“Excuse me, ma’am, you’re in my seat,” said an old man, holding his boarding pass as other passengers reached for their seats.
Catherine looked up and checked her ticket again. “It’s written 21C,” she replied, sitting alone but making room for the old man.
“Oh! I have 21A. I guess I confused the seats. Sorry about that. I’ll take the window,” he said as Catherine stood to let him pass.
“I’m Vic,” he said, offering his hand.
“I’m Catherine,” she replied, shaking it.
“Nice to meet you, Catherine.”
“Pleasure,” Catherine responded with a warm smile.
“You know, I was supposed to sit in front at 18H, but I switched with my friend because he’s big, and that seat is a bit more comfortable than this one. Did you notice the flight delay?” Vic asked.
Catherine, smiling, replied, “Yeah, we waited for like 35 minutes.”
“I know, right? Where are you from?”
“I’m Rwandan but live in Germany. I’m flying back for the commemoration of the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi.”
“Oh, I see. I’m South African but live in Rwanda. I work as a professional counsellor in Bugesera District. It’s a great place. I really like it!”
“I know Bugesera. It’s nice, except it’s very hot. Some of my relatives live there. How long have you been in Rwanda?”
“It can be hot, yes. But it’s quiet, unlike Kigali. We’ve lived there for 17 years. Honestly, if I had to choose, Rwanda would be my second home. It’s safe, and it has such promise as a developing country.”
“I’m very proud of it,” Catherine added.
“Where in Germany do you live? My youngest daughter is doing medicine at University of Augsburg. Actually, she sent me some photos.” He pulled out his phone. “See? She’s in her final year. This was taken on campus.” He swiped through the pictures.
“She’s beautiful! I live in Munich. I went there for college, found a job, and decided to stay. I just come back for holidays or special events.”
“And now you’re back for Kwibuka.”
“Yes. You know the word?”
“Of course! It’s a big part of Rwanda’s history and the world’s, if you ask me.”
“It’s been two years since I last came home.”
“Oh! A lot has changed. You’ll see. So, how long are you staying?”
“A couple of weeks. There are events I have to attend.”
“Oh really? Please invite me!” Vic said enthusiastically.
“You should definitely come. On April 12th, I’ll be at Musha Genocide Memorial in Rwamagana, Eastern Province. Then on the 17th, I’ll be at Kigali Genocide Memorial in Gisozi.”
“I have to note that down.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.”
Flight attendants passed by with meals and drinks. After eating, Catherine dozed off. Later, she woke up to use the restroom. When she returned, Vic tapped her arm.
“Catherine, you have to see this,” he said, pointing to the window.
She leaned over. “Oh! Look at those islands, breathtaking. That lake is massive.”
“It’s Lake Victoria, right? I think we’re about to land.”
“I didn’t realize how fast time passed.”
As the plane landed, they exchanged business cards and went their separate ways.
On April 7th ,Vic sent Catherine a comforting message for the beginning of the 100 days of commemoration. Catherine responded the next day, thanking him and reminding him of the events.
April 12th, Musha Genocide Memorial
April 12th : It’s 7:15 P.M. All guests have arrived. A mournful song plays in the background, naming victims of the Musha Catholic Parish. As is common in April, it’s cold. People huddle close for warmth around a central fire. Most are dressed in dark clothes — sweaters, jackets seeking warmth and solidarity. Protocol officers greeted attendees with hugs. Families and acquaintances reunited, some in tears, others in silent disbelief, a few just observing from the corners.
Catherine sits in the third row with her four aunties to her left and her cousin sister, whom she considers a direct sibling, to her right.
The Master of Ceremony (MC) begins by welcoming officials. Jean Pierre Dusingizemungu, president of Kwibuka, gives a speech that begins with the history of Musha and ends by tying into the year’s theme before opening the floor for testimonies.
Vic arrives and joins Catherine, sitting next to her cousin, who helps translate for him.
Testimony by Stephany Muhongerwa
Good evening. My name is Stephany Muhongerwa. I’m 38 years old. First, I want to extend my heartfelt comfort to everyone who lost loved ones in the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi. We share this unending pain and the responsibility of living well to honor those we lost.
I was 9 years old during the genocide. We were a family of six, and my mother was expecting a seventh child. I was the third child, with two older sisters, two younger brothers, and one younger sister. We were a happy family and even had helpers. I never thought I’d be ready to give my testimony. I always felt too young, and the ones that should speak are have been killed. Each time I recall what happened, I’m right back there — 9 years old, afraid, confused, innocent… [She paused], forgive me, words don’t organize themselves well. Maybe I should’ve written this down.
