We cannot be silent bystanders (Picture: Holocaust Memorial Day Trust)
‘Do you remember who I am?’
Looking into the eyes of the man responsible for murdering my aunt, his own wife, 30 years ago, I could see from his blank expression that he didn’t recognise me.
Why would he? I was just 11 when he killed my dad’s younger sister, a woman with whom he shared five children, in brutal fashion, using a nail-studded club as my cousins – his own flesh and blood – watched on in horror.
It was in 2016 when I went to visit him in Nyanza prison in eastern Rwanda – and it is a confrontation I’ve been considering again as we approach the anniversary of the genocide in that country, in which hundreds of thousands of members of the Tutsi minority group were killed. When I told him who I was, all he said was that I looked like my grandmother.
When I went to that prison I was 33, in search of answers that would hopefully help me find closure, and perhaps even forgive him.
Yet this man, who had once been considered my uncle, instead of taking responsibility for his crimes, cast blame on the government of the early 90s for inciting his own Hutu majority in our country to slaughter Tutsis like my aunt and I.
That was disheartening.
No child should ever go through what I had to growing up (Picture: Antoinette Mutabazi)
No child should endure the horrors I witnessed during the genocide. For 90 days, I was trapped in a nightmare. Every day was a coin toss between life and death. I could not understand why the faces of my neighbours, once filled with warmth, were now twisted with hate.
Today, I devote my time to educating others about the dangers of hate and prejudice, determined to ensure that such atrocities never happen again.
Visiting my uncle was hard, and plenty of people tried to talk me out of it – but I felt compelled to confront him, to try and understand the reasons behind his betrayal of the mother of his children.
I believed that understanding the motives of those who committed such atrocities would aid in my own healing process.
Before the genocide of 1994, I had a happy my childhood. Despite my parents’ modest means, we never lacked basic necessities like food and clothing.
Victims’ clothes on church pews (Picture: Godong/ Universal Images Group via Getty Images)
As his only daughter, my father spoiled me rotten. This bubble of love sheltered me from ethnic tensions between Tutsis and Hutus.
The roots of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda, a landlocked country in central Africa, can be retraced to decades-long tensions between Hutus, the largest ethnic group, and Tutsis, the second-largest.
Following independence from Belgium, the Hutus dominated the country and as a result, sporadic violence against Tutsis became a regular occurrence.
But one day in primary school, my world shattered, everything changed. My Hutu teacher questioned my ethnicity, and even as a child, I could not miss his contempt for Tutsis.
Suddenly, school became a place of fear and discrimination. I was called names like a ‘cockroach’ – a terrible insult in our culture.
In my class of 36 children, there were only two other Tutsis. We were a terrified minority, subjected to abuse and discrimination.
I devote my time to raising awareness of genocide around the world (Picture: Antoinette Mutabazi)
My parents tried to reassure me, but this constant dehumanisation deeply affected my self-worth.
Everyone in Rwanda knows the date our entire country began to be truly torn apart.
April 6, 1994.
That evening, the presidential jet was shot down as it approached Kigali, the capital. Everyone on board perished, including Rwandan President Juvenal Habyariman and Burundian President Cyprien Ntaryamira, both Hutu.
As we watched the news that fateful evening, my father said, ‘They’ll come for us.’ By us he meant Tutsis. And he was right. Hours later, the killing began.
Taking my father’s advice, our family split up and went into hiding individually to mitigate the danger of being targeted collectively.
I went to hide in nearby bushes, alone, at just 11.
After a while, my dad found me and took me to a friend’s house, a Hutu. But when other Hutus found out, they threatened to kill him for giving shelter to ‘cockroaches.’
We had to leave in the middle of the night, back to the bushes where I survived on rain water and sweet potatoes I dug up in nearby fields.
I never imagined the 90 harrowing days that would follow, filled with sights that would forever scar my memory.
An old military installation, preserved as it was after the 1994 Rwandan genocide (Picture: Getty Images)
I saw people being beheaded, others mercilessly shot, and dogs feeding on a corpse.
It had a profound impact on me – decades on I’m still wary around dogs, even living in the UK where they are treasured pets.
My mother, two brothers, and 80 other relatives were murdered. Yes, 80.
My youngest brother, a toddler at the time, was burnt alive with 50 other children when their hiding spot was discovered by the Hutu militia.
The other brother died in my arms, his final moments marked by gasps for air and pleas for water to drink following a grenade attack.
I had lost contact with my mother, and for several weeks after the genocide ended, I looked for her everywhere.
Recalling the dress she was wearing when we were separated, I found myself chasing a random woman wearing similar clothes, desperate to be reunited.
It was only months later, through a relative, that I learned of her death, which had taken place on my birthday.
I went to that prison aged 33 to search for answers(Picture: Antoinette Mutabazi)
Several years elapsed before we discovered her remains and gave her a proper burial.
I also learned more about my aunt’s murder – my cousins told me how their father had called her a cockroach and killed her in their presence.
At one point, I found myself in a queue of Tutsis awaiting execution: The grim reality was that if you could pay, the killers would shoot you, giving you a quicker death.
If not, your fate was the merciless swing of a machete.
But with just three people ahead of me, the murderers were suddenly distracted by news of a nearby bank robbery.
Their focus shifted to that, granting me and others the chance to flee. People often ask me how I felt as I awaited execution. I was numb. I had resigned myself to the same fate I knew had befallen my family, offering a final prayer.
A display of photos of the victims of the 1994 genocide that are interned at the Kigali Genocide Memorial (Picture: J. Countess/Getty Images)
I recognise that healing from such trauma is a process that takes time, yet I believe it is also important for me to forgive those who took the lives of my loved ones.
That is why I visited my uncle in prison. Why I looked him in the eyes.
As a genocide survivor, I feel an obligation to share the horrors that occurred regardless of the pain this may evoke. I am grateful to the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust for providing me with a platform to raise awareness about the dangers of prejudice and hate.
Hardly a day goes by without my mind revisiting some of what I witnessed as a child. The past for me is not merely a memory – it’s an ongoing struggle to make sense of my life.
This is why I find so much fulfilment in my work as deputy chaplain at the University of Bedfordshire – teaching young people the importance of forgiveness and reconciliation
As a Black African woman, I am all too often reminded that racism and discrimination remain a scourge on our society.
Today, as we remember the victims and survivors of the genocide in my country, let their stories inspire us to fight for justice everywhere.
We cannot be silent bystanders. We must speak up against prejudice, challenge racist ideas, and defend the rights and dignity of human beings.
With thanks to the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust, the charity that promotes and supports Holocaust Memorial Day in the UK.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk.
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