An Excerpt from As We Forgive: Stories of Reconciliation from Rwanda

The events described in the following excerpt from Catherine Claire Larson’s recently released book, As We Forgive: Stories of Reconciliation from Rwanda, occurred in the small town of Nyange, Rwanda, in 1997, three years after the genocide. Here teenage students had returned to school after the war and were beginning to re-establish some sense of normalcy. Still, Hutu militia groups living just over the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo would cross borders, attacking the Tutsi and their sympathizers. The students in this boarding school were situated close to an outpost of the RPF, or the Rwandan Patriotic Front, the army which had brought an end to the killing in 1994. They believed that their proximity to the RPF base would protect them from the Hutu militias. But when rebels disguised themselves in RPF uniform and infiltrated the school, would these Hutu and Tutsi students stand together, or be torn apart?

CHAPTER 18
We Are All Rwandans
On an altar of prejudice we crucify our own,
yet the blood of all children is the color of God.
Don Williams Jr.

Even though the gunshots were distant, they made Phanuel’s pulse race. Living near the RPF base, the students dismissed the noise as RPF soldiers scaring away a thief somewhere nearby, but Phanuel had a strange sense of foreboding.

He remembered how his father had called his family together to pray during the genocide. Phanuel said to his classmates, about twenty-four in Senior Six, “I think we should pray.” Many of the students followed Phanuel’s lead and closed their eyes, saying short prayers to God, but then, mostly unalarmed, went back to their studying.

Phanuel tried to concentrate on the words on the page of his psychology textbook, but couldn’t. He scanned the heading of the section, “Attachment.” Skimming, he could see that the section talked about a mother’s bond with her newborn child. Phanuel’s mind wandered to his home. He wondered if there had been more raids recently, if everyone was okay. Several more minutes passed. Mostly students were reading, taking notes, or reviewing flash cards for the exam the following morning.

It was 8:30 p.m. when more shots rang out. This time they were much closer — they sounded like they had come from somewhere on the school grounds. Phanuel’s heart raced faster. The other students looked at one another, eyes wide, bodies tensed. Sylveste looked at Phanuel, a sickening look of fear covering his face. Phanuel strained to listen for other noises. He heard footsteps in the corridor. Stepping to the window, he saw several men approaching their classroom and the Senior Five classroom farther down the hall. A few wore RPF uniforms, but others were wearing civilian clothes and carrying guns.

“Something’s wrong,” Phanuel whispered, looking at Sylveste. “I don’t think those are RPF soldiers.” Then turning back to the rest of his classmates, he said, “Get down on the floor!”

There was the noise of chairs scuffing against concrete as students ducked under their desks, covering their heads. Just then shots burst through the closed door and three men entered the classroom, two carrying guns and one a machete. No one had remembered to shut off the generator, so the students did not even have darkness to cover them, and the desks were a feeble shield.

“Do you know me?” asked one man in uniform, speaking French, the language spoken most commonly in the Congo.

“No,” whispered several of the students.

“Well, you are going to see me,” he continued, moving to the front of the classroom. “I am going to ask you one simple thing.” Phanuel tried to get a better glimpse of the man. He looked young, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three. “I want you to separate yourselves between Hutu and Tutsi.”

Phanuel froze, returning his eyes to the ground. He listened; no one seemed to make a sound except he could hear one of the girls whimpering.

“Do you want me to repeat?” came the rebel’s voice, louder, angrier. “I want those of you who are Hutu to go there and those of you who are Tutsi to go to the other side.”

Phanuel felt like his heart would beat out of his chest. As a Hutu, he knew that he could say something and perhaps spare his life, but he couldn’t imagine betraying his own friends. He knew also that as a Christian he didn’t have that option. He prayed, “Lord, help us.” It couldn’t have been more than a few moments that the rebel waited for an answer, but to Phanuel it seemed like time had slowed. And then there was a voice. Phanuel winced.

“All of us are Rwandans here,” said Chantal from the front of the classroom. A shot rang out in reply. The students gasped—the bullet hit Chantal squarely in the forehead.

“Hutu here! Tutsi there!” yelled the man.

“I don’t want to die. Please help my classmates not to separate,” Phanuel prayed again.

Then the rebels walked out of the room. Phanuel wondered what was happening—were they leaving? A moment later, an explosion shattered the soft sounds of crying and rapid breathing. Glass exploded and one of the walls crumbled. Excruciating pain shot through Phanuel as debris rained down on him. He could hear his other classmates wailing and groaning. When the smoke dissipated a bit, he heard the rebels move back in.

