Name: Period 6 Bean LAC 2 “The Rescuers” Notes

As you read, highlight passages you think are important or striking and label the big idea in the right column. As always, let me know if you have questions or need help. My office hours are 8-9 PM MWF, and 8-9 am TuTh if you

need a faster response. beank@issaquah.wednet.edu

Suggested breakdown of work:

Monday, May 18: Read Stories 1-3 and take notes Tuesday, May 19: Read Stories 4-7 and take notes

Turn in these notes to turnitin.com by 10 PM on WENDESDAY, May 20.

Hint: As you read, you might think about Night and other things you have read or watched.

“The Rescuers”

Excerpts from Humans from Rwanda: Tales of Genocide Horrors As Told By Survivors, Rescuers

By Brandon Stanton

On April 6th 1994, an airplane carrying the President of Rwanda was shot down over the capital city of Kigali, serving as a catalyst for genocide against the minority Tutsi population. One million people were killed over the next 100 days. It was one of the most violent episodes in human history. The stories from that time can be traumatizing to hear. Living through them is nearly unimaginable. But in the wake of this tragedy, an equally unlikely story has unfolded. It is the story of Rwanda’s recovery and reconciliation.

Rwanda has become one of Africa’s model economies. Its streets are clean and safe. Over one million tourists visit each year. If you walk through Kigali today, it’s difficult to imagine the events that occurred less than twenty-five years ago. But the stories are still there.

And you can’t listen to them without being reminded of humanity’s capacity for violence and the fragility of peace. During my week in Rwanda, I focused on the stories of people who took a moral stand during the genocide. These are members of the Hutu majority who risked their lives to shield and protect Tutsis. In Rwanda they are known as ‘The Rescuers.’

Story One“I was only ten years old at the time so I don’t remember much. Nobody explains things to you when you’re a child. I was never told that I was different. Or that some people wanted to kill us. My mother basically raised me by herself, but it wasn’t an unhappy childhood. I do remember feeling afraid sometimes. I remember occasionally being kept home from school. And I remember not being allowed to play freely in the streets. But these things were never fully explained to me. When the genocide began, I as visiting my grandmother. It was a school holiday. I’d made

good grades that semesters, so my mother had bought me a pair of yellow flip-flops as a reward. I was obsessed with them. I remember waking up that morning realizing something strange was going on. I could hear gunshots outside and people screaming. My grandmother told me to say inside the house. She’d recently had a stroke and was confined to a wheelchair, so it was just me

and her alone in the room. Eventually I got bored and decided to sneak outside to see what was happening. All the streets were empty except for young boys with machetes. That’s when my uncle came over, and I overheard him telling one of the maids that it was extremely dangerous outside. He said that all of us might be killed.

We stayed in the house for two nights. On the third morning a neighbor warned us that the killing groups were coming our way, so we decided to leave without packing anything. We were fortunate because my grandmother lived right next to the airport. Her house backed right up to the airstrip, and it was one of the few places in the city still under the protection of the United Nations. So my uncle cut a hole in the fence, and we began running toward some old trucks. We couldn’t run very fast because we were pushing my grandmother in her wheelchair. On the way I lost one of my yellow flip-flips. I remember thinking: ‘My mother is going to kill me when I see her again.’ So I tried to turn back, but the adults screamed at me to keep running. Finally we reached one of the trucks and climbed beneath it. We stayed under that truck for a week. The UN knew we were there, but they left us alone. Occasionally I’d run out and ask the soldiers for food. There was one soldier in particular who always gave me biscuits and sardines. He felt sorry for me because I was so small. And when the UN finally evacuated, he came and got us. They put us in the back of a cargo plane with some containers. Nobody explained anything to me. I was cold. I was hungry. I was tired. All I wanted to do was go home and see my mother.

