but Iwas no longer in a dark cloud . . . and nolonger in a helicopter. I was flying like abird above my village, above thepastor’s house and the French camp,above all the forests and rivers andwaterfalls of my beautiful country—Iwas soaring above Rwanda.

I felt so liberated from grief andgravity that I began to sing for joy. I sangfrom my heart, the words tumblinghappily from my mouth. The song was“Mwami Shimirwa,” which inKinyarwanda means “Thank You, God,for love that is beyond ourunderstanding.”

My singing woke the entire house,since it was the middle of the night.Sarah’s mom came running into myroom, worried that I’d fallen ill and wasdelirious with fever.

From that night onward, my tearsbegan to dry and my pain eased. I neveragain agonized over the fate of myfamily. I accepted that I would always

mourn and miss them, but I’d neverspend another moment worrying aboutthe misery they’d endured. By sendingme that dream, God had shown me thatmy family was in a place beyondsuffering.

He’d also shown me that I had to makeanother trip to my village.

A FEW WEEKS LATER COLONELGUEYE GAVE ME ANOTHER lifthome, but this time we drove cross-country. The landscape of my youth nolonger saddened me; rather, I washeartened by the warm memories stirredby the sights and sounds around me. Iwandered with friends through my

mother’s banana plantation and myfather’s mountainside coffee crops. Itold my aunts that if they weren’t afraidof going outside, they could harvest thecrops to support themselves.

Aunt Jeanne told me not to worryabout her being afraid: She was getting agun and would learn how to shoot. “Nexttime I’ll be ready,” she said.

Next time, I thought with a heavy sigh.

I went to my old house to visit mymom and Damascene. I knelt by theirgraves and told them all that hadhappened since I’d last seen them. I toldthem about my job at the UN and what Iplanned to do in the future. I missed

seeing their faces and hearing theirvoices, and I wept. But this time, mytears were a release, not a sorrow.

And then it was time to do what I’dcome to do.

I ARRIVED AT THE PRISON LATE INTHE AFTERNOON and was greeted bySemana, the new burgomaster of Kibuye.Semana had been a teacher before thegenocide, as well as a colleague andgood friend of my dad’s—he was like anuncle to me. Four of his six children hadbeen killed in the slaughter, and I toldhim he must have faith that his little oneswere with God.

“I can see how much the world haschanged; the children now comfort theparents,” he replied sadly.

As burgomaster, Semana was apowerful politician in charge ofarresting and detaining the killers whohad terrorized our area. He’dinterrogated hundreds of Interahamweand knew better than anyone whichkillers had murdered whom.

And he knew why I’d come to seehim. “Do you want to meet the leader ofthe gang that killed your mother andDamascene?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

I watched through Semana’s office

window as he crossed a courtyard to theprison cell and then returned, shoving adisheveled, limping old man in front ofhim. I jumped up with a start as theyapproached, recognizing the maninstantly. His name was Felicien, and hewas a successful Hutu businessmanwhose children I’d played with inprimary school. He’d been a tall,handsome man who always woreexpensive suits and had impeccablemanners. I shivered, remembering that ithad been his voice I’d heard calling outmy name when the killers searched forme at the pastor’s. Felicien had huntedme.

Semana pushed Felicien into the

office, and he stumbled onto his knees.When he looked up from the floor andsaw that I was the one who was waitingfor him, the color drained from his face.He quickly shifted his gaze and stared atthe floor.

“Stand up, killer!” Semana shouted.“Stand up and explain to this girl whyher family is dead. Explain to her whyyou murdered her mother and butcheredher brother. Get up, I said! Get up andtell her!” Semana screamed even louder,but the battered man remained hunchedand kneeling, too embarrassed to standand face me.

His dirty clothing hung from hisemaciated frame in tatters. His skin was

sallow, bruised, and broken; and hiseyes were filmed and crusted. His oncehandsome face was hidden beneath afilthy, matted beard; and his bare feetwere covered in open, running sores.

