Chapter Three: Undecided

“And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart: And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.”~Deuteronomy 6:6-7.          

Land of a Thousand Hills Chapter Three:  Undecided

My hardship started with the loss of my parents.

Academic study and the way the world has responded has told me the authorities may have been right to take them.

         Kids at school talk behind my back: “Wanda, Wanda, parents killed Rwanda,” they say, and it makes me cry. “Children of killers are like killers themselves,” they say, and it makes me sad. I just wish the kids would stop picking on me, or worse, running away at the sight of me. I don’t have horns or an infectious disease, but their responses are normal to the daughter of two mass murderers, I guess.

         Mr. Mugabe, my history teacher and resident assistant at the Joan Saleweyo home for war orphans, often lectures on the history of Rwanda from his textbook: The History of the Land of a Thousand Hills. His research took him five years to complete. He is a short and simple man with well-groomed facial features and an olive complexion. My heart races every time he speaks and my body melts, becoming fixated upon his melodious tones. His delicate muscles flex as he points his ruler at various spots in the timeline. I fall into a rhythm of his sweet words and daydream of a time when the caress of his hands, hands that have not been tainted by the stains of man or nature, hands that are smooth and not calloused, could trace my every curve with sensual explorations. I wait for a time when he makes me his African queen, and proclaims me Queen Wanda, ruler over all the Land of a Thousand Hills. His lessons teach that my parents, Rhodesia and Jovenal Fischer, orchestrated the Nyarubuye Catholic Parish Massacre on April 15, 1994, organizing the murders of twenty thousand people. The world has judged my parents guilty of war crimes and has placed them in Gikungo, a prison for genocidaires.

         Ten years have passed since the Liberation Front arrested my parents. I was a five-year-old girl, ripped from my mother’s arms.

Letters written by genocide orphans to my parents call them both “monsters.” Can’t they see that I also lost those I love?

         I have nightmares of Susan Kyran, a resident here, pointing at me with her stump. Her sleeves are rolled all the way up to her shoulders; she ignores me with her good arm and casts her stump in my direction shouting, “Long sleeves or short, that’s what your father said to me.” She forces me to shake her stump, as though we were shaking hands in a congratulatory manner. Just as I pull away, I wake up and my hand smells of rotten flesh.

I punched Robert Okampa in the nose for placing a dead animal in my bed. I was the one who got in trouble, while he was treated to lemon ice and pampered by Joan Saleweyo, the owner of the home.

         This kind of behavior seems to be encouraged; for certain Ms. Saleweyo shares the views of the residents, making me an outcast. At the very best, she looks the other way and allows these things to happen.

I find myself wishing that I too was a victim of the attacks that day. I may have suffered the effects of a hard hit to the head, or even the loss of a limb, but then I would fit in, and the children, orphaned by the genocide, would be my friends. How nice would it be to be able to point my finger, calling others names, gaining strength from their tears? I could run away from the fallen, or hide dead animals under their beds, all the while having the love and support of Ms. Saleweyo.

Still, I miss my parents and wonder if perhaps Mr. Mugabe is wrong. Maybe the history of Rwanda has judged them unfairly. Perhaps they are just victims of their situation and circumstances.

         Mama Rhodesia was an amateur seamstress and a housewife. She did not charge for her mending services but welcomed neighbors into our home with promises of fixed garments, gossip, and authentic Bible tales. She had a gift for adopting local mythology and events into the Catholic doctrine, and used her needle and thread to win souls for Jesus. With each stitch she drew people closer to the Word, as they became captivated by the compassion knitted within each story. She was a lovely Christian woman, kind but firm, wise but humble, headstrong yet submissive. I think that’s why my father loved her.

         Papa Jo was the Umfundsi at the Nyarubuye Parish. He tended gardens, cultivated low-hanging fruit, and encouraged onlookers to view God’s splendor. He was a shepherd to his parish. He held mass five days per week, and held men’s prayer group twice per week. He was the principal of the Nyarubuye Catholic Academy and taught several classes on divinity. He visited villages along with my mother and passed out food and other rations to those hungry for more than just the Word.

         My parents have been in prison for a very long time and will remain so until they die or can be proven innocent.

         I think the stories they have told me will go a long way to vindicating them and bringing them back to society.

         Knowing what I know about my parents and listening to what Mr. Mugabe says, I am torn between two worlds, not knowing whom to believe.

         I want to believe they are innocent because I don’t believe that two gentle people can commit such acts. I want to believe they are innocent so they can be free from the bars that currently make up their world. I want to believe they are innocent so they can get me out of here and we can be a family again.

         I want to believe they are guilty because I know in my heart those people did not kill themselves. I want to believe they are guilty because that would justify the way I have been treated. I want to believe they are guilty because Susan’s arm is not going to grow back.

         I want to believe, but must lament, and I remain undecided.