LITMIR.BIZ

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father-in-law read, where my family was.… I answered all their questions. I had nothing to hide.

      Before letting me go, they warned me to tell no one of this interrogation. If I did, they would be sure to learn of it, they said, and there would be “consequences.” Then they dismissed me. But I had no sense of relief as Charles-Vital and I were driven home through the dark, nor any feeling of security as I carried him into our empty house.

      Toward the end of October, I went to the mayor’s office, requesting to visit my husband in prison. The mayor replied that I was not a Rwandan citizen and therefore had no rights in this country. Reminding him of my official permission to live and work in Rwanda, I again pleaded to visit Charles.

      “No!” he yelled. “Get out of here!”

      And this was the man who used to shoot hoops with Charles on Cimerwa’s basketball court, stopping by our house afterward to shower….

      Defeated, I stood in the road outside the mayor’s office. Looking upward, I silently cried out, reminding Jesus how he had fled Bethlehem with his parents, though neither he nor they had done any wrong – this was how it felt being Tutsi in Rwanda.

      Cement trucks drove past, coating me with dust. I remained rooted to the spot. A driver rolled down his window, offering a lift, but I dumbly shook my head.

      Finally, I walked home and wept. Then I turned to the Bible. In the third chapter of Ezekiel, I read, “But I will make you as unyielding and hardened as they are. I will make your forehead like the hardest stone, harder than flint.” These words emboldened me to try again.

      This time I approached Sebatware. Although I knew his callous character, I walked into the director’s office, putting my trust in God.

      “You are not Rwandan!” Sebatware challenged when I entered. “Why did your parents leave this country?” He knew they had fled for political reasons, so I ignored his question, telling him instead that I wanted to visit Charles in Cyangugu Prison. His grim expression never softened, but he handed me a pass, granting freedom of movement on the company’s behalf. He also gave me use of a company car and driver.

      Since I had the pass and the vehicle, I invited Oscar and Bonafrida to join me. Bonafrida’s husband, Silas, had been arrested, as had Consolée, Oscar’s wife. Consolée was pregnant at the time. She was later released to the hospital for the birth of their daughter, Ruth, but was then returned to prison.

      We three made the trip 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

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