I wept at the sight of his suffering.Felicien had let the devil enter his heart,and the evil had ruined his life like acancer in his soul. He was now thevictim of his victims, destined to live intorment and regret. I was overwhelmedwith pity for the man.

“He looted your parents’ home androbbed your family’s plantation,Immaculée. We found your dad’s farmmachinery at his house, didn’t we?”Semana yelled at Felicien. “After he

killed Rose and Damascene, he keptlooking for you . . . he wanted you deadso he could take over your property.Didn’t you, pig?” Semana shouted again.

I flinched, letting out an involuntarygasp. Semana looked at me, stunned bymy reaction and confused by the tearsstreaming down my face. He grabbedFelicien by the shirt collar and hauledhim to his feet. “What do you have to sayto her? What do you have to say toImmaculée?”

Felicien was sobbing. I could feel hisshame. He looked up at me for only amoment, but our eyes met. I reached out,touched his hands lightly, and quietlysaid what I’d come to say.

“I forgive you.”

My heart eased immediately, and Isaw the tension release in Felicien’sshoulders before Semana pushed him outthe door and into the courtyard. Twosoldiers yanked Felicien up by hisarmpits and dragged him back towardhis cell. When Semana returned, he wasfurious.

“What was that all about, Immaculée?That was the man who murdered yourfamily. I brought him to you to question .. . to spit on if you wanted to. But youforgave him! How could you do that?Why did you forgive him?”

I answered him with the truth:

“Forgiveness is all I have to offer.”

EPILOGUENew Love, New Life

It’s impossible to predict how long itwill take a broken heart to heal. I wasblessed, though: With God’s help, myheart was strong enough to love anotherafter two years. But while I healed, Ilived a quiet, reflective life.

I continued to work at the UN and livewith Sarah’s family, and during my freetime I volunteered at a Kigali orphanage,acting as a big sister to dozens oftraumatized, lonely children. I wasalways on the lookout for the brothers

I’d cared for at the French camp—Inever found them, but I did find plenty ofother youngsters in need of love.

In late 1995, I was finally reunitedwith Aimable. His scholarshipadministrators decided that Rwanda wasstable enough to travel to and paid forhis ticket home. We’d written often andtalked on the phone a few times duringthe year, but we weren’t prepared foractually seeing each other face-to-face.I’ll never forget our meeting at theairport. Rather than a huge outpouring ofemotion, our reunion was tentative, as ifwe were guarding our hearts. We huggedand kissed, but cautiously, for I wasafraid of his pain and he of mine. We

found it difficult to look each other in theeye, knowing that if our true feelingssurfaced, we’d be unable to control them—that if we began crying, we’d never beable to stop.

My brother and I went to a restaurantwith some friends of mine and playactedour way through dinner, talking about hisstudies and my job, and even laughing atmy friends’ jokes. But later that night,when I was alone in my bed, I cried myeyes out. I’m sure he did, too.

The next day it was easier for us to betogether. We loved each other so muchthat we found comfort in each other’scompany, even though seeing each otherwas a painful reminder of our family’s

tragedy. I wanted to tell him that I wasstrong enough to deal with the pain, and Iwanted to console him, but I knewinstinctively that he was inconsolable.After a while, it was clear that we’dsilently agreed not to talk about what hadhappened to our family. We mentionedeveryone by name, but spoke about themas if they were still alive—it was theonly way we could cope. We carried onlike that through letters and phone callsfor the next two years. And things didn’tchange when Aimable graduated as adoctor of veterinary medicine andmoved to Kigali. We saw each otherevery day but would mention thegenocide in very general terms, as if ithad happened to someone else. When he

went to visit the graves of Mom andDamascene in Mataba, he didn’t ask meto go with him.

