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We were outside the town of Rusumo, located in south-eastern Rwanda, when I tried to escape from Phillippe. I ran towards a group of United Nations peacekeepers, who were handing out supplies to the throngs of refugees. We were following the path of countless others, we were following the highway to the Tanzanian border, just 20 kilometres to the south.
I had almost reached the soldiers wearing the blue helmets when Phillippe grabbed me from behind. He covered my mouth with one hand and growled: “What are you doing, stupid girl? Is this how you reward me for saving your life?”
Phillippe shook me and gave me a death stare. Once he had ascertained that I wouldn't scream, he took his hand off my mouth.
“You told the Interahamwe men that you would sell me to a buyer in Tanzania...” I sobbed.
“I also killed those men to stop them from raping you. Keep that in mind, that I am capable of murder.” Phillippe warned.
I didn’t reply and I sobbed in silence, while Phillippe was muttering an array of curses towards me.
We got back to our senses when we heard a loud ruckus nearby. Interahamwe soldiers had arrived in the town and I saw how they walked up to the UN soldiers. A line of militiamen walked up to within a metre of the UN camp and gave the peacekeepers a stare-down. A few minutes of tense silence ensued.
I felt surprised when I saw a limousine that carried the seal of Rwanda’s presidential office drove up the UN outpost. The car stopped, and I saw a familiar face that stepped out of the car. Out of the car came Patrick Bagosora and a slightly older man, who I later recognised as Théoneste Bagosora, the architect behind the Rwandan genocide. Patrick walked up to the United Nations peacekeepers and spoke into a megaphone.
“Why are you here, foreign white dogs? Why are you objecting to the Hutu race reclaiming our country from our ancient Tutsi enemies? Go home!”
The UN commander replied something that I couldn’t hear, and Patrick turned to the crowds. “Why do you turn to the disgraceful UN dogs for support? They are cowards and won’t do anything for you. Soldiers and my fellow Hutu people, witness how I force my manhood upon these Tutsi whores.”
A few soldiers dragged a screaming woman to Patrick’s side. They held her down over a table, while Patrick stripped her bare naked through cutting her clothes with his machete.
“We need to go now; this will turn ugly.” Phillippe whispered and dragged me towards the scrublands at the edge of the village.
“Hey, where are you taking that girl?” an Interahamwe officer shouted as he intercepted us close to the edge of the town.
“I claim this Tutsi whore for myself. I will give her the best and the last fuck of her life.” Phillippe said to the man.
The officer gave Phillippe a look of disgust and replied, “You are claiming this skinny kid when the town is full of mature women. You’re a sick bastard.”
“My preferences are none of your business. At least I can get it up, which is why I am claiming what I deserve instead of guarding the perimeter.” Phillippe mocked.
A tense moment ensued, and in my mind, it seemed to drag on forever. What was Phillippe doing? He was either brave or insane to insult an officer. I feared that I would be the next unlucky woman to be dragged to the UN camp where Patrick was raping a woman in front of the crowd to mock the UN peacekeepers.
The soldiers cheered as Patrick lifted the severed head of the woman he had raped to the sky.
Phillippe used the distraction and dragged me away from the militiaman who impeded our progress. As we reached the forest, he whispered “Run,” and we ran to the south, away from the town where the screaming and gunfire intensified.
***
“BLOODY LIMP DICK!“ Phillippe mumbled as we were having a break a few kilometres from the Tanzanian border.
“Huh?” I asked.
“The officer that tried to stop us in Rusumo. I knew that he was a limp dick. I could tell from watching him.” Phillippe taunted.
“What are you talking about? Shouldn’t we figure out how to cross the border?” I asked.
Phillippe leaned over and slapped me. As I flinched and fell to the ground, Phillippe replied: “Don’t tell me what to do, Samantha.”
I didn’t say anything, out of fear from angering Phillippe. We were so close to safety, only a few kilometres from the Tanzanian border, and I wouldn’t throw away my life by angering my captor.
Phillippe continued his ramblings. “When a new soldier joins Patrick Bagosora’s squad, he is expected to rape a Tutsi woman in front of his peers. If you fail, your peers consider you a limp dick, and you get to guard the perimeter while the others are having fun. That’s how I knew how to get past the officer that stopped us at the edge of the village.”
I didn’t know how to respond to this statement. Phillippe hadn’t shared much about his life, but I knew he had been guarding the perimeter when he caught me. I had also heard his tormented screams when he was having nightmares.
A part of me wanted to reach out to Phillippe and comfort him to ease his suffering. He wasn’t less of a man for failing to rape someone in front of a crowd, quite the opposite, it made him a human. Yet, his failure as a rapist didn’t make him a good man. A good man would never join a militia that aimed to rape and murder the Tutsis in the first place. My father was a good man. He would never have sunk that low.
“Fucking ugly bitch. Why did they give me such an ugly whore?” Phillippe muttered.
I felt terrified but I didn’t say anything. Phillippe was volatile and the humiliating event in Rusumo had scarred his ego. In the worst-case scenario, he would try to rape me to get over his earlier shortcomings.
“Fucking ugly whore!” Phillippe exclaimed as he started chopping at a tree with his machete.
I looked at Phillippe as he was swinging at the tree. He looked feverish and very ill. Was this mental illness or was it something contagious? In any case, I feared more of what would happen in the near future, rather than the fear of catching a disease.
I went down on my knees and started praying to Jesus Christ. It was the first prayers I had uttered since the attack on my village. God had abandoned my village and condemned my family, so what was the point of living? I pushed aside my doubts. I was still alive, and God could help me. He had to help me. I couldn’t die here. If I did, who would ever tell the story of my village and carry the memories of the fallen ones?
I don’t know whether it was divine intervention, or just random occurrences, but after I had recited a few prayers, Phillippe collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. He shook uncontrollably and tears were running down his eyes. I hesitated, but I decided to go over to him, hold his hand, and wiped away his tears. Empathy was the only way to deal with people who are mentally unstable and filled with violent outbursts. It was the only way for our country to ever heal. However, there was one man who would never receive my empathy. I would kill Patrick Bagosora for what he did to my family!