Mukoli

We had a nice life, my husband and me. He worked in the quarry while I stayed home to  raise our children. We had three, including my baby girl of just two months, Marie. We  had been married for seven years and had wonderful plans. Now, they will never be. 

I was with him and the children. We were at home. I was preparing dinner when the radio  announced that someone had shot down the president’s plane and that everybody on board was dead, including the president. 

Of course, we were totally shocked. The president was returning from a meeting with the  RPF (the Rwandan Patriotic Front), where he had signed a new peace agreement. After  four years of civil war, we were all, I thought, relieved. The Hutu and Tutsi had felt increased tension, but the peace agreement possibly meant a new, happier time in our  lives. But this was not meant to be either.  

That was the last night I would experience that wonderful scene – my husband playing  with our two older children and me with Marie. Afterward began a continuous nightmare,  one that would last a hundred days.  

The Hutu – friends, neighbors, even people from our church – took machetes to maim,  dismember, and kill us, the Tutsi. For over 14 weeks, we experienced unimaginable horror  as the Hutu brutally took our friends and family from us. 

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CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY 

Today, I begin covering Kwibuka 30 – the 30^th annual commemoration of the Hutu  slaughtering of between eight hundred thousand and one million Tutsi in the Spring of 1994. I have done my research. 

Having planned for months in advance, the Hutu flooded the streets and radio airways of  Rwanda, killing people with callous disregard. Most often, the Hutus used blunt machetes in their massacre of innocents.

On April 6, 1994, Rwanda’s Hutu president, Juvenal Habyarimana, and his plane were shot down with surface-to-air missiles as they approached Kigali International Airport. The  crash killed Habyarimana and everyone on board, including Burundi president Cyprien Ntaryamira. 

The two men had just signed a peace accord with the Tutsi rebel group, the Rwandan  Patriotic Front (RPF), to end a four-year civil war. The presidents were returning from Tanzania to celebrate the agreement with the Rwandan people. 

Blaming the Tutsi minority for the assassination of Habyarimana, a Hutu, the militant Hutus began murdering thousands of people each day with systematic precision. Especially in the beginning, attacks were well organized and focused on targeted individuals. 

The Hutu mainly used machetes, but firearms, grenades, and even nail-impaled bats were  employed as well. Initially, the Hutu were highly coordinated and followed a particular  process. Identify, isolate, and butcher their victims. As refined as this approach was, later,  there would also be impromptu mass executions.  

Regardless of individual or in mass, all attacks involved the use of dehumanizing methods. Sexual violence, torture, and mutilation were typical and helped increase the abhorrent  terror of the onslaught. 

With an emphasis on making the Tutsi suffer, a quarter million Tutsi women were raped before most were finally killed. Over the next 100 days, the barbarism defied understanding. All the while, the United Nations and the global north watched on in muted silence. 

At the time, Lieutenant-General Roméo Dallaire led a group of U.N.-designated  peacekeepers in Kigali. However, Dallaire and his top staff felt the cohort was too small (~2,500) to effectively act against the ongoing attack that had quickly spread nationwide. Dallaire called for help, but the U.N. failed to reinforce as requested. 

Following the slaying of ten Belgian paratroopers early on and being urged to inaction by a reluctant Security Council, the U.N. instead ordered Dallaire to send the remaining Belgian troops back home. This left him with a force of only about one-eighth the size of its  original capacity. Additionally, the troops sent home were, by Dallaire’s estimation, his best trained, best-equipped soldiers.  

As a result, over the next 14 weeks, the world allowed the onslaught to continue. In the end,  some estimates put the killing at more than 1.17 million Tutsi. Included in this were also  moderate Hutu who were killed when they failed to cooperate with the more radical  elements of the Hutu militia.

Finally, by early July, the 10,000-strong RPF, led by Paul Kagame, entered the country in  and quickly put a stop to the genocide. By 15 July, exactly 100 days since the president’s  plane was shot down, the killing ended. 