It’s been that way for us ever since.Aimable still lives in Kigali, is asuccessful doctor, and has a lovely wifeand child. We love each other dearlyand are as close as ever, speaking oftenand writing at least once a week. Butstill, after more than a decade, we nevertalk about our family in the past tense. Isuppose it’s our way of keeping theirmemory alive.

I PASSED MANY EVENINGSCLOISTERED IN PRAYER andmeditation at a nearby Jesuit center,

which became a second home to me. Itwas in those quiet surroundings that Iwas again able to experience the strong,intimate connection with God that hadsaved me during my long months inhiding.

As my heart slowly recovered, I beganto dream of sharing my life withsomeone special, of having a family ofmy own to care for and love. But I wasnervous . . . I remembered myexperience with John and was unwillingto subject my fragile heart to arelationship that could go nowhere andend painfully. So, as I’d learned to dowhenever faced with a problem orchallenge, I called on God. If I wanted a

marriage made in heaven, what bettermatchmaker could there be?

The Bible tells us that if we ask, weshall receive, and that’s exactly what Idid: I asked God to bring me the man ofmy dreams. I didn’t want to cheat myself—I wanted to be very clear on the kindof person God should send me. So I satdown with a piece of paper and sketchedthe face of the person I wanted to marry,and then I listed his height and otherphysical features. I asked for a man ofstrong character, one who had a warmpersonality; who was kind, loving, andtender; had a sense of humor and strongmorals; who loved me for who I was;who enjoyed children as much as I did;

and, above all, who loved God.

I didn’t want to give God a deadline,but having placed no restrictions onrace, nationality, or color—andconsidering that there were more thanfive billion people on the planet—Ifigured that six months would be areasonable amount of time to wait for theLord to send me my soul mate. I didinclude one caveat: Because I loved therosary and the Virgin Mary so much, andso many other aspects of Catholicismwere important to me, I told God that Hehad better send a Catholic. I wanted tomake sure that there would be no tensionin my marriage because of religion, andthat my husband worshiped God in the

same way I did.

Once I was clear on exactly what Iwanted, I began to visualize it, believingin my heart that it had already come topass. I’d put it all in God’s hands andknew that it was only a matter of timebefore He would bless me with mywish. But to hurry things along, I tookout my father’s red and white rosary andbegan praying for my husband to showup. Three months later, he did: Mr.Bryan Black, who was sent by God,courtesy of the UN, all the way fromAmerica!

Ironically, Bryan came to the countryto help set up the International CriminalTribunal for Rwanda, the UN court

prosecuting those responsible forplanning the genocide. Bryan hadworked for the UN for many years andwas excited to be part of a mission thatwould bring justice to the killers.Personally, I felt that he was on amission from God.

When I first saw Bryan at UNheadquarters, I thought that he lookedexactly like the man I’d asked God tosend me. Later, when I passed him in thehall and saw the deep gentleness in hiseyes, I was sure that he was “the one.”But since I’d put my faith in God, Iwaited for Him to bring Bryan to me . . .and He did.

Bryan asked me out on a date, and we

had a wonderful time. At the end of theevening, I was certain that we were aperfect match and that he was the personI’d spend the rest of my life with . . . ifonly he were Catholic! I braced myself,and asked him the big question: “Whatreligion are you?”

“I’m Catholic.”

I wanted to jump into his arms andshout, “Praise God! Welcome to my life—you’re here to stay!” But I worriedthat I’d scare the poor guy off. Soinstead, I took his hand in mine, smiled,and said, “Me, too.”

I never burdened Bryan with the fullstory of what I’d been through during the

genocide, but he listened to mewhenever my heart was heavy, and he letme cry on his shoulder whenever I feltthe need.

TWO YEARS LATER BRYAN AND IWERE MARRIED IN ATRADITIONAL Rwandan ceremony,and we came to America a short whilelater, in 1998. We have a loving,supportive marriage, and God hasblessed us with two beautiful children:our daughter, Nikeisha, and our son,Bryan, Jr. Every morning when I wakeup to my two little angels, I can see thebeauty and power of God in their faces. Inever stop thanking Him for all His

precious gifts.

