Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust (29 page)

I turned to leave and bumped into Pierre, who was standing in the doorway. He looked at me forlornly and handed me a piece of paper. “This is my address in France, in case you ever change your mind. I will miss you terribly and will keep you in my heart. I pray that God keeps you safe.”

“Good-bye, Pierre. God bless you,” I said, but he was already gone.

I WAS THE LAST ONE TO CLIMB INTO THE BACK OF THE TRUCK. The tailgate slammed shut, the canvas tarp was rolled down to conceal us, and the truck rolled forward. I took out the rosary my father had given me—the one possession I would never surrender—and said a prayer. I asked God for His blessing on our new beginning, and to shepherd us safely to the Tutsi soldiers.

The truck pulled past the semicircle of armored vehicles, down a service road, and into a sea of killers! Through a crack in the tarp, I saw that thousands of Hutus were trudging along the main road toward Lake Kivu—and hundreds of them wore the uniform of the Interahamwe and carried machetes.

“Oh, God,” I said, falling back in the truck. “Not again!”

We inched along the crowded road, honking at Hutus to give way and let us by. I knew that if we were stopped, or if the truck broke down, the Interahamwe would fall upon us within minutes. I hadn’t felt this frightened since I left the bathroom.

“Please, God,” I prayed. “You have brought us this far—now take us the rest of the way! Blind these killers . . . don’t let them look in the back of this truck. Merciful God, shield us from their hateful eyes!”

We were more than halfway to the RPF camp when the truck stopped. The French captain came around to the back, pulled the tarp open, and said, “We have reports of gunfire in the area, and we have orders to avoid fighting at any cost. We’re turning around, so this is where you’ll have to get out.”

I thought I’d misheard him. “You mean that you’re taking us back with you, right?”

“No, we’re breaking camp. You have to get out here . . . now. I’m sorry, Immaculée.”

I’d gotten to know the captain well over the past few weeks. He hated the Hutu killers and said that he wanted to help the Tutsis in any way he could, so I couldn’t believe that he’d leave us in a group of armed Interahamwe. I climbed out of the truck to reason with him. “Please, Captain, you know better than anyone what will happen if you leave us here. There are killers all around us! Please, I’m begging you . . . take us another mile to the RPF camp, or take us back with you . . . don’t leave us here to be killed!”

“I’m sorry, Immaculée. I have my orders.”

“Please, Captain, just take us—”

“
No!
Now get your people out of the back. We have to leave.”

We couldn’t believe what was happening. A dozen or so Interahamwe were standing about ten feet away, watching us and listening to our conversation with growing interest. I felt dizzy, the road was spinning, and all I could see for a moment was a blur of angry faces. I steadied myself on the side of the truck, and for the first time noticed all the bodies on the ground—corpses everywhere along the road, as far as I could see.

I looked up at the captain, pleading with my eyes one last time. It was useless—he was immovable. Perhaps the pastor and the others had been right about the French. Maybe they really were here to help the killers, because they were certainly about to leave us for dead.

“Get out of the truck,” I said to my friends. “Everybody out . . . the French are leaving us here.”

The cries of disbelief and fear coming from the back of the truck drew even more attention from the killers, who were now moving toward us. I looked one Interahamwe straight in the eye and held his gaze. My heart told me that he was a person just like me, and that he really didn’t want to kill. I held my rosary and summoned all my will to send a message of love to him. I prayed that God would use me to touch the killer with the power of His love.

I didn’t blink . . . and we stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, the killer broke my gaze and looked away. He turned his back to me and dropped his machete, as if the devil had left his body. But there were plenty of other devils to take his place. At least 15 Interahamwe were now standing a few yards from the truck, with machetes in their hands and smirks on their faces. They were figuring out what was happening, waiting to see if any of my companions would dare leave the truck.

We had no choice but to come out. One by one, my friends hopped out, until all 30 of us were standing there facing the killers. When everyone was out, two French soldiers lifted Aloise down onto the road and deposited young Kenza and Sami beside her. Then the soldiers climbed into the cab, and the truck pulled away at high speed, leaving us in a cloud of dust and uncertainty.

“Look at all these Tutsis,” one of the killers said in amazement. “How can it be that they’re still alive?”

“These are the cockroaches that the French soldiers were protecting,” another said. “Who’s going to save you now, cockroaches?”

My friends were so scared that they could barely move. They nudged me, asking me what we should do, as though I were somehow an expert in dealing with ruthless killers. I looked at the machete scar on Florence’s face, remembering the story she told me about sitting in a church with her family, waiting their turn for the killers to chop them to death. Well, I wasn’t going to stand around and wait to die.

“Let’s go,” I said. “We’ll walk to the RPF camp—their soldiers are close by.”

The killers heard me mention the RPF and got nervous.

We began moving but didn’t get too far. The road was so strewn with rocks and bodies that it was practically impossible to push Aloise’s wheelchair—so when a wheel became stuck in a rut, we all stopped. Aloise’s children were also crying and clutching their mother’s arms.

I pulled my friends Jean Paul and Karega away from the group. “You two come with me—the rest of you stay with Aloise . . . and pray. I’ll find the Tutsi soldiers and come back with help. Don’t move from this spot or I won’t be able to find you in the middle of all these Hutu refugees.”

Aloise looked at me doubtfully. “Are you sure you want to go? They’ll kill you for sure! Let the men go instead,” she implored.

“No, I’m going . . . you just concentrate on praying.”

With that, I struck out in the direction that the French had been taking us before they abandoned us. As we walked, I prayed my rosary, talking to God with all my heart and soul: “God, I really am walking through the valley of death—please stay with me. Shield me with the power of Your love. You created this ground that we’re walking on, so please don’t let these killers spill Your daughter’s blood on it.”