The plane took us to a refugee camp in Nairobi, Kenya. It would be our home for the next year. When I finally learned what was going on, I became one hundred percent convinced that my mother had been killed. Other refugees were telling me stories. Many of them had lost their entire families. My uncle told me that everyone in our neighborhood had been captured, and he was almost positive that my mother was dead. Surely if my mother was alive, she would have come for me. My grandmother’s house was not far from our home. So I accepted the truth. But I didn’t have much time to think about it. Because we had to fight for our survival in the refugee camp. My grandmother was paralyzed and couldn’t chew hard food. So I’d spend my days trying to find her things to eat. I’d negotiate with people for their eggs and bananas. I spent the rest of my time by her side. She couldn’t move so I had to keep the flies away. But it wasn’t all bad. I made friends with a few of the other kids in camp. And I remember one time we stole money from the adults. We snuck out of the camp and bought French fries from a roadside shop. They were horrible quality. They came in a little plastic bag. But at the time I remember thinking they were the best thing I’d ever tasted.

After a year we were chosen for resettlement in the United States. As soon as we arrived, I was separated from my grandmother. She was put in a nursing home, and two months later she passed away. It was the first time I’d cried since I left Rwanda. She was all I had left. I lived with my uncle for awhile but he was very abusive. He treated me like a maid. So I was removed from the home and put into foster care in Boise, Idaho. But that was also a bad situation. I was on the verge of running away. And I’m pretty sure my social worker informed my

school. Because my art teacher started asking me about my plans. Her name was Anne Peterson. She was one of those teachers that you could talk to about anything. So I answered all of her questions. I told her my story. And I started bragging about my plan to take care of myself. I think she decided: ‘Absolutely not.’ Because that’s when she chose to become my Mom. Oh my God, it was amazing. Ms. Peterson lived in a big, beautiful house. I was the only child there. I had my own room. It was safe. I didn’t have to worry about surviving. Mom took care of everything. She would wake me up to go to school every day. She always made sure I had lunch. She took me out to eat at restaurants. It was amazing. I was already fifteen years old. But for the first time in

years, I felt like a kid.

During high school I got a lot of counseling. I began to process what had happened to me. I remember in tenth grade we had an English teacher who used to tell us to look in the mirror every morning and say: ‘I’m good and I’m beautiful.’ But I would always add: ‘And I’m extremely lucky.’ I’d look at myself closely and try to recognize my mother. I started reading a lot of books. One of them was called Anne of Green Gables, about an orphan girl who was different. I decided I was going to be like Anne and not let my bad luck ruin my life. I went to college at Washington State. I got an internship to work in the US Senate. I even dreamed about one day becoming Secretary General of the United Nations. But it was during this time that I also began to meet other people who’d escaped from Rwanda. I listened to their stories. And I began to realize the full context of what happened during the genocide. I read about it obsessively. I learned that the world had abandoned Rwanda. The United Nations may have saved me, but they failed everyone else. One million people were left to die. At first I felt angry. Then the anger turned into guilt. Why had I survived? For the longest time I didn’t even want to tell my story. Because I didn’t want to give the United Nations any credit. I didn’t want my story being used to put a positive spin on the situation. I felt confused and conflicted. But then at the age of twenty-one, I was given an opportunity to return to Rwanda.

I was given the opportunity to visit Rwanda as part of my internship with the US Senate. I was accompanying an important delegation. But they must have thought I was crazy, because when we arrived in Rwanda, I began speaking to people in the streets. I was convinced that everyone looked like me. I wanted to find members of my family. I wanted to see my old school. I wanted to find my old house. But all I could remember was the location of my grandmother’s house because it had been so close to the airport. So that’s where we went. We knocked on the door. I didn’t reveal my identity. When I asked the current resident if he knew about me, he told me that I had been killed. But then he said that some of my family was still alive. He told us that my sister was working at a nearby market. So we decided to drive there. The sun was going down. At this point I was sure that I’d lost my mind. Because we drove by a playground, and I saw a little boy that looked exactly like me. I even took his photo. I had no idea that he was my brother. When we arrived at the market, it was almost completely dark. But I saw my sister. And she saw me. She recognized me immediately because of the scar on my forehead. Our brother had given me this scar when we were toddlers. He didn’t survive the genocide. When my sister saw me, we embraced. We both started crying. And she told me everything that happened while I was gone. And I won’t share the details, because those aren’t my stories to tell. But she gave me the biggest news of all. I remember picking up the phone, and immediately calling Anne Peterson. I told her: ‘Mom, you’re not going to believe this. But I just found my mother.’”