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At first, the Hutu militia, police, and army seemed focused on killing only certain people – I  mean, people who were important militarily or politically. They had lists of people they were searching for. The Hutu-controlled radio station directed them and seemed to know where specific people might be. If people resisted or failed to cooperate, they would kill – even other Hutu – instantly. The terror this generated was beyond imagination. 

The Hutu eliminated all the people on their lists, but still, the radio station called for them  to continue… to kill the ‘cockroaches’, they called us. To weed us out!  

Village chiefs, clergy, and heads of households. That is when my father and husband were  killed, then my brothers. 

The Hutu were finding people and killing them in their own homes. Neighbors would keep watch, and when Tutsi were at home, that is when the militia would come.  

We hid as best we could because it was no longer safe to remain at home. At first, we went to Tutsi friends of ours, but they, too, were full of fear. Finally, we resorted to hiding in the woods. 

Some people hid at our church, thinking they would be safe but, no. The militia appeared  from nowhere, surrounded the church, and burned it to the ground. As the people came  out trying to escape the flames, the Hutu killed them. They all died in pain and terror. 

It was impossible to live normally. We could not sleep. I had trouble keeping food down as each time I would eat anything, I would think of the Hutu dismembering my husband before they finally killed him or watching from a distance as the Hutu would hack away at  some poor person.  

They made me watch when they killed my husband. I learned later that part of the Hutus’ intention was not just to kill us but to instill a fear of living.  

The smell of decaying flesh became a sickening memory as the bodies began to pile up – I  mean, people could not bury them since there were so many. Plus, we were busy hiding so there often was no one around to do the  burying. Country-wide, the Hutu militia was executing between eight and ten thousand people every day. Finally, people buried the dead together in large, mass graves. No one wanted this, but the situation forced this on us as a necessity. 

The killing, going on day after day after day, was entirely beyond our experience, wholly  beyond our imagination. The Hutu were killing people, slaughtering us like so many pigs  simply for having an identity card that said Tutsi!  

We could not sleep; we could not eat. We prayed, we cried, we feared for our lives  constantly, and strange as it sounds, we even began thinking it would be better to die; die  sooner than later. We only hoped it would be sooner and that the end would come quickly instead of as we had witnessed. 

By the end of April, all of my relatives – my two older children, parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews – were all dead. Only Marie and I remained. I could no  longer feel the pain. But I thought I would die. I prayed to die to escape this horrible  nightmare. 

The rapes were occurring along with the killings. Kill the men, rape the women. Then, kill nearly all of the women but keep some of us around and rape us often. People would watch while the Hutu raped me. I have HIV today from it, which is its own constant reminder of my life, my horror. The worst finally came one day in early May. They were raping me, and I guess that I put up more than my usual  struggle. It was no longer a fight, but I struggled too much. Enraged, the man took Marie and threw her again and again against the wall until she was just a rag doll hanging by her arm he held her by (sobbing). To survive everything only to remember Marie’s murder – this wicked, wicked thing every day for the rest of my life! 

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JUSTICE 

Under the new, RPF-controlled government, Paul Kagame quickly assumed control of the country. Later in November, the United Nations Security Council established the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR).

The ICTR’s mission was to render justice with respect to persons responsible for genocide and other serious violations of international law. Along with the national court system of Rwanda, these two judicial structures attempted to deal with the huge number of cases before them. 

By its conclusion, the ICTR found sixty people guilty who had been charged with genocide. It referred ten others to the national court system. Nine remain at large.  

In part, because of the overwhelming number of cases before the courts, seven years after the conclusion of the genocide, the Gacaca (pronounced ‘gah-cha-cha’) court system was also adopted. Gacaca, an initiative of the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission (NURC), is a traditional system that communities knew and readily adopted.  