Three Interahamwe followed us as we broke away from the larger group, and one of them recognized me. “I know this cockroach,” he said. “This is Leonard’s daughter—we’ve been looking for her for months! I can’t believe she’s still alive . . . we killed the rest of them, but this little cockroach gave us the slip!”

“Dear God,” I prayed, walking as fast as I could and holding my father’s rosary tightly in my hand. “Only You can save me. You promised to take care of me, God—well, I really need taking care of right now. There are devils and vultures at my back, Lord . . . please protect me. Take the evil from the hearts of these men, and blind their hatred with Your holy love.”

I walked without looking at my feet, not knowing if I was about to stumble over rocks or bodies, putting all my trust in God to guide me to safety. We were moving very briskly, but the killers were all around us now, circling us, slicing the air with their machetes. We were defenseless, so why were they waiting to strike?

“If they kill me, God, I ask You to forgive them. Their hearts have been corrupted by hatred, and they don’t know why they want to hurt me.”

After walking a half mile like that, I heard Jean Paul say, “Hey, they’re gone . . . they’re gone!”

I looked around, and it was true—the killers had left us. Jean Paul said later that it was probably because they knew the RPF soldiers were close by, but I knew the real reason, and I never stopped thanking God for saving us on that road!

A few minutes later we saw an RPF roadblock and several dozen tall, lean, stone-faced Tutsi soldiers standing guard. I broke into an allout run and dropped to my knees in front of them. I closed my eyes and sang their praises.

“Thank God, thank God, we’re saved! Thank God you’re here. Bless you, bless you all! If only you knew what we’ve been through. Thank you for—”

I didn’t get a chance to finish my sentence because I was cut off by the chilling, metallic sound of a machine-gun bolt being pulled back. I opened my eyes, only to see that the barrel of the gun was an inch from my face.

CHAPTER 21

On to Kigali

O
h,
God, when will You put an end to this nightmare?

I looked over the gun barrel and into the cold, angry eyes of a Tutsi soldier. They reminded me of the killer’s eyes I’d stared down not 20 minutes before.

If these were the same RPF soldiers we’d been hoping would rescue us since the genocide began, then maybe it really was my time to die. My neighbors had turned on me, the killers were hunting me, the French had abandoned me, and now my Tutsi saviors were preparing to blow my brains out.

It’s up to You, God,
I prayed silently.
Live or die, it doesn’t matter to
me as long as I’m serving Your will. You have brought me here—it’s up to
You to decide.

I tried to get to my feet, slowly raising my hands in the air while explaining that my two friends and I were Tutsis: “The French soldiers left us in the road . . . there are other survivors of the genocide back there surrounded by killers. Please, you’ve got to go help them before it’s too late.”

“Shut your mouth and sit on the ground!” the soldier shouted, poking me with his rifle.

“If you’re Tutsis, why are you still alive?!” a different one screamed, pointing his gun at me. “Everyone is dead,
everyone!
You’re killers yourselves . . . you’re Hutu spies! Do you know what we do to spies? Sit still—don’t say a word, and don’t move a muscle.”

Angry soldiers surrounded us, so there was no point in talking. I kept my mouth shut and waited for whatever destiny had in store for me. Minutes passed . . . I thought about Aloise and the others sitting in the field of killers, waiting for me to keep my promise and send soldiers to save them. God help them.

Eventually the rebel commander arrived to question us. The soldiers guarding us saluted him and called him “Major.” He was tall, skinny as a stick, and one of the calmest-looking people I’d ever seen. He looked at us like we were thieves who’d been caught breaking into his house . . . and he had the same expression on his face that the French soldiers did when they caught the Interahamwe spy. I crossed myself, remembering what had happened to that man. It was obvious that the major didn’t believe that we were genocide survivors, so I began praying for the poor souls we’d left by the roadside.

But of course, that’s when God stepped in once again.

“Immaculée?
Immaculée Ilibagiza?
” A soldier standing beside the major was saying my name and staring at me in disbelief. “Immaculée! It can’t be you, can it? Is it really you?”

“Bazil?”

“It
is
you!” He dropped his rifle, knelt to the ground, and gave me a big hug.

Bazil was a Hutu neighbor who’d gone to fight with the Tutsi rebels. We’d known each other since school, and he’d been my mother’s favorite student for many years because he was so bright and gifted. We called him “teacher’s pet” because Mom liked him so much that she’d invited him to the house many times.

“You know this girl?” the major asked when Bazil finished embracing me.

“Oh yes, we went to school together. Her parents are very respected Tutsis in my village—they’re very good people. She’s all right, Major . . . she’s not a spy. Whatever Immaculée says is true.”

I quickly thanked God for sending Bazil at the very moment I needed him. The soldiers lowered their guns, and the major reached out and shook my hand. “I’m Major Ntwali,” he said. “I’m sorry about the confusion, but there are spies everywhere. It’s still very dangerous around here, but you’re safe with us. The war is over for you . . . we’ll protect you from now on.”

“Thank you, Major, but my friends are the ones who need your protection,” I explained urgently. “The French soldiers left us in the middle of the Interahamwe, and a half mile down the road there are 30 Tutsi survivors with killers all around. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. Please—”

The major had signaled for someone to fetch Aloise and the others before I’d finished speaking. “Don’t worry about your friends. We’ll get to them.”

“Thank you . . . and God bless you!”

After the soldiers left to help the others, Bazil sat down next to me and anxiously peppered me with questions: “I haven’t been home in months . . . do you have news from the village? How is Teacher—I mean, your mom? Any news about my parents, or my brothers and sisters? The last time I saw them they were going to leave the country . . . did they get out?”