“This is your last chance,” came the voice. “You will separate or you will all die.”

Just then Emmanuel said in a steady low voice, “We are all Rwandans.”

Shots punctuated Emmanuel’s statement as the men moved their guns systematically across the room. Phanuel looked over at Sylveste lying beside him as bullets perforated his body. A moment later, he felt shots hit him, three in his shoulder and arm. He’d never felt such an intense pain, but he tried to lie still. Perhaps they would think that he was dead. He felt hot and near to passing out, but from somewhere in his spirit, he heard what sounded like a clear, calm voice. It said, “You will not die but will be a bridge to unite Rwandans.” He breathed as quietly as he could. The pain shot through him again. Then everything went black.

IN THE CLASSROOM DOWN THE CORRIDOR, HELENA HAD JUST FINISHED praying with her classmates in Senior Five when the shots rang out. Prisca and Seraphina exchanged frightened looks.

“What should we do?” asked Helena.

“We should go out and see what it is,” said another classmate.

“No,” replied Valens. “With the RPF camp so near, if anything is going on, they’ll protect us. It’s safer for us to stay here, together.” Valens’ word carried some authority. The other students knew that he had been in the RPF as a young boy. His job had just been to carry guns, but even so, the other students instinctively felt he knew best. They stayed still.

Prisca looked around the room. Everyone looked as tense as she felt. Suddenly, there were men’s voices outside, some pounding, and then the door flew open. Three men entered the room as the students scrambled under desks and tables, girls huddling together.

Prisca stole a look at the men. A few of them wore military dress, but she sensed immediately that these weren’t soldiers there to protect them, but rebel militias.

One of the men yelled at them, “You are studying here while we are suffering in the forest. Stupid.” He pushed over a desk. “You will listen to me and do what I say. I want Hutu here and Tutsi there.”

The bravest of them, Valens, responded defiantly, “There are no Tutsi here.”

The man replied by spraying bullets across the room. “Perhaps you don’t understand our language,” said the man, switching from French to Kinyarwanda. “Hutu here! Tutsi there!”

Prisca felt her body shaking uncontrollably. Then she heard one student say, “We are just Rwandans here.”

Just then Seraphina, who was lying next to her, raised her head. She had recognized the men.

“You were parading around your beautiful face today,” said one of the men, grabbing her and dragging her to her feet. “Now prepare for death. I do not want to kill you badly.” As he said it, the noise of the gun firing made Prisca jump. Seraphina’s body fell next to her on the floor.

Prisca breathed in deeply and then reached over to see if her friend was still alive. The man who had just shot Seraphina moved toward Prisca. “Who are you?” he shouted at her. Prisca could only see his legs; she didn’t dare raise her eyes.

“I want to know,” he yelled. Bracing her body, Prisca squeezed her eyes shut. “Maybe you are Tutsi because you are tall,” said the man. She heard the blast of the gun and then an excruciating pain as three shots hit her: one in the shoulder, one lodging in her arm, and one glancing off her leg.

“Separate,” another man demanded.

“We will not,” said one student.

“You leave us no choice. We will kill all of you.”

“Stop!” said Helena, standing to her feet.

Even though Prisca’s whole body throbbed in pain, her senses were finely attuned to Helena as she stood. She knew her roommate was Hutu—that her father had even gone to prison for killing. Was she going to betray them? She felt sick. It had been Helena who had encouraged her to trust in God—who had calmed her fears with reassurances from the Scripture.

“Helena Benamina—don’t be stupid. I know you are Hutu. Tell us who these cockroaches are.” It was Jean, the boy Helena had recognized earlier that day.

“Why do you want to kill us?” she pleaded. “Forgive us.” Prisca exhaled as she heard Helena plead for mercy.

“How can I help you now? If you want to save your friends, tell me which ones are Tutsi and which are Hutu,” said Jean, grabbing her and shaking her.

“I—I can’t,” she said. “These are all my friends.”

Prisca heard pounding and scuffling as the men began to beat Helena, trying to force her to talk.

“Tell us!” came the voice of the man who had shot Prisca.

“I can’t,” Helena repeated, her voice tortured. “We are all Rwandans.”

There was the sound of another shot and then a thud as Helena’s body hit the floor. The men moved out of the room.

The students were confused, but Valens stood up and said, “In 1994, people were killed and they just kept quiet when there were people next door who could have helped. So stand up together and try to shout. Run—maybe they can just kill one of us.” Those who could, followed Valens. He shouted and charged as a grenade detonated and the walls began to crumble. From beneath the debris, Prisca could tell that other classmates were screaming and running for the forest. She would have joined them, if she could have.

