Remember My Country
A plane fell from the sky
And all fell with it.
It was then that I entered Hell,
Afraid of never escaping
Waiting
Shaking
Crying…
The stench of bodies,
The loss
The fear.
I will never be able to forget.
My country,
Refrain from hatred.
And you, who reads this,
Remember Rwanda.
Remember
Those who suffered.
Those who killed.
Those who died.
Remember me, my family,
My country.
“On this night of April 6th 1994, my Hutu friends, I have terrible news. Our President Juvénal Habyarimana and the President of Burundi, Cyprien Ntaryamira, were shot down in a plane to Kigali. Today, the peace talks come to an end, and you know as well as I do that we must punish the cockroaches who are responsible for these deaths. It is now that you must cut the tall trees. I repeat, cut the tall trees!” I still remember the moment these words were spoken on the Radio Mille Collines, when the expression on my mother’s face was the most troubled I had ever seen it. I sat in the living room of our small house in Kigali with my mother, father, and sister, all of us crowded around our small radio.
“What does he mean by cut the tall trees, Mama?” I remember my sister saying. My mother did not answer. She only gave my father a worried look. But three violent pounds on our door interrupted any chance to exchange words.
“Military! Open the door!” Pounding again. My mother instantly drew my sister and I closer to her.
“You must get out now!” said my father in a harsh whisper, “Tom, go with your mother and sister. Hide in the bushes out back. Do not make a sound! Go now, take anything of value that you can!” My mother frantically ran to her bedroom to collect her jewelry as the pounding on our door continued. I remember the voice, the sound of the fist banging on the wood, the fear on my father’s face that I had never seen before.
After embracing my father and taking the keys to our car, my mother grabbed us as we escaped through the back door and into the brush that separated our yard from our neighbor’s. We huddled together, shaking, straining our ears to hear what was happening inside. I glanced toward our neighbor’s yard, only to see the house in flames. Bloody, motionless bodies lay on the ground. My mother gasped and shielded my eyes toward her chest as I began to weep.
It was then that we heard the shouting from the house—the muffled yells of my father and the military man. It ended with a gunshot. A gunshot that pierced my heart, and still leaves a gaping wound. My mother clamped her hand to her mouth as the shock paralyzed her. It only took a few minutes for the men to drive away in their military truck. Soon, our own house was enveloped in an angry blaze, and we knew there was no helping him. My mother wept and wept, the tears flowing as a stream, and I wept with her. At the age of thirteen, I did not know of anything I could do but embrace her, even in my own pain.
“You there!” The fear struck me as it rarely has before, “Come out from there!” A member of the Hutu militia had found us. “Come out, you cockroaches!”
I could see that my mother’s lips trembled as she stood up to confront the man, but, despite this, she behaved in a manner of relative calm. “Please sir,” replied my mother as she wiped the tears from her cheeks, “It is only I and my children.” He pointed the gun at us threateningly. “We will leave, I promise, if you only let us take our car. We will go.”
“And what makes you think I will let you do that?” The smirk on his face and the way he looked at my mother disgusted me.
“Because I have all this to give you.” My mother pulled jewelry out of her pocket, and stretched her hand out toward him. She cringed as he touched her hand in his haste to take the jewelry from her, but she willingly gave it to him. “It—it’s real silver and gold. Please, take it. And we will leave.”
His eyes had lit up the way they do when greed takes over. “Alright…I suppose you can go. Just go quickly! And never come back!”
“Thank you. Thank you, sir. Come quickly, children!” My mother hurried us to our car, and I was fearful of the soldier changing his mind. But he did not. We drove toward the center of Kigali, as roadblocks prevented us from leaving the city.
It is still difficult for me to describe what I saw on those death-ridden roads. I can remember the stench, the blood, the upturned cars, the fiery houses. My mother began to speak as tears ran down her pale cheeks, “I am sorry. Please don’t look. We will find a place where we can sleep, and then I will take you to your father’s friend, Paul. He may be able to help us.” My mother stared off down the street, still as a stone, cheeks damp, but no expression. I sat in a daze, holding my sister’s hand, for what must have been about twenty minutes. My mother pulled the car into a seemingly secluded garage where we were to sleep for the remainder of the night. I was restless for hours, but my body eventually drifted off into sleep, my mother and sister lying next to me…
* * *
That night I dreamt of my father. A vision of him came to me, as if he had never left. He told me that this would eventually be over, that I would be able to escape. I asked him how, but he did not give me an answer, saying that it did not matter. Then I dreamt of other things, remembering the days when I was even younger, playing with him, sneaking candy from him so mother wouldn’t see, jumping rope with my sister in our back yard while my father watched and laughed. Those days were over now, but just dreaming of them gave me comfort. They made me forget the terrible night for a moment…
* * *
I thought I heard the pounds of a fist against our wooden door, but I awoke only to remember the happenings of the night before, and to see a young man banging his fist against the window of our car. Without warning, he broke the window and opened the door, waving a bloodstained machete in the air. My screams woke my mother and sister, and my mother frantically got out of the car in her determination to protect us. The colorful shirt the young man wore made it clear that he was a member of the Interhamwe (a Hutu youth group), the one we knew to fear the most.