Story 2“The genocide was an opportunity to get rich. Murdering people was the quickest way to accumulate wealth. We were given permission from the government to seize the property of anyone we killed. We were told it was our god given right. But I never felt the temptation. My family owned a big supermarket. I had my own car. When the killings began in 1994, I had a scholarship to study in Greece and I was just waiting to begin.

The killings were being encouraged by the national radio station. Every day they would announce how many people had been killed. They’d announce the location of the killings. And they’d give thanks to those who were doing the killing. One morning I was sitting in my bedroom, and I heard an announcement on the radio: ‘Everyone is being killed in Gatobotobo except for those under the protection of the Felix family.’ I knew then that we were in danger. Not long after the

announcement, the Minister of Internal Security came to our village for a meeting. It took place on a hill overlooking our property. He could see everything that was happening in our compound. When he left the meeting, his convoy began driving toward our home. The minister was riding in a truck full of armed soldiers. When he passed by me in the street, the truck slammed on the brakes. All my bodyguards ran away and I was left completely alone. My neighbors began to gather around. They were laughing and applauding, saying, ‘This is the guy who was stopping the killings.’ The minister walked over to me. He pushed me on the ground & leaned over my body. He was covered with sweat. His eyes were wide. There was dried spit on the edges of his lips. He had the face of the devil. He took off his belt and began beating me until I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, I found myself lying alongside a very deep pit. It was full of bodies. My stepfather was standing over me. Somehow he had learned about the attack, and had come with his bodyguards to rescue me. He picked me off the ground. I was barely conscious. When we returned home, my stepfather called the government to complain about what had happened. But he was told to watch his back. He was told that our family was no longer under protection. My mother begged me stop helping people. She told my bodyguards to not let me leave the house. But by that time the Rwandan Patriotic Front was getting very close to our village. The fighting grew very intense. My family packed everything and fled toward the borderwith Congo. 4 of my sisters were killed on the journey. I remained behind with the 70 people. Our bodyguards were gone. We were helpless. We had no guns. We just prayed the rebels would liberate us as soon as possible. I knew the killing groups would be coming to my home, so I gathered all the remaining biscuits & water. I took everyone to the house of someone who had already been murdered. It seemed like the safest place to be. I closed them inside and padlocked the door. Then I finally ran off to reunite with my family. I learned later that everyone in that house was rescued. Only 4 of the 70 lost their lives. And almost all of them are still alive today. We remain friends. We’re still neighbors. They bring me gifts. I see them in the streets almost every day, and whenever we meet, they show me their love.”

Story 3“My father was a talented engineer. He could fix any type of truck and used his income to help the poor. Our neighbors’ school fees and hospital bills were always paid. My mother brought needy people to our table and ordered us to give them the best portions of meat. She’d explain these people rarely had the chance to eat well. My parents were very religious. But they always taught us: ‘Humanity first. Everything else comes after.’ When the genocide began, they invited our Tutsi neighbors to hide in our house. There were 7 of them. Some lived under the beds. Others lived in the cupboards. I was a

teenager then and my job was to change the waste buckets. It was a miserable existence, and it went on for months. But we prayed with them. We tried to give them hope. We told them God was in control. At night we’d give them Muslim dress so they could go in the backyard and get fresh air. Our neighbors suspected us because our curtains were always closed. We never slept

because we knew the penalty for hiding Tutsis was death. But all 7 people in our house survived. My mother and father died a few years ago, so I must tell their story. They saved 7 lives. And they valued love & humanity more than anything.”