We lived just down the road across from this church. It was common to live together as extended family. Our helpers came from far — Nyamagabe or Ruhengeri [current Musanze] districts. A year before the genocide, they always had small radios tuned to RTLM. They seemed to enjoy it. My mother would sometimes question what they were listening to, but we had no idea of their intentions.
When President Habyarimana’s death was announced on April 6th, we were asleep. The next morning, our helper along with neighbors, stood outside with machetes. My father was confused. We couldn’t believe someone who shared our home would turn against us. They made us line up. My mother pleaded, ‘Even the children? What have they done?’ She begged for our lives.
We were ordered up the road. I saw my little brothers run, so I followed them down the banana grove, but we got separated. I wanted to turn back, but about 30 men were chasing us, screaming and whistling. As I kept running another group of perpetrators circled me, they were many, I believe more than 50, and there one of them struck me twice with a machete here near my neck [showing her scars]. I fell and lost consciousness.
I woke the next morning to rain and distant screams. I crawled into the banana leaves, but it wasn’t safe because faces were recognizable. I lay still, pretending to be dead. By afternoon, hunger and thirst overwhelmed me. Bleeding, I decided to go home, I had nowhere else to go. As I crawled, a woman recognized me. She signaled for me to come closer and warned me not to go home. She said my parents were killed on the first day. They had raped her and told they’d return for her. I was silent. How could life go on without my family? She tore pieces of her clothing to dress my wounds. I felt dizzy and weak. She told me we had to go back down — the hill wasn’t safe. I remember telling her, ‘I’m hungry.’ Then I blacked out again. We stayed in marshland that night. The fear wasn’t of animals, it was of humans. It was freezing, it was a terrible place to be but luckily we survived. Many had trusted to go to parish; they believed militiamen would fear the house of God, but they let people come in so that they’d kill us all at once, which resulted in April 13. [Stephany broke down crying]
We were in the marshland for 7 days – it wasn’t a life, we would hide from killers at the same time dogs chasing us, so we had to soak ourselves in far where they’d get lazy to reach, until the Inkotanyi came. If the killers had just waited for two days, only two days, the story would be different. Because massive killings happened on 12th & 13th and Inkotanyi arrived on 14th April. We were only a handful left. The Inkotanyi took us – small children to an orphanage, gave us food, clothing, and medical care. That’s where I found my little sister. Only the two of us survived.
Aftr surviving, the battle continues, of not falling back. The choice is to live or live cause we can’t affort to be idle. However, there’s no healing. Oh Man! They really planned the apocalypse and executed to the maximum… [Stephanie revealed while choking from tears]. Every joy or sorrow revolves around the people you lost [she proceeded, blowing her nose], those who should be celebrating every milestone with you. On your wedding day, they’re not there. When you give birth, no one is there to give the crown of motherhood. But we persist!
After the testimonies, Vic whispered to Catherine that he had to leave. She stood to walk him out.
After a moment of silence, Vic said, “It’s always a new version of inhumanity. I’m really sorry, Catherine.”
“I know. Thank you so much for coming. It makes me feel less alone. I hope we’ll meet at the next event,” she replied.
“Definitely. You’re not alone. Not while we’re here,” he said, hugging her before leaving.
On April 17th, at Kigali Genocide Memorial (Gisozi): They both attended an event organized by Ministry of National Unity & Civic Engagement (MINUBUMWE) on unity and reconciliation. They listened to discussions, poetry, drama, and songs composed by youth born after the genocide.
They applauded the remarkable initiative and engagement of the youth. After the event, they parted ways.
One week later, Catherine called Vic to let him know she was returning to Germany. Vic asked if they could meet to say goodbye. She agreed.
They met at Brioche at 4 PM.
“Hello Vic,” Catherine greeted.
“Hello Catherine,” Vic said, standing to give her a warm hug.
“You’re always on time.”
“I try,” he grinned. “Especially with Kigali traffic. But today, I had the day off, one of my colleagues covered for me.”
“Glad to see you again.”
“I’ve been blown away by this whole experience. Thank you for letting me share it with you. I’ve read some heartbreaking books and worked with trauma cases at our clinic in Bugesera but nothing compares to what I’ve seen and heard this time. You could tell wounds are still fresh”
Catherine smiled and looked into his eyes. “I thank you for accepting my invitation.”
