Tag Archives: Africa

For my existence, I owe this very truth: Memories of my Mother ❤️

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“These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” ~ John‬ ‭16‬:‭33‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

There are topics that I get excited to write about and share, yet there are others that give me pause, particularly when sharing over the vast expanse of cyberspace with individuals I may never encounter face-to-face. It truly exposes a sense of vulnerability within me. Nevertheless, since launching this blog and founding Rising Above the Storms (RAS) over a decade ago, my goal has been to open up to my readers and audience about the wounds of my past, narratives of the present, and the person I aspire to become.

If you are new to my blog, I frequently delve into my personal journey amid the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. I recount the harrowing stories of humans who became ferocious animals. I share about the tragic loss of my loved ones, the struggles, and immense grief I faced as a young girl, and the arduous path toward healing, forgiveness, and embracing hope. Amidst the trials, I attribute the person I have become today to the profound encounter with God throughout this tumultuous journey.

My Dearest Mommy, the Source of My Inspiration

The month of April permanently reminds me of the darkest time of my life, an experience that left me with wounds that defy healing from any human, object, or time. Amid numerous close calls with death throughout April and subsequent weeks, one particular date stands out as pivotal in shaping my identity: Sunday, April 24, 1994.

That fateful afternoon marked a week since my mother had assumed the role of the head of the household, thrust into this responsibility abruptly. Exactly one week prior, on Sunday afternoon, April 17, my father—my cherished confidant—was murdered. We learned of his death while cowered in hiding and overhead the Hutu Interahamwe militiamen passing by. They boasted: “We just killed Alphonse and cut him into three pieces; he indicated that he left a wife and five children behind. Where are they? We’ll finish them all.”

As newcomers to this town, my resilient mother may have hoped we could blend in unnoticed, believing perhaps that our lives might be spared. Unfortunately, this hope proved futile. On Sunday afternoon, April 24, my mother, elder brother, cousin, and I were led by Hutu Interahamwe militiamen to a mass grave in Mulindi, Kanombe, northeast of Kigali, a mere ten-minute distance from the Kigali International Airport. Despite our unfamiliarity with the area and the fact that the militiamen didn’t know us, our appearance alone betrayed our identity. Trapped in this moment, escape was inconceivable.

My entire family in one place, the only photo I have of us together. Blurred faces are friends/relatives.

We were instructed to sit down on the top of the looming mass grave, a pit that had already consumed countless innocent Tutsi victims and awaited many more. The militia leader, sneering at my mother, questioned how she was still alive, two and a half weeks into the genocide. Then, with chilling certainty, he asked my mother if she had other children not present with us at that dire moment.

Any response such as “I have no other children,” “they ran away,” “they are dead,” or “I am uncertain of their whereabouts” could have sufficed. However, my mother, characterized by her honesty, and extraordinary nature, opted for transparency during this critical moment. She revealed that she had three additional children in hiding. My emotions were already muted; I cannot claim that her response had a specific impact on me. Waiting for death has its own effect that cannot be put into words.

💔A red cross for the souls I lost 30 years ago, from left to right: Jean Felix, Dad, Mom, Marie Claudine💔

The same squad leader singled me out, citing my perceived physical vulnerability compared to my elder brother. The assailants assumed I would be unable to flee as swiftly as he could. My brother, aged only fifteen but appearing mature and towering at almost six feet tall, looked like an adult. Therefore, I was the target. The killers actually thought that my brother was much older and accused my mom of lying about his age. I was given an armed soldier to accompany me, with a mission to locate and bring my younger siblings so that we could all meet the same fate together.

I couldn’t walk away without saying something; I begged the merciless militia leader not to kill my beloved mother before I returned, hoping he would listen. My plea was my last conversation with my mother. The militia had already started beating my brother and he was bleeding when I left.

💞May their Memories Forever Be a Blessing💞

After disclosing my younger siblings’ hiding, the armed soldier didn’t take me back to the crime scene. Instead, he directed me to leave my siblings in their hiding place and escorted me in the opposite direction, towards a small house where a few others were also seeking refuge. While many details from that day remain hazy, I distinctly recall him leaving me in that house. I don’t remember how many people were there or their stories. After some time, the soldier returned and told me to follow him, leaving me no choice but to comply. With an assault rifle in hand, he held not just my safety but my very life in his grasp.

At that moment, I feared he intended to sexually assault me, a tragically common practice by the assailants before executing their victims. Though at just 13, I also harbored a sense of relief, thinking he might simply fulfill my plea and kill me with a bullet instead. It sounds bizarre, but knowing I might die by gunfire felt like a small mercy, a luxury denied to my loved ones.