The goals of Gacaca included reconciliation, speed in bringing offenders to justice, and demonstrating Rwanda’s ability to solve its own problems using its own time-tested methods. Gacaca also improved the likelihood and occurrence of returning offenders back into society. 

Under Gacaca, victims were able to confront their attackers face-to-face. It also allowed offenders to confess before their community and, in numerous cases, receive mercy. 

If the indicted could demonstrate their repentance and desire for reconciliation with genuine sincerity, the offenders often received reduced, even light, sentences for their crimes. This remains one of the singular most remarkable aspects of the Rwandan reconciliation effort: the Tutsi’s forgiveness of the Hutu for their offenses and atrocities. 

By May 2012, with its work concluded, the Gacaca courts had heard well over a million cases nationwide. The Gacaca courts have been generally deemed successful. Control over them was local. It helped offenders to return to society successfully.  

Further, Gacaca managed the enormous backlog of cases that had been pending. Finally, and perhaps best of all, it helped victims heal in a way no national or international court ever could. The Gacaca courts provided a definitive resolution to the victims’ ordeal. 

Only one notable failure marked Gacaca’s record. This was its failure to effectively compensate victims. However, reaching this goal was beyond the capability of the Gacaca courts or the perpetrators being tried.  

The damage inflicted was simply too great. Regardless, victims were left without adequate compensation for the extensive, life-long injuries incurred or the crimes committed against them. Additional measures were needed. 

In part, because of the Gacaca courts’ inability to provide relief for survivors, a form of public assistance was adopted under the name of Girinka. Girinka provided one heifer for each impoverished family of the most impoverished families in the country.  

The program, sometimes called “One Cow, One Family,” helped to curb poverty, addressed child malnutrition, and strengthened social cohesion. In part, the idea was that the cow would provide milk to aid in nourishment while excess milk could be sold for extra income. Even the cow’s manure was used as fertilizer. The manure helped to grow crops such as maize, bananas, cassava, and beans. Girinka reached 350,000 families by 2017. 

Historically, cows were an important symbol of wealth and social status for the Tutsi in Rwanda. The UNICEF reported that 90% of the country’s cows were killed during the genocide, in large part due to the Hutus’ desire to  strike back against this Tutsi symbol of status and well-being. 

Girinka thus helped change the way possessing a cow was viewed. In a similarly constructive  way, Girinka helped re-instill the idea of ‘passing on’ cow ownership. This was because the owner would give the firstborn calf to a neighbor, thus helping to rebuild relationships that were damaged during the genocide. Giving a cow to someone, Gutanga Inka, translates as ‘sealing a bond of friendship.’ This continues as a cultural practice that is uniquely valued  and practiced by Rwandans. 

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After the killing ended in July, we could only mourn our dead, heal our bodies, and see what remained of our homes and our livelihood. Before the killing, my friend had worked at the cereal business, but because it was Tutsi-owned, it was burned down, and she could  no longer work. 

The Hutu had also slaughtered our cows – not for food, but because they were a symbol of status for those of us who owned them. Also, thousands of Tutsis who had lived across the border in Zaire or Burundi returned but were now homeless. 

Orphans wandered the streets searching for food, for a family to take them in. Many of  the women who survived now had HIV from the raping. Also, many amputees were recovering from their wounds and learning how to live without an arm or a leg. We were the walking dead. Numb from pain and so many cruel memories… 

I still cried uncontrollably. We did not understand how we had been spared while so many had been taken. Sleep was still next to impossible. We would wake in the middle of the night screaming for it to stop, only to realize that though the killing had ended, our pain and suffering were still fresh. 

The government arrested people and announced they would find hiding offenders and bring them to justice. I understand they are still searching for some of the Hutu responsible for planning the genocide. Still, it wasn’t until the local courts, the Gacaca, began that ordinary people could confront their attackers. 

Some offenders denied their crimes, but many confessed and testified, and so were given a reduced punishment. Almost none of them could pay for the damage they had done. In reality, though, no one could pay so many enough for what was taken. Our husbands, our children (sobbing again). 

