CHAPTER ONE

Turahunze—We Are Fleeing!

The air was full of smoke. All around us, huts and houses were burning, their thatched roofs lighting up like torches. The screams and shouts and the smoke that stung my eyes and nose told me something was very wrong. But I didn’t know what and I didn’t know why. A month after my fifth birthday, all my mind knew was that there was danger, and I was terrified.

I was born in the community of Nshili in southern Rwanda. Like many rural Rwandans, my family had about five acres of land for growing food, and my grandparents, who lived nearby, had a banana grove. The houses were made of mud brick, formed from the red-brown earth and dried in the sun. Most had thatched roofs, but our house had tile roofing made from clay hardened by fire.

My father was a teacher and had just left for the village school where he taught. Although he only finished Grade 6, he had been trained for a year in pedagogy and was one of the best students in the teacher-training program. He was a natural-born teacher. I was at home with my mother, who was expecting her fourth child. When we smelled the smoke and heard the shouts and screams, we ran outside to find people streaming down the hillsides, fleeing their burning homes. Chasing behind them were people yelling and waving torches, wearing shabby clothes and headdresses made of banana leaves—frightening costumes, especially to a small child. I clung to my mother’s skirt, too frightened to make a sound. Through the fabric, I could feel her trembling.

She grabbed my hand. We ran to my grandparents’ home and hid among the banana trees. The smoke grew thicker as more houses were set ablaze, but ours was saved because of the tiled roof.

When this angry militia finally passed, the adults regrouped. My grandfather was with the other men, talking about what had happened and what we