God remains part of my life every dayand in every way; He sustains me,protects me, and fulfills me. He makesme a better wife, a better mother, and abetter person. And He’s helped me makea career for myself as well. After mychildren were born, I wanted to resumemy working life, but finding a good jobin New York City was even morechallenging than it had been in Kigaliafter the genocide—there were so manypeople, and so few jobs!

But I prayed for God to guide me, andthen I looked for the position I wanted—at the United Nations in Manhattan. OnceI knew where I wanted to work, I

visualized that I already had a job there,using the same technique of positivethinking I’d always used: believe andreceive! I went to the UN Website,printed out the directory that listed theemployees’ names and titles, and thenadded my name to the list. I even gavemyself a telephone extension! I tackedthe directory onto my wall and looked atit every day. Of course, I also filled outan application, submitted a résumé, andmade follow-up phone calls—but so hadmore than a thousand other people. I keptlooking at my directory, believing thatthe job was mine, and I prayed everyday until my phone rang. Sure enough, Iwas short-listed out of hundreds of otherapplicants and was offered the job after

I went in for an interview. I’ve neverceased to be amazed by seeing God’spower at work!

This is the same power that I feelpropelling me forward into the nextphase of my life. God saved my soul andspared my life for a reason: He left meto tell my story to others and show asmany people as possible the healingpower of His love and forgiveness.

There are people I left behind that Imust help. I hope to return to Rwanda asoften as I can to aid in restoring hope tothe hearts of genocide survivors,especially the orphaned children. I amcurrently setting up a foundation that willhelp victims of genocide and war

everywhere to heal in body, mind, andspirit.

GOD’S MESSAGE EXTENDSBEYOND BORDERS: Anyone in theworld can learn to forgive those whohave injured them, however great orsmall that injury may be. I see the truthof this every day. For example, Irecently shared my story with a newfriend, and a few days later she called tosay that my experiences had inspired herto contact an uncle she’d once beenclose to but hadn’t spoken to in years.

“We’d had a big fight, and I was soangry that I swore I’d never speak to himagain,” she confided. “But after hearing

how you managed to forgive the peoplewho killed your family, I had to pick upthe phone and call him. I didn’t ask himfor an apology—I just opened my heartand forgave him. Soon we were talkingthe way we used to, with so much love.We couldn’t believe that we’d wastedso many years.”

Similarly, a genocide survivor whosefamily had been murdered called mefrom Rwanda not long ago, crying overthe phone and asking me to explain thesteps I’d taken to forgive the killers.

“I thought you were crazy to forgivethem, Immaculée—that you were lettingthem off the hook. But the pain andbitterness I’ve been carrying in my heart

for 11 years is about to kill me. I’vebeen so miserable for so long that I don’thave the energy to live anymore. But Ikeep hearing people talk about how youforgave your family’s killers and movedon with your life . . . that you’re happyand have a husband, children, and acareer! I need to learn how to let go ofmy hatred, too. I need to live again.”

I told her how I put my trust in God,and related all I’d done to forgive andmove ahead . . . everything I’ve nowwritten down in this book. She thankedme and later told me that she’d askedGod to help her forgive the killers, too.

Then there was the woman in Atlantawho approached me in tears at the end of

a talk I gave. She told me that herparents had been killed in the NaziHolocaust when she was a baby: “Myheart has been full of anger my entire life. . . I’ve suffered and cried over myparents for so many years. But hearingyour story about what you lived throughand were able to forgive has inspiredme. I’ve been trying all my life toforgive the people who killed myparents, and now I think I can do it. I canlet go of my anger and be happy.”