Story 4“When we heard the president had been killed, I ran into the street with my friends. We wanted to see what was happening. Immediately 2 men came running after us with guns. They were pointing at us and screaming: ‘You killed the president!’ All of us ran in different directions. I ducked into a neighbor’s house and climbed into the ceiling, but my shoes fell off and landed on the bed. The men discovered my shoes and climbed into the ceiling after me. Luckily I squeezed into a place they could not fit. But when

they finally left, the owner of the house told me I had to find another place. He told me that people were hiding at the church of St. Paul, and that I should go there. I left at 3 AM. I walked through the forest. I could hear gunfire and screaming in the dark. The church was less than a kilometer away but the journey took me 2 hours. When I arrived, I discovered hundreds of other survivors. We were housed in the building behind me. Every hour more people would arrive. Each time a newcomer came, we would rush to them for news.

I learned that my brothers had been killed. They had run to a nearby church, but the pastor opened its doors to the killers. Another person told me that my mother had been killed. She’d taken refuge in a nuns’ compound. She was randomly chosen for death and shot in the head at 10 AM. She lived until 5 pm. But by the time I heard this, I couldn’t even cry. I was completely numb. I was just waiting to die myself. The conditions were tolerable at first. We were eating twice a day. We could take showers. But people kept pouring into the church compound. Eventually there were 2000 of us. All the young men began sleeping in the ceiling. Women and children slept on the floor. Beds were given to the elderly. All of the priests abandoned us except for one. His name was Celestin Hakizimana, and he stayed with us until the very end. Every day he’d put on his gown, and stand right here at the gate. When the killers arrived, he would tell them: ‘We only have innocents here. Go find the enemy on the battlefield.’ If they refused to leave, he would take them to the church office & bribe them with money. Once the killers tried to lure him from the compound by saying his father was dead, and that he was needed at the funeral. But he told them: ‘Please send my blessings.’ He wouldn’t abandon us. If any survivors knew the location of their family, Father Celestin would do his best to find them. He would put on his gown and drive out into the world.

One night he came back bloodied and beaten. He had been stopped at a roadblock, laid down in the road and kicked in the street. But the next day he put on his gown once more, and drove out into the world. He couldn’t always keep the killers out. Some days they’d come with lists of people to kill. And there was nothing he could do. He’d do his best to fool them by creating a registry of fake names. But then they would choose people randomly. They’d drag out 20 people at a time and bring them to their death. Nothing could be done.

One morning the killers brought a list of names, and gathered everyone together. They told us to sit on the floor. They stepped through the crowd and began reading out the names. My name was called out, but it was misspelled by one letter. They kept shouting ‘Marengo’ instead of ‘Masengo.’ But I knew it was me they were looking for. They told the crowd: ‘If you give up these people, we won’t come back to kill your sons and daughters.’ But nobody spoke. The killers were examining one person at a time. I sat with my head between my knees. Back then I had the face of a girl, so I tried to cover myself with fabric. Some of the killers were from my neighborhood. I knew that when they got around to me, I would be recognized. So I slipped out and ran toward a banana plantation. One of them spotted me and alerted the others. I jumped over a brick fence and dove into the tallest grasses I could find. Soon I heard footsteps. They were walking all around me. I remember one of them saying: ‘Cockroaches are so mysterious. How are they able to disappear?’ He got so frustrated that he hacked at a banana tree with his machete. The leaves fell on my legs. I was lying with my cheek on the dirt. I remember the exact time because my watch was next to my face. It was 12:22 PM. I remember thinking: ‘This is the time I’m going to die.’