The waiter arrived. Catherine ordered warm water with lemon soda.
“So how have you been, Cath?”
“Same as usual… but this time, I’ve felt a deeper kind of loneliness. The grief has grown, like I’m just now realizing I’ll never see them again. I’ve become more emotional lately. I cry more now, something I never used to do. My cousin, the one you met handles her grief better than I do.”
“That’s okay. It is healthy to have emotions that you can define. It is not a weakness, and it is not a disorder. Yes, it can be intense, because there is a strong connection with the people you lost and what you endured. Have you ever shared your story like Stephany did?” Vic asked gently.
“No. Like her, I don’t feel like I’m in any place to. I did talk about it a bit with colleagues through AERG ‘Association des Etudiants et Elèves Rescapés du Genocide’ in high school. In Germany, some people even suggested I write a book.”
“That’s a great idea! you should!”
“I’m not a writer. Talking feels easier.”
“That’s okay. Find what works for you. So you’re returning to Germany, will you be back next year?”
“No. I’ll come back in two years. Next year, I plan to visit my brother in Angola. He hasn’t been back since 2011.”
“Oh, you have a brother?”
“Yes, just him and me left out of eight.”
Vic listened intently, creating a safe space for her words.
“I was about to turn seven; my brother was twelve.”
“So young…” Vic murmured.
“You know,” Vic began softly, “I was born in South Africa. My parents migrated there from the Netherlands, black South Africans still suffer form arpatheid, it created lasting conflicts. There are stil ethnic favoritism, which of course inhibit peace and economic development. It breaks my heart to witness injustice that citizen endure. And to me, the stupiest reason to fight one another is race or ethny, because it is not a biological determinant of of ability vs weakness or any other important differences. So the fact of using it to divide people to the point they kill each other even to-date beats my understanding. In the Rwandan context tutsis were targeted because they tried to resist colonialism – and resistence is a hell of a threat to an oppressor.”
Catherine sighs, “It’s bizarre. The way the world operates…” [lifting her shoulders]
They shared a cup of tea, and after 2 days, Catherine flew to Germany. But while she was still in Rwanda, there was news that a survivor had been brutally killed right before the week of commemoration — sad news. When she went back to Germany, she had a call with Vic to check on her, but also revealed to her about 2 killings of genocide survivors and cows slaughtered and farms damaged in different parts of the country within 2 weeks. It raised a concern in her and also the decision of sharing her story — being vocal about the history of Rwanda. She prayed about it, and one thing is for sure: when she makes her mind up about something, she does it.
Catherine talked about it with her family; specifically, she wanted her brother to be a part of it. Instead of joining him in Angola, she invited him to come to Germany. As the year came to an end, Catherine received a message from Vic to wish her a happy new year, to which Catherine responded with an invitation to participate in her session of sharing her testimony that she finally agreed upon. Vic was touched and enthusiastically responded positively — that if all goes well, he’ll be there.
Time went by fast, and April came. Her family supported her very much, but as she made follow-ups with her brother, he said he wouldn’t make it because of his job.
On April 10, just one month and two days after Catherine gave birth, she shared her story with the world. It was a surreal moment for her. She was standing in front of people, ready to make herself known a little bit more to them.
My name is Catherine Mushumba, an environmentalist, I’m 37 years old, I am Rwandan, a survivor of the 1994 Genocide Against the Tutsi; I am a wife and mother of 4 children. And here I am in front of you, ready to share my story. Florence, her friend, was standing beside her.
Oh oh! Now I understand the difficulty of being in this position, narrating a story. I am used to discussing it in glimpses with friends or some people close to me, but not directly to a number of people, including strangers, like right now. And something I have noticed is, as I grow older, the perspective changes. Before, when I was still young, I told the story narrating events, what I saw but without the depth of how it shaped me, from who I was to who I’ve become.
I come from a very wonderful family. We lived on a hill, just us, the descendants of Mushi, my great-great-grandfather from my father’s side. Down the hill is Lake Muhazi and green pastures where cows graze, and trees all around that brought fresh air. A little paradise, to say the least. We were a family of 8 children, my 2 uncles who were also married with several kids, my aunts who were still young and awaiting weddings, and my beloved grandmother. A rich place I often visit in my thoughts, dreams, and imagination. So I never quite put into words what I have lost, because it is more than my cherished people, more than my home, it is what life was and could have been like. I was robbed of the joyous person in me.