He grabbed my arm, squeezing it to the point where I thought it would burst, and as I cringed at the thought of his machete coming down upon me, he yelled that we must all follow him onto the street. There were others with him who we could see now, and we knew there was no way of resisting them. We followed him to the street, only to see a large group of armed members of the Interhamwe surrounding other Tutsis who were lined up against a wall. The look of utter fear on their faces was all too familiar, and I could not help but stare at the ground.
My mother, sister, and I were soon thrust upon the wall, causing my sister to cry at the pain of her fall. As I went to comfort her, a member of the Interhamwe pushed my mother up against the wall and brought a machete to her neck, causing my sister to sob even louder. It was then that I closed my eyes, ready for them to take my sister, ready for them to take me.
“Please, no!” cried my mother. Tears were flowing freely yet again, “I will do anything! Here, take this jewelry.” She fussed in her pockets, “It’s all I have left, but it’s worth a lot of money.” As he saw the silver and gold sparkle in the hot sun, the man relaxed his grip and seemed to take interest in her offer. He lowered his machete and examined the necklaces and bracelets, but I did not like the smirk that had taken form on his face. I didn’t trust him.
“This is enough to save the boy,” he replied.
Frantic, my mother asked, “Please, what else can I give you to convince you to let us go?” At hearing this, the man smiled and guided my mother toward the garage, where he could speak to her without us hearing. I strained to try to hear their conversation, or read their lips, but I could make out nothing. After a few minutes, they began to walk toward the garage together.
“Mama, where are you going?” I asked nervously. I did not want to leave her out of my sight.
“Just stay there, Tom. Don’t worry; I will be back in a few minutes. Just take care of your sister while we talk.” I watched the man guiding her further into the garage, his grip firm and his stride brisk. I tried to walk toward them, but another Interhamwe member hit me and told me to stay where I was. All I could do was wait with my sister, holding her hand while we sat on the cold concrete of the sidewalk. We watched and waited as other Interhamwe members drove by in their open trucks. They waved their flags and their bloody machetes in the air, laughing at us Tutsis who awaited our deaths. At this point, I had truly stepped into Hell, where it seemed as though there would be no salvation. The city had gone mad, and I was going mad along with it.
After what I guessed had been about fifteen minutes, my mother and the man finally came back. My mother’s cheeks were flushed and the man was sweaty. She had a look of disgust and shame on her face, and it was only until later on in my life that I realized what she had actually done to keep us alive. When she saw us, she grabbed our hands without hesitation and led us back to our car. The man stood and watched us as we drove away. He must have been a sort of leader, for as I looked through the back window at the figures that steadily grew smaller, he made a command to the others. I watched as the Interhamwe members brutally struck the Tutsis with their blunt machetes. Blood was everywhere, even from a distance, and the screams of those who were dying were audible, even from inside our car. I will never forget that vision.
After a few terrifying and extremely trying days in which roadblocks still kept us from leaving the city, my mother, sister and I finally arrived at the Hotel des Mille Collines. My father’s friend, Paul, had been made manager there, and he had started to give people shelter from the genocide. He took us in as refugees, feeding and protecting us through dealings with those in power and bribery with those who frequently came on missions to kill. For three months we stayed there, waiting for someone to come to Rwanda and stop the madness. But no one ever did. Not even the Americans.
It has been estimated that around one million people were killed during those ninety days. After the Tutsi Rebel Forces were finally able to develop enough strength to resist the Interhamwe, my mother, sister, and I were able to escape Rwanda and find a temporary home in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Out of his kindness and bravery, Paul Rusesabagina helped save 1,260 Hutu and Tutsi refugees during those three months. I will never be as grateful or as indebted to someone as I am to him.
Today, I live in Brussels with my fiancée. Her family also has a story of escaping the genocide. We are truly the lucky ones. My sister lives just outside the city limits, and she studies at a university. I just saw her several hours ago, before my mother’s funeral was over. My mother asked me, before she passed, if I could write a story of our experiences during the genocide. She said, “Tom, it’s the only way that we can help prevent such a thing from happening.” And so, I sit here now, writing this.
In Rwanda today, some Tutsis still live next to the Hutus who killed their families. The country has not healed. For this reason and many others, it is important to remember our story. In my lifetime, I have learned that people can be vulnerable to evil and madness, but they can also be full of valor and great sacrifice for others. I ask you to remember my family’s story. Remember that it could happen to you; it could happen to anybody. And help those who suffer to heal. It is the most I can do for myself and for others who continue to be plagued by the conflicts of our kind.