The government began some programs to help bring us together – Hutu and Tutsi – to try and unify us. In the early days of this, I was very doubtful. Most of us who survived still felt a great rage towards our attackers. The wounds were still too recent, too fresh for us even to begin to approach the idea of forgiveness, of reconciliation. How could I ever forgive those who took so much? Forgive those who raped me till I bled? 

Still, we encouraged one another in lots of ways, but one was to attend and participate in these activities and events. To show up! As the weeks passed, we found strength, and with faith, our friends, and our community, we slowly began to improve. 

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PEACE AND RECONCILIATION 

In 1999, the government established the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission (NURC). The NURC was to facilitate harmony, understanding, and accord. NURC’s was to achieve reconciliation based on reaching three milestones. 

First, the NURC attempted to replace fear with peaceful coexistence. Second, it tried to restore confidence and trust in others, in their communities, and in their public institutions. Third, it aimed for people to develop compassion and understanding. 

The NURC’s work has been critically reviewed for its selective truth-telling, for instance, slanting history in favor of the Tutsi. It has also received criticism for the inadequacy of its re-education efforts.  

These training endeavors included Ingando, which used one to three-month solidarity camps focused on civic education and cooperation. Another set of activities was called Itorero ry’Igihugu. NURC reintroduced this traditional program in 2009. Itorero provides civic-minded training focusing on building unity, selflessness, and patriotism. It also emphasizes voluntarism, humility, and integrity. 

Many survivors lost everything. They lost their families, their homes, and their livelihoods. Nearly everything that ‘was’, was affected. Many suffer to this day from HIV and the loss of limbs. Not only were the Tutsi cows taken from them, but their businesses had been destroyed as well. So, survivors continued on with complicated health issues and severe poverty. More help was still needed. 

But these same people had much yet to contribute towards restoring their own wellness. Like the proverbial Phoenix rising from its ashes, Rwandan society rose to new heights in restoring peace and unity and in reconciling with enemies of the past.  

In fact, some speak of Rwandans as models for the global world in this regard. That is, with respect to their individual and national recovery, Rwandans have now had peace and approximations of reconciliation for the past thirty years. In part, this impressive feat is due to the imaginative nature of their ways and how both Hutu and Tutsi traditions are rooted in creative expression. 

To its credit, the NURC has supported activities from its inception to foster reconciliation while aiding in the healing process. Key to its success a number of these programs use the  arts to heal and transform. One significant activity that has received considerable attention is Kwibuka. 

Kwibuka means ‘to remember’. It is an annual commemoration of the genocide. Beginning on 7 April each year and lasting 100 days, Kwibuka orchestrates various performances, art exhibitions, and cultural events. The activities of Kwibuka always honor the living and remember the dead with dignity. Promoting unity among all Rwandans is also a primary goal of Kwibuka. 

Some of this year’s activities will include storytelling using the visual arts, documentary films, performing arts, and musical tributes and concerts. Both poetry and literature will be featured as well. This April, Kwibuka 30 will conclude with the 10^th edition of the Ubumuntu Arts Festival 2024.  Ubumuntu means ‘being human’. It celebrates the unique relationship between the arts and humanity. This year’s theme is ‘Integrity: Resilience in the face of adversity.’ It will, once again, embody and develop the festival’s continuing slogan, “I am because you are, you are because I am: we are human together.”

The curator of Ubumuntu is Hope Azeda. Azeda is a McNulty Prize Laureate for her courage, bold vision, and the lasting impact of her work. She is also the founder of the Mashirika Performing Arts Media Company in Rwanda. 

A jubilant festival of the arts and humanity, Ubumuntu 2024, will foster a creative space for ‘understanding, compassion and unity.’ Through various media, it will ‘inspire positive change through the power of art and humanity.’ As in the past, this year’s Ubumuntu will feature theater, film productions, music, and dance. Attendees and contributors will travel worldwide to take part in this event. 