WHEN PHANUEL OPENED HIS EYES AGAIN HE WAS IN KING FAISAL Hospital in Kigali. He looked to his left where the pain was coming from and could see thick white bandages across his shoulder, chest, and arm. The rest of his body ached too, with bruises and cuts. “Where am I?” he mumbled.

“It’s alright,” said the familiar voice of a man bending over him.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Son. It’s me. You’re okay. I’m here. You’re in the hospital. I’m so glad you’re waking up.”

“What about my classmates? Sylveste? Alohim? Are they okay?”

His father shook his head. “I’m sorry, Son. Sylveste made it to the hospital, but they weren’t able to save him. He’d already lost too much blood. There were two others in your class who are dead — Chantal and Emmanuel—nd three more from Senior Five who didn’t make it. Alohim is okay. And the miracle is that so many of you did make it, and that you refused to let their hate separate you.”

Phanuel turned his head away as tears welled up in his eyes. “Sylveste,” he said, trying to understand his father’s words.

“I’m so proud of you, Son,” he said as he squeezed his good hand.

Just then a nurse entered the room. “Good, he’s waking up,” she said as she moved over to Phanuel’s side. “Let’s get some more fluids in you,” she said, cradling his head with her arms and lifting him up a little as she put a cup to his lips.

As Phanuel sat up a little, he saw he wasn’t alone in the room. To his right was another hospital bed, where Prisca lay sleeping.

“Is she okay?” Phanuel asked the nurse.

“Yes, I think her wounds are a little less severe than yours. She’s just resting.” Taking his chart, the nurse walked to the door.

Looking over at his dad, Phanuel asked, “Mom? The family? Is everyone okay?”

“Yes, Son. Everyone is okay. They are all praying for your speedy recovery.”

“The last thing I remember was the grenade and then the shots. What happened to the rebels?”

“When you all didn’t cooperate, and they had to fire and use the grenades, and then you all set to shouting and running away, they must have gotten scared that they would be discovered. When the RPF got there, they scoured the place and the forests, but couldn’t find them. In fact, I understand that it took some coaxing on the RPF’s part to convince your classmates who had fled into the forest to come out. They feared that it might be some kind of trick.”

Phanuel winced as pain shot through his arm again.

“Listen, that’s enough talking for now. I want you to lie back and rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

AFTER THREE MONTHS IN THE HOSPITAL, PRISCA RETURNED HOME TO convalesce. She’d had three bullets removed and a pin inserted to reconnect her shoulder. Physical therapy was helping, but still there were wounds that doctors couldn’t help her overcome.

Her mother had moved back to the Kamonyi District after the genocide — her youngest sibling, Liliane, also still lived at home. While her home had survived the war, nothing of memory inside had been preserved. After the war, she never saw the picture of Christ her father had given her for her confirmation.

But since the shooting at the Nyange school, she’d carried another picture, tucked like a well-worn photograph in her memory. It reminded her of the same thing that the crucifixion scene had brought to mind. For months after the shooting, when she closed her eyes, she saw the scene: her roommate, Helena, standing up to the rebels, choosing to identify with her Tutsi classmates rather than to save her own life.

In Prisca’s mind, she could still hear Helena’s soothing voice, comforting her with words from the book of Romans: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God” (Romans 8:38-39). Prisca knew that nothing—not even death—could separate Helena from the love of God. She also knew that she’d been given a new portrait to carry with her: this was of a Rwanda in which nothing could separate her people—not violence, not hate. They were one people, and Prisca knew that the best way she could honor Helena’s memory was to share that message of hope.

PHANUEL SPENT NEARLY A YEAR IN AND OUT OF HOSPITALS recovering from his significant wounds. Slowly, he adjusted to walking with a limp and not being able to raise his left arm above his waist. A year after the shooting, Phanuel passed his final exams and received a scholarship to the university in Butare to finish his studies. He accepted it, and just as he had always done, applied himself with steadfast vigor. Bit by bit, he mastered the necessary concepts in environmental sciences and land management, just as he’d relearned to walk after the shooting.

Phanuel had lost a year of his life, endured severe pain, and suffered with a permanent handicap, but he never regretted his decision to suffer along with his Tutsi classmates. Even so, in his heart, he struggled to forgive the men responsible. The bitterness had gone underground. It bubbled up from time to time, especially in moments of frustration at his new limitations, but mostly it lay dormant—that is, until 2004.