I was 7 years old in 1994, well, I was turning 7 in May of 1994. I don’t know exactly the day of my birth, but that’s the information I was able to gather: the month and the year. That’s probably another story from my village. People at that time didn’t take note of every event that occurred, even one as important as a birthday, right? Something significant to the modern culture. But we were many; we were 8, and I was the sixth — the second youngest among five boys and three girls.
When the genocide began, we didn’t know what to do. Well, Tutsis were threatened on a daily basis, but as I hear, no one could fathom that it would escalate into the savage genocide – the kind that still shatters all inhuman imagination. My grandfather died from being beaten by the local militia in 1973. My father’s young brother — my uncle was seriously injured when he was stabbed in the abdomen by soldiers, being accused of being RPF spy in 1993 but luckily didn’t die. So Tutsis knew they weren’t safe, but they did not know it would happen all at once with that much… severity.
So on the morning of April 7th, Interahamwe – genocidal militia came to our house looking for my dad. They had already gotten my uncle — the one who was injured the year before. They took them out of the house and walked them to the roadblocks, and we never saw them again. There he went, my father, who fought so hard for his extended family. He had gone to school in unbelievable conditions, again because Hutus were favored, but he resisted, and there his battle came to an end.
Luckily, the Interahamwe left the house, and we got time to escape. My elder sister — the firstborn went to our neighbor so they would hide her because they weren’t targeted. After a few days, the woman in that family poisoned her so she would not steal her husband. She was 16.
I would say in my village, Mununu, the genocide only lasted less than two weeks. Everyone was trying their best to save their lives, and obviously, parents more than anyone else wanted to save their children. So my brother and I were taken to my aunt — my mother’s younger sister because her husband was Hutu, and they hoped we would be safe there.
However, after one week, he told us to follow him so he could show us a place where we would be safer. We followed him and arrived at a roadblock where killings were happening [Catherine narrating with watery eyes], and he said, “Stay here a little bit, I’ll come back.” He went directly to a militia; they talked, and apparently, he had brought us there to be killed; to avoid ‘problems’ for his family. That man exclaimed and said to him: “Are you crazy? Their father is lying down there where he was killed, and you are bringing them here?” I guess our day hadn’t come yet. The militiaman told him to bring us to another family in the neighborhood, an elderly Hutu couple until an orphanage took us in months later.
I stayed in the orphanage for about a year, then went to my aunt’s. The experience of the orphanage is also a story of its own…
Life post-genocide wasn’t easy. Two to three years after the genocide, both my leg bones deteriorated, mostly the right leg. I got osteoporosis, which targeted the tibia. They could not find the cause, and some believed it was due to the conditions we were in 1994.
I mean, psychologically, you don’t get away from the word “orphan.” That’s who you are for the rest of your life, even if you have parent figures. You’ve crossed the bridge, now you are on your own. Kids with parents can never fully reach you because it’s two separate worlds.
I found myself linking up with other orphans. Yes, the reason for being orphans was similar, but the lifestyle was completely different. Still, we got the same questions, same dreams, same unanswered questions, same hopes… you know, we got the same name — orphan.
I think many orphans will tell you how they met somebody who resembled their relative and tried to follow them in hope that it was their dad, mom, sibling… I am grateful we were able to make the best of our livelihood. We held each other’s hands, and mostly, we held onto God.
Being Christian comes with letting go a little bit.
Earlier I mentioned things you grieve that cause a big void in oneself. There is something even heavier that you’re robbed of which is not burying your own. For us, we buried in 2002, after 8 years. That’s when perpetrators revealed where they had put our people.
We identified people mostly from the clothes they wore, but the bodies were already decomposed. Others we identified from their hair or teeth; we did the work ourselves.
So during Gacaca [A participatory justice system], those militiamen and women would come forward and we would get to ask questions. I was still full of curiosity, so much curiosity. Thank God they allowed me time.
I asked the why question: What were our people’s final words?
And my aunts used to say that my father had a chaplet that he never removed, but during the burial, I did not find it. So I asked the killer where it was. I needed anything that could possibly get me closer to them — any picture, any word or wish they said, shoes, bracelet, anything.
I think that’s why I connect so much with the commemoration period. For so long, it has been a personal time to live a single life of what life has become. Now, it has mostly become a time of gratitude for the life I live and the life I have given.