♥️With my First Rays of Sunshine: Eric, Alice & Noella. ♥️

I followed him and we walked, I cannot say for how long with certainty. Eventually, we reached a home that I’d later learn belonged to his brother, a soldier as well, near the Kanombe military barracks. Darkness had already settled in by then. To my surprise, he offered me food, clothes, and a place to sleep. He also delivered the devastating news, that my brother, mother, and cousin had been killed. Adding to this anguish, he also disclosed that the death squad had discovered the hiding place of my younger siblings, and raised serious doubts about their survival.

As I lay in the tiny bed within that gigantic house, sleep eluded me completely. The events of that day still felt surreal, as if trapped in an unending nightmare. Questions swirled in my mind, wondering about the soldier’s role in the murder of my loved ones. He had claimed to have witnessed their deaths firsthand. I couldn’t shake it off: How did the death squad discover my siblings’ hiding place? Could the soldier have disclosed their whereabouts? After all, he was the only one who had seen them. Yet, despite these suspicions, he didn’t touch me and remained committed to his promise, emphasizing that he had spared my life to be the storyteller of my family’s tragic fate. It was evident that he believed I might be the sole survivor among my family members.

Like many in the ex-Rwandan Army Forces responsible for planning and perpetrating the genocide against the Tutsi, he eventually fled as the Rwandan Patriotic Forces (RPF) advanced, leaving me in that home. Weeks later, around the 4th of July, following intense clashes between the RPF fighters and ex-Rwandan forces, the RPF army seized control, leading me and other survivors to safety. This marked the beginning of a new journey, one marked by solitude but also survival.

My Blessings From Above. Our Parents in heaven must be proud❤️

Upon sensing the first semblance of safety, I embarked on a journey of piecing together fragmented memories to safeguard recollections of my loved ones. Details around when and where they were murdered, and any information I could remember, I attempted to trace back. It was during this introspective process that I grasped the true significance of my mother’s honesty. Had it not been for her truth, my own history would too have concluded on April 24, 1994. If I hadn’t been taken by that soldier to reveal my younger siblings’ hiding, the mass grave that claimed my mother, brother, and cousin would have become my dwelling.

I often ponder what compelled my mother to speak the truth when survival hung in the balance. I will probably never know; nevertheless, of this I am certain: I am alive today because of her actions, and here to share this story.

Although my time with my mom was tragically brief, her legacy lives on through me. She was honest, had immense kindness, a capacity for forgiveness, and devout faith. If I can embody even a fraction of her remarkable qualities, I will consider myself immensely fortunate. In a piece dedicated to her memory a few years ago, I wrote, “To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power,” capturing the essence of her indomitable spirit.

My first Rays of Sunshine: a Sacred Promise to My Dad will take you through the journey of how I found out that my three younger siblings, the ones whose hiding I revealed, had survived.

These narratives form the foundation of my faith; God has been our Father, Provider, Protector, and the source of everything we could ever need.

Thank you for reading my story!

“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” ~ Revelation 21:4

“Rwanda…..is it that next to Texas?”

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No kidding. I wish this was a joke but it actually happened, when a Northeastern man, who shall remain nameless, approached one of my friends to ask where she is from. It is true, United States is massive, with many large states that I call countries. By the time you fly from New York to LA for example, someone who had left about the same time may have landed in London and rested. Rwanda is only 395.18 sq miles larger than the state of Maryland. Maryland ranks 42nd in size, out of 50 states. Per Wikipedia, the continent of Europe is only 135, 899 sq miles larger than the United States as a country (this includes water for both). So don’t blame me if I call states countries. It’s no wonder some Americans imagine their country as being almost the whole world and everything else tiny and surrounding it.

Some citizens, especially in New York City have this pride of thinking the city as it being the whole state. I attended grad school in Rochester, NY. Recently though, I met someone in Long Island who is from Brooklyn; when I mentioned that I lived in New York, this person answered: “FYI, we don’t consider upstate as a part of New York.” Go figure! Oh and by the way, there is a map that shows how a New Yorker sees the rest of the US. I did not want to attach the image because it uses some language I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing, but New Jersey is apparently considered the armpit of NY. The mid west is called Tornadoes and Jesus and it has just one big city or something (Chicago!); the north west is a place you fly over to get to Seattle. And that’s the entire north, pretty much. I am sure a Texan sees United States differently too. You gotta love these people.

8391 miles apart
Kigali is about 8391 miles from Houston 😀

So you see, it’s not just the rest of the world viewed as a miniature by some Americans, it’s everyone else. As an advice, if you are from another country, don’t be offended if someone tells you that they never heard of your country before. Many Americans have not visited all 50 states either. But I just like the sense of humor in it all. One day, I volunteered for the Shepherd’s Table Soup Kitchen, a Christian organization that feeds the homeless. I met a very sweet woman, probably in her 60-70s. Shh, I am terrible at guessing age. On one occasion, I met an other lady on the plane and we became friends. During one hour flight, she insisted so many times that I guess how old she was. When I relented, I was 10 years off :(. She really looked like my auntie Angela who is 95.