It was then that Phanuel had traveled home to visit his family. While at home, he was walking around the town center one day when he spotted a man in uniform. Without a doubt, he knew he’d seen the man before—he’d been one of the rebels who had infiltrated his classroom in 1997. Inquiring around, Phanuel soon discovered that this murderer had somehow joined the Rwandan army.Furious, Phanuel began to contemplate how he could exact revenge. How could this man go about freely when he had taken the life of his best friend and five other classmates?

The evening after making this discovery, Phanuel slept fitfully. His dreams were haunted. He felt a man beating him. The pain grew more and more intense and then suddenly he stopped. When Phanuel looked up, he saw the tormentor had moved on and was beating another man even more violently. The man receiving the lashes fell into a crumpled heap on the ground. Though he was bleeding profusely, the tormentor grabbed the man and turned him over. Phanuel tried to understand what he was seeing as the beaten man seemed to be raised up. It was dark, but soon Phanuel realized that the man who was being raised up was on a wooden cross. Phanuel stood looking up at the man who cried out in a loud voice, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Phanuel sat up in bed, shaking.

He prayed, “God, what does it mean?” In the moments that followed, he understood. “God, are you telling me that these people did this to your Son too?” Then Phanuel remembered the words he’d heard the night of the shooting. “You will not die, but you will be a bridge to unite the Rwandan people.”

PHANUEL LOOKED OUT AT THE ASSEMBLED CROWD OF YOUNG PEOPLE. Their faces seemed young, but he knew they were no younger than he had been just a few short years ago. He’d spoken to countless people in the past few years, but this was his favorite age. Deep down, he knew that it was the young people who were the hope for his country’s future.

He looked over at Prisca. She too seemed eager to share with the group.

Phanuel moved to the podium and cleared his throat. “Good morning, students,” he said, looking at them intently. “Many of you have heard the story of the Nyange secondary school shooting. I’m here today to speak to you as a survivor and as a fellow Rwandan.

You have all most likely heard how rebels infiltrated our compound in 1997 and ordered my classmates and me to separate according to Hutu and Tutsi.

“You have heard how my brave classmates refused. How they adamantly contended that day that there were only Rwandans in that classroom.

“Many of you here today have memories, memories like me of terrible things that happened to you. You’ve been told stories. Your parents, your grandparents, the ones who have survived genocide or exile or imprisonment—they’ve told you stories of the things they’ve seen, of the things they’ve suffered.

“I’m not here to deny those things or to tell you that they don’t matter.

“I’m here today to tell you that if there is any hope for this country, we must find a way to speak truthfully about these things. We must find a way to listen to each other and to understand one another’s pain. And we must find a way to forgive.

“I’m standing before you today as someone who has personally wrestled with this—as someone who has lost a year of my own life, who has lost family members to both sides of this horrible history we share. And I’m telling you, as our dear professor once told us, I’m pleading with you that it is imperative that we find a way forward.

“The only way that I’ve found, the only way I know to tell you, is through Jesus Christ. Beaten, mocked, despised, tortured, Christ in his final words here on earth called out, pleading for God to forgive the perpetrators. He was pleading for the forgiveness of you, of me, of the people who have hurt our families and our friends.

“And when he was on this earth, he taught us to do the same.

“I’m sure you’ve prayed these words before, that you learned them in school or from your mother or your grandmother. They’ve been passed down for centuries. They are simple: ‘Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who have sinned against us.’

“This is the way forward, my friends. Let us break down this chain of fear, of vengeance. If we break down this chain, we stand together. We stand together as brothers and sisters, as Rwandans.”

Phanuel’s eyes surveyed the crowd. His eyes locked on one student standing in the back. Tall, with a runner’s frame, he reminded Phanuel of Sylveste. The resemblance shot through Phanuel with a pang—the kind that reminded him Sylveste wasn’t coming back. The young man before Phanuel looked at him with deep seriousness. As their eyes linked, the student nodded at him somberly, a motion that held both agreement and respect. Phanuel could see that his eyes were red and moist. Phanuel had no way of knowing the young man’s experience. Was he a Tutsi who had lost family in the genocide? Was he a Hutu whose parents had participated in the killing or who had seen his own family members hurt in reprisal attacks? Phanuel couldn’t know. But he could see that his message had penetrated his heart—not the heart of a Tutsi or of a Hutu, but of a fellow Rwandan.

Used with Permission. This article originally appeared in BreakPoint WorldView Magazine, February 2009.

Catherine Larson is a senior writer and editor for BreakPoint. She is the editor of The Point radio. As We Forgive: Stories of Reconciliation from Rwanda is her first book, just released on February 1st. She regularly shares her thoughts on topics related to forgiveness and reconciliation at AsWeForgiveBook.com.