It was a hot day in Rwanda. But not just any hot day. It was one of those hot days where you felt like the thick hot air was almost suffocating you. There was a kind of haziness in the air that made the day seem as if it were a dream, and not a day that actually took place. I looked around with fear at all the crying people as we huddled together in a Nyarubuye Catholic Church. I couldn’t move an inch, for about 2,000 other Tutsis surrounded me. “Isaac!” I heard my father yell out over the loud screaming sobbing children and mothers, but I could not find the face that called my name. I felt all alone in the crowd because I knew that death was staring me straight in the eyes. However to our benefit, our gracious Father Seromba allowed my family and my Tutsi neighbors to hide out in his church. We would be safe for at least another few hours, if not another day. But, in my heart I knew that the Hutus would find us soon. I recalled back to the image of hundreds of dead Tutsis lying in the streets on our dash over to the church. I could not understand why so many Tutsis were being killed. We were not the rebels that were attacking or causing controversy with the Hutus. The Hutus refused to acknowledge us as an indigenous minority, but rather referred to us as a foreign race. Did the Hutus feel anger toward us Tutsis for the Belgians preference for us? So many questions and thoughts were running through my head when all of a sudden I heard a loud crash from behind me. I looked in the direction of the noise. Was what I saw really happening? Was the wall of the church really caving in before my eyes? It was true. Something was smashing into the wall of the church causing the red bricks to crumble to the ground. The noise got louder as the machine breaking down the wall advanced into the church and as everyone began screaming louder for his or her life. People could only escape from the bulldozer so far until there was nowhere else to go in the church. The bulldozer then began to roll its wheels over hundreds of innocent people. People were being crushed to death by their fellow neighbors. Blood splashed everywhere, as people yelled out their last words, “Please, no, don’t kill me!” But nothing would stop the Hutus from finishing us all off. Escape seemed impossible. As the bulldozer completely entered the church, civilian Hutus rushed into the church screaming, “Kill the living cockroaches!” Each Hutu had a machete. Each Hutu had the same goal. They chopped and hacked away at any living person inside the church. I could not even move. I was in so much shock from everything I saw. Then I realized I must try to find my family and escape. I needed to find my little brother and sister so the next generation of the Mugabes could survive. The Hutu’s were trying to kill off all the children so the next generation of each Tutsi family would be exterminated. I saw my family so I grabbed them and led the way towards the back of the church where I knew there was an exit. But I still could not find my father. I took a glimpse back into the mayhem, across the blood filled chaos and saw my father lying dead on the ground. I took that as a signal to leave, to save the rest of my surviving family, yet knowing that I would mourn over his soul later. As we made our way away from the church, I saw our beloved Father Seromba ordering the Hutu’s to kill his very own congregation of Tutsis. All faith was now lost.
We were only a handful of the couple thousand who survived the massacre at the church on that unforgettable April day in 1994. Although we survived, life was never the same again. My mom fell into severe depression and developed ulcers, hindering her ability to eat anything. She could never be happy again after the atrocity she witnessed, and she soon died. We were all losing hope. But then I found strength, from somewhere that I still can’t even put my finger on. I became the father figure for my brothers and sisters. I told them as long as we stuck together, then we were not orphans at all.
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It was only a matter of time. The Hutus had been planning carefully and strategically an annihilation of the Tutsis. Myself along with other Catholic clergy had always been very close with the extremist politicians of Rwanda. They had been ordering mass amounts of weapons, especially machetes because they were cheap, to conduct the massacre with. It was not my part to step in and try to stop the Hutu politicians from securing their power within Rwanda. The battle between the Tutsis and the Hutus had been brewing for a long time now. The Hutus were sick and tired of feeling repressed by the Tutsis. Tutsis were favored by the Belgians and put into power when the Belgians left. This was the Hutus time to fight back. When the day broke on the morning of April 12, 1994, I had a feeling that that day was going to stand out in history. It was one of those gut feelings. I was at the church that afternoon conducting day-to-day activities when hundreds upon hundreds of Tutsis burst into the doors. They claimed that they needed a hiding spot from the killing rampage the Hutus were on. They had all witnessed mobs slashing and mutilating civilian men, women, and even babies. “Please, Father Seromba,” they begged, “let us hide in your church.” I let them. Time passed and my ears started ringing from all the damn crying women and children. I was dripping in sweat from the hundreds of bodies of “cockroaches” that surrounded me. I had to leave, and I did. I came across a good friend of mine who was a Hutu politician. I told him about the situation at the church for I was not going to be held responsible for hiding Tutsis. The saying went, “Either you took part in the massacre or you were massacred yourself.” I did not have to kill with my own hands, but I was not going to be associated with the Tutsis. Instantly loud whistles were blown and masses of armed Hutu men were ordered straight to my church. A bulldozer was commanded to the church site as well. I pointed to where I knew the weakest parts of the church were and instantly loud ear splitting crashing noises erupted as the bulldozer crushed down the walls of the church. Soon I heard millions of piercing shrieks and screams coming from inside the church. I could not bear to listen to those disgusting Tutsi cockroaches anymore and encouraged mobs of men with machetes to go inside and finish off the surviving individuals. I watched as the members of the Interahamwe, a Hutu paramilitary organization, slashed and sliced the Tutsis who had for so long caused them to feel oppressed. There was a similar hatred in all the eyes of the members of the Interahamwe. To them, the meaning of Interahamwe meant that they stand together, work together, fight together and kill together. And that is what they did. As one man mutilated a woman he exclaimed, “That’s for the murder of Burundi’s Hutu President!” Another Hutu yelled as he slid his machete into the stomach of a boy, “This is for the mass killings you Tutsis conducted so many times in the past! This will be the end of it all!” I thought to myself, “Amen to that.” They were killing with their bare hands to prolong their political power and find a final solution to the ongoing political and tribal battle with the Tutsis. I knew that being on the Hutu’s side would save my life.