So this wonderful lady at the Soup Kitchen asked me where I come from. By the way, some people think Africa as one country, so often I try to spare details and introduce myself as from Africa. Normally when I say just that and someone answers: “cool”, then I know they don’t really know much about Africa or where it is. But I wanted to keep a conversation going so I asked this lady: “Do you know much about Africa”?  And the sweet lady answered innocently with excitement: “Yes of course I do. I have been on a mission trip to HAITI”. YEP. True story!

Actually, I was not any different before I first arrived in the US. I thought that Canada was in Europe, because they speak French. I was shocked that just on the other side of the Rochester’s Lake Ontario lay the Canada’s Toronto. BUT this was my ignorance; since last year, I made it my goal to learn the world map. I must say that I am doing pretty good. My intention with this is not to point out anyone’s flaws or judging. I am just writing what I have seen, that’s all. We are after all brothers and sisters.

  • Weight versus Age

These two are a big deal in these two countries, and this is especially for just women. Back home, some women throw birthday parties until they turn 25, and after that, they just stop counting. The following year may be another 25th birthday. Unlike in the US, I don’t remember the last time I was asked about my age in Rwanda. At a birthday party, you come, eat and go. You simply don’t ask how old someone is. It’s not being rude, it’s just our culture I guess. After I arrived in the US, I was shocked to hear someone asking me how old I am, in front of a group of people. Seriously? Why? I wondered. But in the end, I realized that it’s just as asking your name. BUT the weight, it’s a no no. Do never ask someone around here how much they weigh.

On the other hand, the weight number isn’t a big deal in Rwanda; but the way we approach it, it can get sensitive and personal. It’s just more than asking you how much they weigh. If you gain so much weight in Rwanda, someone may walk to you and let you know that you might be bursting out soon if you do not stop eating whatever you are feasting on those days. They will remind that you should join a gym or starve. They don’t use polite or sweet expressions such as you have put on a few pounds; they will make you aware that you are fat. Facebook isn’t that helpful either; if you post a picture, someone may ignore a cute dress and shoes you have on to comment that you are simply huge and asks you what had happened to you. We somehow learned to laugh it out. After being in a culture that reacts differently, it made me wonder if it hurts people back home to be told such things.

By the way, did I mention that gaining weight may be a complement somehow? When a woman gets married and doesn’t put on few pounds, she must not be happy in her marriage. Losing too many pounds may be equally negative. When I first arrived in the United States, I lost several pounds; it took me a while to get used to the food around here. And guess what? Rumor had it that I must be poor and starving here. Yep. As a proof, most my Facebook pictures have such comments asking me why I am so thin. Of course this is nothing hurtful comparing to gaining weight.  Don’t get me wrong, Rwandans are the most hospitable people I have ever met. This is just another casual conversation. I will write more about hospitality in my next post.

One day I joked with friends about this weight topic. One of my friends made it clear to me that she would rather be asked how old she is than her weight. She is very tiny by the way. And I let her know that I would rather repeat my weight to everyone rather than my age. It is very interesting how different cultures can be. Needless to say, that night was full of laughter. Our mutual friends teased this friend that next time when they see her with a few extra pounds, they would ask her if she’s been feasting on McDonald’s. Another friend mentioned to me that if she came to Rwanda and someone told her that she looked fat, she would simply cry. Sadly, I told her that I was just preparing her in case it happens!

  • Being On Time

This is just a language we don’t speak where I come from. When I first arrived in Rochester, New York, I was blessed to have someone to give me an advice. He was a Rwandan Professor at RIT. He said that if I wanted to succeed in this country, I would have to be on time. He said that if it’s 10 am, I should plan to arrive anytime before 10 am and wait by the door if needed. He made it clear that if I was a minute or two late, they may not take me in. I was scared and in rush always. Why is that? Okay so in Rwanda, when you arrive at a place on time, it probably means you are not that important and have nothing else to do. If you were such an important person, you would have been busy with other things.

It took me a while to arrive at 7pm to a party that starts at 7. Not because I am important, but because I was used to show up when I can. Ceremonies in Rwanda end when everyone leaves! When you host a party, 7pm probably means 9pm. And people won’t even display any sign of remorse for making you wait for them, or arriving late. Everyone just somehow thinks that the time is there to get you going, not necessarily to follow it. One American writer who currently lives in Africa said it well: “the African time runs a couple of hours  behind the real time”. This is nothing but the truth!

If you have lived in another country, what were key takeaways in the new culture comparing to yours?