Even though I did get a chance to ask question, no satisfying answers I got. Either from the killers or my family. First because it is not in our nature we Rwandans to narrate our story – it remains sort of mystery that you have to accept because afterall you’re not going to change anything. Secondly, everyone was also experiencing their own trauma and void that you wouldn’t blame them. It was too early for my family to share the full story with me; part of the reason was because they didn’t want us – young survivors to become bitter. That’s what they would say. And concerning the killers, some were ashamed, others were indifferent from what they did, thinking they were doing us the enormous favour to give us details of what they did. So you remain in a thirsty situation of what to complete dots in your life. And that’s where christianity did help – to hide yourself in the power of God, that everything shall be alright. He is the father!
“In 2005, my grandmother from my mom’s side died. After burial, we went to my aunt’s house in Rwamagana – the one remaining young daughter whose husband tried to get us killed. That’s were she was living in her final years to be assisted. And I would go during holidays to visit her and it was my ritual to find her in her bedroom to say goodbye when I was returning to Kigali. Then for like 3 times after her death I found myself going to her room to say goodbye even though I knew we buried her. But my mind didn’t let got off her certainly because I regarded her as my own mother.
One of the things that has weighed heavily on my heart over the years, is seeing kids or even grown-ups complaining about their parents. It has been unbearable to me, at home – my aunt’s house, at school – my classmates, at workplace, anywhere I’d hear a person, you know, raise a negative concern about their parent I’d loose it, I’d cry in my sleep because I’d give myself to have that luxury of a parent with any condition or behaviour as long as they are breathing. In Kinyarwanda we say “Uwambaye icyirezi ntamenya ko kera,” meaning the wearer of the crown does not see its shine. I think that’s one of the reasons I subconsciously or even willingly got along with orphans because we get each other easily.
I don’t remember making it as a principle, but life then, in the period of making friends was so fragile. Because imagine witnessing childhood friends becoming killers or screaming at you to be killed, and teachers leading students to massacre pits. I mean, that defied humanity. So maybe the universe conspired to get us together. Even my first relationship, like romantic relationship was with an orphan. We did not have much in common, but I had resilience for it, probably because that thought of understanding each other was strong in me. I was out of college, felt like I was ready for a meaningful relationship, ready to fight for it, and here I was with my significant other with different plans.
Meanwhile, I had somebody around really doing everything and giving his all to have me as his girlfriend — later to be his wife. I did not see myself with this person because, well, he had parents and was of a different ethny. He was no way to be my choice, except being friends, because he was Christian and well-behaved. It took me six years to give in and see what foundation I really wanted to give my family and accept him as a partner, and it is one of the rightest choices I honestly have made in this life.
As I look back, I was afraid I was betraying my fellow orphans but also myself; how was I going to grieve my people with someone who has no idea what it is to be an orphan? Again, I think because we were the ones who provided psychological support for ourselves, we stigmatized ourselves and discriminated against others. We were once wished to be exterminated, so that came with a desire of expanding ourselves now that we’re alive. And that’s not a guaranteed way of healing or filling the void. I mean, neither does work 100%, but it’s worth allowing unconditional love your way.
As I said at the beginning of my testimony, I wasn’t planning to speak about my story and share my thoughts, because for so long we compared our stories and would rate which is worth telling. But also, there’s something every survivor is hesitant to reveal when we set ourselves to tell our story. However, until last year, I was in Rwanda, and a few days after I came back here, I spoke with one of my friends and he’s here today [referring to Vic and giving him a glance in the audience] and he told me about the ongoing killings of survivors during the commemoration period.
Not only that, but also hatred activities being done to the survivors’ families, which include demolition of their goods, cows… I must say, it’s something I have observed throughout the years, particularly during the commemoration period, and to me, it’s like the genocide itself did not stop if people are still being killed for their ethnicity. The numbers have reduced, but still, any number is an innocent life taken away. There is also something quite attention-calling, a rise in denialism of the Genocide – complete denial or lessening its ideological intent. Yes it happened to a minority group of people, in a small country on African continent, but we don’t have the right to be ignorant. This I mention because today we’re here with people probably who are not knowledgeable about the appropriate term used. So if we are to know and learn from history, let’s keep the truth.
As the event came to its end, Catherine and Vic came for each other’s hug as Vic was whispering to Catherine’s ear – good job! I am really proud of you. Vic came with his daughter and they introduced their families to one another and later spent some time before Vic returned to Rwanda.
