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I remember the day it all started. It was a Sunday morning, and I wanted to go to the neighbouring town and get some old newspapers after having attended Sunday Mass. My father had reprimanded me with a fit of surprising anger. “No, Samantha. I forbid you from leaving the village. Go catch a fish in the river. I am hungry.”
My father’s anger had puzzled me. He had always said that the hunger for knowledge was more important than the hunger of the flesh. Why had he changed his mind? I didn’t want to anger my father in my pursuit of knowledge, so I decided to grab a fishing net and try to catch a fish in the nearby muddy river instead.
As I stood in muddy waist-deep water, I reflected over how the colour of the water was gradually changing, from a brown reddish hue, ever so-slowly to bright alarming red. I assume this was a minor concern at a time, as I was so young and innocent, but in retrospect, I wish I had warned everyone there and then. After several fruitless hours, I finally caught something big and heavy in my fishing net.
At first, I felt instant joy. A fish this big could feed the whole village, I thought to myself. But then I felt something strange. Why wasn’t the fish struggling when I reeled in the net? I knew that we were not supposed to eat fish that was already dead when we caught it, but I wanted to make my dad happy and proud of me.
As I pulled in the motionless “fish”, I was hit with a horrific image of what was to be the worst incidence in my life which I remember till this day. I had caught the dismembered head of a man. I recognised the man, it was Kagabo from the neighbouring village. I panicked and ran away in terror, and the net which encapsulated the motionless head flowed downstream.
I ran to my father and screamed: “Father!! I caught Kagabo’s head in the river. He is dead, Papa!”
My father gave me a disbelieving stare and replied. “Stop talking nonsense, Samantha. I know you are angry about having to fish on a Sunday, but it’s unfair to the other children in this village if you don’t do your part of the chores.”
“Please papa. Come with me to the river and I’ll show it to you.” I pleaded. My dad sighed and followed me to the river, while muttering some grumbles.
As we got to the river, he gave me a stern look and asked: “Where is the fishing net, Samantha?”
“I dropped it and it followed the stream.” I snivelled and I saw how my dad held back his anger.
I felt ashamed. My father wasn’t a mean man, but we were poor, and we couldn’t afford to lose the fishing net. “Sorry, papa. I will follow the river until I find the net.” I apologised.
“Good. Be home before nightfall. There won’t be dinner for you unless you bring the net back.” My father scorned me.
I looked at him with teary eyes and started walking downstream. In retrospect, I realise that the reason why I have father issues is because our last encounter was so negative. Yet, it was this encounter that saved my life as I was away from the village when the massacres began.
***
MANY HOURS LATER, I was on my way back to the village. I was tired and hungry, and my eyes were droopy and teary. I hadn’t been able to find the lost fishing net, and I worried that my father would hit me. Getting scolded on an empty stomach was not the ideal way to spend a night, especially since I was only twelve years old.
As I approached the village, I heard loud screams and a group of men chanting. I didn’t recognise their voices, which felt odd as we rarely had outsiders visiting our village. As I walked towards my hut, a man grabbed me from behind and put a hand on my mouth.
“Sssshh, be quiet if you want to live!” The man hissed sternly. I felt petrified, and despite my efforts, I couldn’t break free from the strong hold of the man. I looked at the man’s outfit, he wore military pants with a large blood-soaked machete hanging by his side. After a while, a group of army men led a group of women in chains past us, not knowing that we were there. I saw the leader of the group sitting in a jeep that moved in walking pace. “That’s Colonel Patrick Bagosora. He is the commander of our unit and the one who ordered us to attack your village.”
I don’t know what got into me, but I tried to memorise Patrick’s face and uniform as hard as I could. I guess that I already back then, in my terrified state, wanted to get revenge on the man who was responsible for the murder of my entire family.
As the army group moved away, my captor took his hand off my mouth and spoke. “We need to go to the village and look for supplies. We have a long walk ahead of us.”
I nodded, sobbed, and said “Where are we going, and what’s your name?”
The man gave me a cold stare and replied. “Don’t ask questions, stupid girl. I am the one in control.”
“Sorry. I’m Samantha Nyamwasa, and I just need a friend.” I stuttered.
“Okay. My name is Phillippe, and I am taking you to safety far away from here.” Phillippe replied.
“I need to see my family. We must help them.” I pleaded.
“I’d rather not take you,” Phillippe said sternly.
“Please. Otherwise, I won’t go with you.” I begged.
After muttering some profanities, Phillippe agreed to my desperate pleas. As we reached my hut, I saw my father dead outside the entrance. They had chopped him many times with machetes. My brother was the next family member I saw. They had tied him around an electricity pole, and used him as an archery target. I entered inside the hut, where I saw my mother lay naked on the ground with her eyes gouging out in terror. She was bleeding from several deep cuts to her legs, and someone had shattered a glass bottle and stuffed it into her vagina.
“Samantha, I am so glad to see you alive. You must get yourself to safety.” Junema spoke in agony while gasping for the last breath of air. “Mama, who did this to you?” I cried.
“Patrick Bagosora, the nephew of Théoneste Bagosora. He murdered your father, and he made me watch as his men shot arrows towards your brother. After that, he raped me. He finished by shoving a broken glass bottle up my vagina.” Junema whispered while falling in and out of consciousness.
I turned to Phillippe and cried: “We must get my mother to the hospital!”
He shook his head and replied. “No. The closest hospital is 30 kilometres away and she would bleed out on the way there. Besides, there is no help for someone like her at the hospital. President Juvénal Habyarimana is dead. Interim President Théoneste Bagosora has ordered the elimination of all Tutsis in this region. You can choose to let her bleed out or end her suffering right now.”
I looked at my dear and pitiful mother, who was shaking in extreme agony and pain while passing in and out of consciousness. I could not let her die like this. “I’ll do it,” I said as I grabbed my mother’s pillow while crying wildly. I placed it over her head, applied pressure with one hand while holding her hand until her weak pulse was gone.
I took the pillow away from her head. At the age of twelve, I had put my mother out of her misery and as I heard her last dying breath, I vowed to avenge my family. Patrick Bagosora would have to suffer for what he had done to the people of my village and my family.