I managed to escape that day, but things had grown desperate. In the end there were 2000 of us trying to survive. We’d begun to run out of food. The militia was losing on the battlefield and began to grow frustrated. Two days before our rescue, they came to the church for a final big attack. They were going in every room. They were finding everyone. Some of the mothers were lying on mattresses over their sons, trying to hide them. But it was no use. I’d managed to climb into the ceiling. I’d poked holes in the exterior wall so I could breathe. Through those holes I could see everything that was happening outside. They tied every boy up, two-by-two. They brought them to this exact spot and began to beat them. Their mothers were screaming and crying from inside the building. One group of boys was pulled to the center. These were my friends. We played soccer together. We studied together. Sebajura. Galindo. Muyoboke. Jean Bosco—he was a believer. They walked up to Jean Bosco and kicked him in the head. They told him: ‘We know you are a friend of Masengo. Tell us where he is.’ And Jean Bosco knew. He knew where I was. He’d seen me climb into the ceiling. But he didn’t say a word. So they beat him harder. They kept saying: ‘Tell us, tell us, tell us.’ But he kept silent. He kept silent until his last breath. And then they shot him. Jean Bosco died because of me. He died for me. 72 young men died that day. The crowd screamed the entire time. But that night when I finally climbed down from the ceiling, everyone was silent. Nobody was saying a word.”

Story 5“My husband and I were shopkeepers at the time of the genocide. We sold groceries on one side of the shop, and on the other side we had a bar. On the night the president’s plane was shot down, the bar was full. Everyone was dancing and listening to music. We heard a large explosion but didn’t think anything of it. Everyone went back to dancing. But the next morning people began shopping frantically. We were selling food in large quantities. When we were down to the last 100 kgs of potatoes, I decided not to sell anymore. I could tell that danger wascoming. Nobody came to the bar that night. The

streets were empty & quiet. People were either planning violence, or they were hiding. We were one of the first cities to be liberated. So almost immediately there was fierce fighting throughout the city. The killers knew they had to murder as quickly as possible. They were herding groups of Tutsis onto bridges and shooting them all. My husband and I had a reputation for being friendly with Tutsis, so we were suspected of being traitors. Our neighbors began watching us closely. We feared for our lives. We had a lot of property, so we knew there was a big incentive to murder us.

When the first Tutsis came to us looking for shelter, we turned them away. But one night I was walking near the house, and I heard a close friend calling to me froma tree. He was dying of hunger. It had been raining all day. I said to myself: ‘The property isn’t worth it,’ and I invited him inside. I didn’t even inform my husband.

It was too dangerous to hide the man in the house. So I brought him to this small room in the back, which we sometimes rented to tenants. I pushed him inside and locked the door. When I was opening our shop the next morning, another man came running to me for help. He was limping badly. He was out of breath and drenched in sweat. I recognized him as a prominent Tutsi businessman. ‘Save my life!’ he screamed. ‘They are chasing me!’ So I quickly pulled him to the back of the house and locked him in this same room. A few minutes later the killers arrived. They searched all over the main house, but never checked the back room. Over the next few days, 6 more people came looking for help. We hid them all. But my neighbors had been spying on us. They reported everything. And one night the killers showed up with guns. When they knocked on the door, my husband started shivering and couldn’t stand up. I told him: ‘You’re the man of the house. You must stand firm and face them.’ But he couldn’t move. So I went to the door myself. The killers were standing there with a list of the people hiding in our house. ‘Where are these cockroaches?’ they said. I tried to tell them that we had no cockroaches, but they pushed past me and started searching. They beat my husband until he was unable to speak. I offered them all the money we had, and only then did they stop. But they told us that they’d be coming back during the daylight for a house-to-house search.

The killers formed a search party the next morning. They gathered at the top of the hill. We could see them coming toward us, searching every house along the way, and pulling out more people to join the hunt. The mob was growing very big. I knew that the end was upon us. But the fighting was very intense that day. Rockets were flying over our head, & some of them began landing on the hill. One landed so close to the search party that they scattered in

different directions. I pulled everyone out of the hiding place and moved them to the forest behind our house. Every night I’d wait until the streets were empty, and I’d bring them food. For two weeks it went on like this. I rationed what little we had. I lost all my weight because I was too scared to eat. My breasts completely disappeared. I didn’t even feel like a woman anymore. I’d nearly given up on life. Every morning I’d pray for the day to finish. And every night I’d pray for the morning to come. My husband wanted us to escape. The only reason we remained in Kigali was to feed those people. And after three weeks the capital finally fell. The Rwandan Patriotic Front was advancing, and the Hutu boarded busses to flee the city. Even the people who were hiding told me to abandon them. So I gave them each a final ration of food and escaped. But all of the people hiding on this property were rescued. And every single one of them is alive today.”