At the same seminar, a 92-year-oldlady put her arms around me and huggedme tightly. She was so emotional that shewas barely able to speak, but she foundher voice. I’ll never forget her words: “I

thought it was too late for me to forgive.I’ve been waiting to hear someone saywhat you did—I had to know that it waspossible to forgive the unforgivable. Iam at peace now.”

As for the land of my birth, I know thatRwanda can heal herself if each heartlearns the lesson of forgiveness. Tens ofthousands who were jailed for killingduring the genocide are starting to bereleased into their old towns andvillages, so if there was ever a time forforgiveness, it is now. Rwanda can be aparadise again, but it will take the loveof the entire world to heal my homeland.And that’s as it should be, for whathappened in Rwanda happened to us all

—humanity was wounded by thegenocide.

The love of a single heart can make aworld of difference. I believe that wecan heal Rwanda—and our world—byhealing one heart at a time.

I hope my story helps.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, I must thank God above all othersfor being a wonderful father and bestfriend, my truest confidant . . . and mysavior. You have been my constantcompanion in the best of times and thevery, very worst of times. Thank You,God, for opening my heart and letting melove again. I am nothing without You,and I am everything with You. Isurrender to You, Lord—let Your willbe done in my life. I continue to walk inYour footsteps.

To the Holy Mother, the BlessedVirgin Mary: I feel you with me always.Words can’t convey the depth of my

gratitude for your love and care. Keepmy heart close to yours, Mother—youmake me whole, and I will love youforever. Thank you for appearing inKibeho to warn us of the danger ahead . .. if only we’d listened to you!

To Dr. Wayne Dyer: You are an angelsent from heaven. I thank God forbringing you into my life, and I feel as ifour spirits have known each otherforever! Your unsurpassed kindness,sage advice, and fatherly affection meanthe world to me. It’s so easy tounderstand why so many people havebeen inspired by your words—you aremy hero, and I love you dearly. Thankyou from the bottom of my heart for

believing in me, for guiding me towardmy dream, and for making me aware ofmy true calling. And thank you formaking this book a reality and letting metell my story.

To Skye Dyer: Thank you forintroducing me to your dad. I love you!

To Maya Labos: I love traveling withyou—thank you for all your support andkindness. I’m so glad I know you, and Ilove you!

To Reid Tracy: A thousand thanks forbelieving in me and making all of thishappen, for standing behind me all theway, and for making Hay House a homefor my book.

To the wonderful team at Hay House:Jill Kramer, Shannon Littrell, NancyLevin, Christy Salinas, Jacqui Clark,Stacey Smith, and Jeannie Liberati—youhave been a joy to work with. Thank youall for your guidance, patience, andencouragement.

To my collaborator, Steve Erwin:After working together on this book, Idon’t think that anyone knows me aswell as you do. You are a wonderfulperson, and like a brother to me now.Thank you for being such a goodtherapist—the sensitivity you showedwhen asking so many intimate questionsabout my family means so much to me. Ithank God for your magic hands—your

writing brought my words and emotionsto life. My gratitude to your wife,Natasha, as well, who understands allthe emotions I expressed in this book,since we share the pain of losing ourmoms too soon. Natasha, you’re like asister!

To Judith Garten: I love you. Thankyou for encouraging me and believing inthe message of this book.

To Gail Straub and David Gershon:Thank you for pushing me to finishwriting my story and for making mebelieve in myself.

To Ned Leavitt: I thank you with allmy heart for your wonderful advice and

believing that I had something importantto say.

To Elizabeth Lesser: Thank you forthe good counsel and for inviting me tothe Omega workshop in New Yorkwhere I met Wayne.

To Vincent Kayijuka and EsperanceFundira: I’ll never forget how youencouraged and believed in me from thebeginning. I love you guys! And a bigthanks to Wariara Mbuga, RobertMcMahon, Lila Ramos, Anne Kellett,Bill Berkeley, and Rebeka Martensenfor all the help, kind words, goodadvice, and invaluable encouragement.

