to Cyangugu on Thursday, November 1. The road was so crowded with some kind of demonstration that our driver had to stop the car. The marchers were carrying tree trunks and shouting slogans. When we were able to make out their words, we realized this was a Hutu victory march celebrating the death, some weeks previous, of RPF leader Fred Rwigema. Carrying logs represented taking him to be buried. They were threatening to do the same to whoever might replace Rwigema; I heard Paul Kagame’s name, purposely mispronounced Kagome, meaning “bad man.”
Little did these demonstrators dream that Paul Kagame would not only lead the RPF to victory over their regime in less than four years, he would become Rwanda’s president for more than twenty.
We passed several checkpoints on the way to Cyangugu, but our car was always waved through, thanks to its Cimerwa logo. Everyone knew Cimerwa was run by extremist Hutu.
Seeing Charles was a shock. His head was shaved. In less than a month he had lost weight, his face had become haggard, and his skin had taken a strange whitish pallor. He was still wearing the denim jacket and jeans in which he had been arrested.
To encourage him, I described our little son’s latest achievements. Then I gave him a Bible and passed on my parents’ greeting, Isaiah 41:10, “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
Other than that, we could say little. Prison guards were writing down every sentence. We could only look at each other, letting our eyes say what words could not. Reluctantly I took leave of my husband, trying not to communicate my loneliness, which would only have increased his own.
On Friday morning, I returned the pass to Sebatware, who tore it up. He then summoned all Cimerwa employees to gather on the concrete outside the company health center. When everyone was assembled and silent, Sebatware announced that from now on, no loitering or discussion would be tolerated on the factory premises.
“Trust is a thing of the past!” he said, glowering around at the six hundred faces.
Bonafrida and I did not let this announcement deter us. We depended on conversation to buoy our spirits, since both our husbands were in prison, and we continued to speak whenever we met.
The next time Oscar and I visited our spouses, I asked a guard why certain Cimerwa Tutsi employees had been arrested. He told me to ask my boss. Oscar and I decided to approach the three top Cimerwa officials: Sebatware, the general director; Gasasira, the commercial director; and Casimir, the technical director. Bonafrida came with us.
We asked these three directors to intervene on behalf of our family members in prison. They replied that they could do nothing, claiming they were not responsible for the arrests. Bonafrida flared up at this, accusing Casimir of wanting her husband’s job for his brother-in-law. The directors promptly fired her and forced her to move back to eastern Rwanda with her two children, although her husband remained in prison in the southwest. Casimir’s brother-in-law was indeed given Silas’s job. I missed Bonafrida. I never saw her again.
By now it was December 1990, and the “Hutu Ten Commandments” had been published by Kangura, a widely read pro-regime magazine. Among its commandments, the document stated that the armed forces must consist exclusively of Hutu, that any Hutu man marrying a Tutsi was a traitor, and that no Hutu should employ Tutsi or even feel compassion toward them.
Annemarie was one of the only people I could still relate to at work; the others found ways to show their spite. A young colleague took away my office chair, telling me Tutsi had no right to sit anymore. Thankfully, the Chinese supervisor intervened and made him return my chair.
During this lonely period, I started keeping a journal. After my child was tucked into bed at night I found a measure of comfort in jotting down my fears and frustrations, my prayers, or any thoughts that stirred me while reading the Bible. Entries were random, because I would open to any page, date it, and start to write. I didn’t care that it was not chronological – the little book was for me alone to read, and I treasured it. I kept it hidden in a cupboard, where no one could probe its contents.
How I appreciated my little son’s companionship, although I worried about what the future held for him. He was a late talker, but he found other ways to communicate. He would toddle around me as I sat in the backyard, bringing me pebbles or taking my hand to show me something. In the evenings, I often held him on my lap and sang to him from my hymnal. He would “sing” along, making sounds – without words – on perfect pitch. I was astonished when he turned the pages to his favorite song. How did he recognize it?
In March 1991, Rwanda’s political climate improved somewhat. The wider world had noted that Tutsi were disappearing, and the Hutu government had to tread more carefully if it wanted a good international image.
I observed this shift when a lawyer came to investigate the arrests of Tutsi Cimerwa employees. Annemarie slid a sheet of carbon paper onto his clipboard, beneath his note-taking. Thus she and I learned that one of our supervisors – who was later responsible for many murders – made no claims against Charles or the other imprisoned Tutsi at this time.
I noticed, too, that people were no longer afraid to visit me at home. I welcomed the change in our community and at work, but, in hindsight, it gave me a false sense of safety. I was lulled into thinking life could return to normal.
After one of Annemarie’s frequent evening visits, I accompanied her to my front gate. Charles-Vital, as usual, was at my side, clinging to my hand. A man was stumbling down the road, obviously drunk. He veered in our direction, his eyes on my son.
Glancing at his wrist, as if checking the time, he said, “Hey, little guy! I come from Cyangugu. I just signed your father’s release papers.”
Then he turned to continue his zigzag course. Annemarie and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised at this bizarre encounter; neither of us had ever seen the man before. A few days later, on March 26, Charles was inexplicably released, after nearly six months in prison.
The evening of my husband’s homecoming, several friends came to our house, bringing food and drink for an impromptu party. Engrossed in conversation with one of them, Charles did not at first notice Charles-Vital banging his leg and singing, over and over, “Papa, Papa, Imana ishimwe cyane,” “Papa, Papa, give great praise to God!” – changing the words of a hymn to fit the occasion. Our child had never enunciated these words before.
Charles lifted him in a heartfelt hug. My heart was singing too as I watched them; we were a complete family. I hoped that our troubles were over – that now we could live happily ever after, as in my mother’s legends. We would serve the Lord together, leading the life I had envisioned at our wedding.
Despite our relief and pleasure, however, Charles seemed somewhat guarded. He shared few details of what he had endured in prison, beyond saying that he had been beaten. I did not press. I was sure he would tell me more once he had recovered – never guessing how brief our reunion would be.