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In my own recovery, one thing I found very worthwhile was storytelling. A group formed here in Muhanga that allowed us to share our individual stories. For the first year or so, nearly all we did was communicate our suffering – how we lost our loved ones and how our lives were destroyed.  

But over time, we began sharing happier stories of when our loved ones were alive and how they were a part of us, and we were a part of them. I found this to be very helpful. A real outlet.  

I especially began to understand the hurt of the other survivors. For a while, I had thought I was the only one who had been so deeply affected. But the storytelling allowed me to experience the pain being experienced by other people. 

I was not the only one who had experienced such pain and anger. Everyone around me had! This made me heal as much as anything, just understanding that I was not alone. A sense of community developed because the others felt the same. 

Also, because of storytelling, a couple of our group began to act in a local group. We all would go and watch our friends ‘on stage,’ often portraying a survivor. We always enjoyed this too. 

My new friend, Kwizera, paints. At first, she only painted her nightmares. These were very disturbing images of violent confrontations. I think some of them also came from her recurring, waking memories of her being assaulted.  

She would paint to better define her feelings of dread and despair. She got pretty good at reminding the rest of us how we felt inside without words. 

After a while, the paintings began to brighten some. They became more positive as she could better cope with her memories.  

Today, she still paints but focuses more on painting her positive experiences. Children at play, sunrises, a harvesting of a new crop of maize. Things like that. Some judges selected two of her paintings for a show in Kigali at one of the Kwibuka. 

Some more talented people developed sculptures and murals expressing community feelings and values. I sometimes look at these and remember what happened, but I also count myself lucky to be alive, safe, and healthy today. Everyone practices Umuganda meaning ‘coming together in shared purpose’ monthly on the last Saturday morning. We restore buildings and work on projects that are good for everyone. I like this day a lot because it helped my neighbors and me come together again, something we found difficult to do before Umuganda began.

I think that, more than anything, Umuganda allowed me to begin to have empathy for some of my attackers. To begin at least the process of forgiveness. You see, for one thing, many of the offenders were threatened with their lives, and if they did not cooperate and join in on the violence, they faced their own death. 

Others began to feel this way too, and after a while, it became a matter of Tutsi pride that we could overcome our feelings and forgive our attackers. I won’t say everyone felt this way, but many of us did and do. My church has helped me to forgive as well. 

Additionally, we have Kwibuka. Kwibuka is an annual event during which people pray, reflect, and meditate for all the people we lost. Kwibuka begins on April 7 every year and concludes in mid-July. The first week of Kwibuka is full of ceremonies and national officials doing things like lighting the Flame of Remembrance in Kigali. They also lay wreaths on graves and tombstones. 

Though initially, Kwibuka was disturbing as our feelings were too fresh with too much healing to do, as each year passed, it has become easier to stand apart from what happened and realize there is life again. So, when people ask how we could ever heal and go on, I think of these things – the storytelling, plays, painting, sculpting, working together on projects, and national events. They have all helped us heal and find a new life beyond pain and suffering. And we have grown together. 

For us, art is therapy. And, of course, we always had our existing tribal art forms to take up as well. Me? I really like Imigongo patterns. They are very relaxing, especially when I focus on one for a while. There is something endless about them that calms and puts me at ease. 

Like many things that I value, making an Imigongo pattern requires patience and persistent effort. You must also be passionate about this particular craft since we most often use cow dung as a traditional part of the  recipe – so that we can get the color right! 

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Author’s Note: Although dramatized for this story, Chandal is the pseudonym for an actual survivor of the 1994 genocide. That Chandal survived despite losing her entire extended family, including her nursing child, and still became a champion of peace and reconciliation is an amazing indication of the resiliency of the human spirit. This story is dedicated to her and others who survive today. 

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