Many thanks to my colleagues at

UNDP and the Evaluation Office—witha special thanks to David Rider Smith,Ruth Abraham, and Anish Pradhan, foryour understanding and support. Godbless you—I love you.

To the many dear friends I couldn’tmention, yet who have helped me in oneway or another: Thank you—you are allin my heart.

And a very special thanks to two veryspecial priests, Father Ganza JeanBaptiste and my godfather, Father JeanBaptiste Bugingo.

To my brother Aimable Ntukanyagwe,with whom I share so many memories oflove and sorrow, and so much unspoken

pain: I hope that in Left to Tell, you’llfind answers to many of the questionsyou’ve been unable to ask, and I’ve beenunable to offer. I thank the Almighty thatyou are alive—you mean the world tome. Don’t worry about our folks . . .they’re happy, and they are our specialadvocates in heaven! Thank you forbeing such a wonderful big brother—forthe unfailing love you’ve shown me frommy earliest memory, for your faith in me,and for always encouraging me to writeour family story. And my warmest thanksto Sauda: I’m blessed to be able to callyou my sister-in-law and my friend—thank you for extending our family. As afellow genocide survivor, this book willhave special meaning for you. I love you

so much!

To Chantal Nyirarukundo, ConsoleeNishimwe, and Stella Umutoni: You aremy little sisters! Thank you for beingexcited about this book—you’ve been agreat inspiration. Know that it is for youas well, for surviving.

To my beautiful children, Nikeishaand B.J. (Bryan Jr.), and my littlenephew, Ryan: You are my heart, mylittle angels who came to me likeflowers from God. Thank you for thepurity of your love and for giving me areason to live again. I wish that we livedin a world where your innocent livesweren’t affected by hatred and you’dnever have to hear the words genocide

or holocaust. When you’re old enough,you will meet your grandparents anduncles in the pages of Left to Tell—theirmemories will live on in my book. Butfor now I will pass along their love toyou whenever you wrap your preciousarms around me for hugs. You are mylife, and I love you.

And finally, but certainly not least,thank you to my wonderful husband,Bryan: You rescued me from lonelinessand are truly my better half—the halfsent by God to complete me. Thank youfor your tireless efforts and for helpingme tell my story, and for all yourencouragement and the late nights ofreading and editing. Thank you for your

constant love and protection, and foraccepting God as our friend. I love you,sweetheart, with all my heart and soul.

— Immaculée

Immaculée, thank you for letting mehelp you tell your remarkable story tothe world. Your courage, faith,resilience, insight, and wisdom continueto move and inspire me. Working withyou has been my privilege, and I’mblessed to be able to call you my friend.

Thanks to Jill Kramer at Hay Housefor this opportunity—and for yourprofessionalism, courtesy, and speed-of-light e-mails.

Thanks also to Shannon Littrell at HayHouse for your excellent suggestions andcomments.

A special thanks to Faith Farthing ofFinalEyes Communications for your

sound advice and exacting attention todetail.

And most of all, thank you to NatashaStoynoff, my wife, my life, myeverything. God only knows where I’dbe without you.

— Steve Erwin

ABOUT THE AUTHORSImmaculée Ilibagiza

Immaculée Ilibagiza was born inRwanda and studied electronic andmechanical engineering at the NationalUniversity. She lost most of her familyduring the 1994 genocide. Four yearslater, she emigrated from Rwanda to theUnited States and began working for theUnited Nations in New York City. She isestablishing the Ilibagiza Foundation tohelp others heal from the long-termeffects of genocide and war. Immaculéelives in Long Island with her husband,Bryan Black, and their two children,

Nikeisha and Bryan, Jr.

Steve Erwin

Steve Erwin is a writer and award-winning journalist working in the printand broadcast media. Most recently, hewas a foreign correspondent for theCanadian Broadcasting Corporation. Helives in Manhattan with his wife,journalist Natasha Stoynoff, and iswriting his second novel.

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