Story 6

“When I was 12, they undressed a Tutsi girl in front of my entire school. They wanted to see if her private parts were the same as other people. She kept trying to cover herself with her hands while they pulled out her hairs one by one. I can still hear the laughter. Even with all the violence that came later, that was the most traumatic moment of my life. It’s still the image I see when I’m trying to fall asleep. The genocide didn’t begin until many years later, when I was 25. I was a soldier in the army. I could tell the atmosphere was growing

more and more tense. Our commanders were openly using ethnic slurs. There was talk of ‘wiping our enemies from this country.’ One night I was assigned to guard 4 Tutsi prisoners. They’d been accused of making explosives but were clearly innocent civilians. They’d been tortured. Their wounds were rotten and stinking. A major came to the cell at 1AM and ordered me to step aside. ‘These people need to be killed immediately,’ he said. But I refused. I told him those were not my instructions. He pushed and screamed, but eventually stormed off. The prisoners were released a few days later, but someone followed them out and killed them. It was a sign of things to come.

There had always been permission to kill any Tutsis we discovered while on patrol. But on April 6th our instructions became very clear: every Tutsi was to be found and killed. It was even said over the radio. Our first official order was to drive to a nearby city and open fire on unarmed civilians. Most soldiers carried out the orders with glee. The hatred had sunk into their core. Let it be remembered that the killings were pursued with pride, passion, and determination. Soldiers fired indiscriminately at people walking down the road. I pretended to participate, but I didn’t pull the trigger. That night we returned to the camp and everyone swapped stories. They bragged about how many people they’d killed. It became a competition. Soldiers would radio from other bases, and say: ‘We’ve killed so many already. Why can’t you keep up?’ All of it was sickening. I couldn’t eat for weeks. But it was most traumatizing for the Tutsi soldiers in our army. My roommate was a Tutsi. He had to pretend like he was enjoying the murder of his friends and family. He had to laugh along with the others to save his own life. He could only remove his mask with me. And he was the only one that I trusted with my plan.

Our base was only 20 kilometers from the border with Burundi. After the first day of killings, I rode to the border on a bicycle-- just to study the route. I knew that I was taking a giant risk. But I was a religious person. I was a Christian before I was a soldier. So for me, killing innocent people was more of a risk than trying to help them escape. Many Tutsi families were part of my church community. I had prayed with them many times.

So when one of them reached out for help, I could not refuse. They told me their neighbors had just been murdered. They feared they were next. So I told them to gather in one place and meet me at midnight. I snuck out of the camp. I told my roommate to tell everyone I was sick on the toilet. When I got to the meeting place, I was expecting to find one family, but there were 23 people waiting. Many of them were too scared to come out of the bush. They saw my uniform and thought I was leading them to their death. But the mother of the family gathered everyone together for prayer. She said: ‘Lord, we are frightened. But we are going to trust our brother in Christ to take us to safety.’

The journey to the border took nearly four hours. Our pace was very slow because there were so many kids in the group, and everyone was weak from hunger. We had to avoid the main roads. Thankfully I’d mapped out the route so I could find our path in the dark. All of us were frightened. Even if we heard an animal, everyone would jump. When we arrived at the border, I pointed the group toward Burundi and headed back to camp. I was confident that I’d avoided detection. Several days passed without incident. I even managed to run one more mission with a mother and child. But somehow news leaked out. And one night when I was returning from patrol, a Tutsi solider met me at the door of the barracks. He was out of breath. ‘You are already dead,’ he said. ‘They will torture you.’ I thought he was just being paranoid, but then I heard my name being called out on the radio. Orders were given to shoot me on sight. I left everything behind and began to run. I hopped over the fence. I didn’t stop running until I arrived at the border. The next time anyone saw me, I was on television bearing witness to the crimes I had seen.”

Story 7“First came the meetings. They were openly advertised on community microphones. Their stated purpose was to discuss ‘current issues,’ but everyone knew that killings were being organized. These things were being openly discussed on the radio at the time. I was always invited to these meetings, but I never attended. I was a pastor. Iwanted no part in those discussions. But when the killings finally commenced on April 7th, people came running to my church for sanctuary. The first

of them arrived early in the morning. They were trembling and too scared to speak. All they could say was: ‘Hide us, hide us.’ I told everyone to go inside the church. I said: ‘If our God is true, we will be OK.’ Finally a young man arrived who was able to talk. ‘They killed my parents,’ he said. ‘All of us are being hunted.’ I was also terrified but I tried not to show it. I just kept bringing people inside the gate. By the time the sun went down, there were over three hundred people hiding on this property.

We filled every hiding place with a person. Some were in the ceiling. Some were in the cupboards. Some were under the floor. There were even 2 people in this toilet. That very first evening the militia came to my front gate. Some were carrying guns. Others were carrying machetes. They’d been told that I was hiding people. They demanded to come inside and searchthe property. I stood in the doorway and told them that they’d have to kill me first. ‘We’ll be back,’ they said. ‘And thanks for gathering the cockroaches into one place. Because it will be easier to kill them here.’ Days passed by. We were an abandoned, dying group. Our food ran out quickly. Thankfully some church members answered my call, and agreed to sneak us food after dark. The nights were the worst. We could hear gunfire and screaming in the surrounding hills. Always we thought we were next. Nobody was sleeping. My wife and I lost so much weight. All our friends abandoned us. They pretended not to know us. Only one pastor stood by our side. He came to me one night and warned me that there was a plan to attack the church. I told the news to my wife, and we both agreed that we were ready to die.

The next time the killers came, there were 50 of them. All of them had guns or machetes. They pushed straight past me and entered the pastor’s residence. They began pulling people out of the ceiling. They were kicking us and dragging us along the floor. I knew this was the end. I could see our death clearly. Some people were shivering and wailing and screaming for mercy. Others werecompletely silent. They’d already lost so many

loved ones and they were ready to die themselves. We were dragged to this very spot and put in three lines. We began to say our last prayers. I scanned the mob of killers for recognizable faces. Many of them were Christians. Some were even from my congregation. Every time I recognized a face, I called to him by name. I said: ‘When I die, I am going to heaven. Where will you go?’ Then I pointed to the next man, and asked him the same question. Then the next. Then the next. Some of the killers grew nervous. They began to argue amongst themselves. Nobody wanted to be the first to kill. Soon they were threatening to shoot each other. And they began to leave, one by one, until all of them had run off.

We didn’t lose a single person. After hiding out for 3 weeks, we were rescued by the Rwandan Patriotic Front. Everyone came running in from the fields. All of us were cheering. In the end, over 300 people survived the genocide by hiding in this church. I can’t remember all their faces. Life has taken us to many different corners. And some of them have left the country to begin new lives. But many of them still call me father. I’ve given away the bride in several different wedding ceremonies. Occasionally people will randomly show up on my doorstep with drinks. I’ll say to them: ‘You were with us in the church, weren’t you?’ And we’ll embrace. When I look back, I believe the genocide could have been stopped if more pastors had taken a stand. We were the ones with influence. The killers belonged to our congregations. And we could have held them back. But instead we did nothing. And every pastor had a different excuse. Some said they didn’t know things would get so bad. Some said they were too afraid. And some said the government was too powerful to oppose. But when you’re standing aside while people die, every excuse is a lame one.”

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