As We Forgive Them E-Book

Apolline Dukuzemariya

• Herausgeber: Europa Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Far from being a chronicle of the Rwandan genocide, As We Forgive Them narrates the story of one woman’s astonishing resilience and those who accompanied her on her journey, making her victory possible: from her childhood to her vocation to become a nun that turned out so differently, her marriage, and all the events that prepared her to face the indescribable. 
This is a first-class testimony to the power of forgiveness in a generation that, more than ever, needs reminding of what it means to forgive and learn to rise beyond the trauma. Apolline had to face death and suffered deeply from it. Nevertheless, her life is a witness of how her faith in Christ Jesus helped her in these brutal circumstances. In the face of the unforgivable, she offered forgiveness and found inner healing.

A survivor of the Rwandan genocide, Apolline Dukuzemariya recounts her life trajectory in this book. Her story is a prime testimony to the power of forgiveness despite the unspeakable cruelty she faced.
Almost thirty years ago, on April 21, 1994, to be precise, she was massacred by ten militiamen and left for dead at her home in Butare, in the south of the country. Despite all odds, she held onto life, and eventually, Apolline managed to depart to Europe on humanitarian grounds. The long, slow healing process allowed her to reflect, read and pray. 
Today, Apolline lives in Aigle in the canton of Vaud and is a naturalized Swiss.

Leseprobe

Apolline Dukuzemariya

As We Forgive Them

© 2023 Europe Books | London www.europebooks.co.uk | [email protected]

ISBN 979-12-201-3581-8

First edition: June 2023

As We Forgive Them

Acknowledgments

Account of events recorded and formatted by Joël Reymond, www.joelreymond.com

English translation: Catherine Sommer, [email protected]

ALL RIGHTS OF REPRODUCTION, TRANSLATION

AND ADAPTATION RESERVED FOR ALL COUN-

TRIES.

Legal deposit BCUL: October 2018. 2nd impression

(French original)

This testimony is dedicated to all those who have helped me and without whom I would not be here today.

This testimony is also dedicated to my children, my grandchildren, and subsequent generations so that they may continue to remember Jesus Christ.

Foreword To The English Edition

Every year in April the genocide that took place in Rwanda is remembered in that country, and rightly so: The terrible events that brought so many deaths and so much loss and grief to many people and families right up to the present need to teach us that such an event should not happen again, anywhere. Remembering this event reminds us of the importance of living together in peace, and to do everything possible for reconciliation among people. It warns us to be wary of divisive information, false news, hate-speech, and of stigmatising people.

Apolline Dukuzemariya lived through the genocide and had to face death, when she was murderously attacked and left for dead. She suffered deeply from it. Her life is a witness of how her faith in Christ Jesus helped her in this unspeakably atrocious situation. If she gives an account that helps us to remember, she does so for a positive aim: in the face of the unpardonable, she shows forgiveness, healing, though at great cost, that helped her to live on in faith even after near death. She found inner healing, and pardon opened the way to reconciliation. This pardon created new life and peace. She speaks of God’s marvellous help that did not spare her extraordinary difficulty and pain, but helped her through these difficulties.

What does such trauma do to a person? The reader is taken through her inner struggles. Over several steps, and over time Apolline came to be a witness of forgiveness and peace. She can now say: “I am not marked by machete blows; I am marked by the love and power of God.” Her voice needs to be heard. It calls us to live authentic lives of personal faith. Her testimony first did so in her new surroundings in Switzerland, where her body could be restored through several operations, then in Frenchspeaking countries. Through this translation she is now engaging people in the English-speaking world to think and act in a way to prevent such killings from happening again. Her witness is equally a help for people who must learn to forgive, and as they move on, can be healed of inner scars.

As a testimony of faith, this book is an encouragement for women and men everywhere.

Walter F. Rapold Dr theol.

November 2022

Preface

This book is different. It’s a testimony, a life story. Its author, known simply as Apolline, describes how an experienced Christian life meets tragedy. It’s a real horror movie scenario, but with a happy ending. Apolline invites her readers to follow her through an explosive cultural context. Everyday life, which she describes in detail, is often full of surprises. This life, her life, gradually reveals the spiritual journey that ultimately leads her to forgive the unthinkable.

Apolline tells of her youth in her native Rwanda, in central Africa. She grows up in a family steeped in religious references that are simultaneously both traditionally pagan African and Christian. Her position as the eldest daughter, “dedicated”, lays heavy responsibilities on the shoulders of this young girl, in a family where joy and sorrow, happiness and violence are constant daily companions. At school she discovers human and Christian diversity. She chooses her path in the bosom of a Pentecostal church, and is henceforth engaged in an endless spiritual battle between traditional and Christian practices.

Apolline talks openly about the men who want to marry her and how she meets Emmanuel, who becomes her husband. Together the two of them launch a local branch of the Pentecostal Church in which they commit themselves body and soul, and which grows rapidly, leading to a revival in their region.

It’s at this moment, when she has started a family and is very active in her church, that tragedy strikes. It’s 1994, amid war and genocide. Apolline describes in detail the horror she lives through, up to the blow from a machete intended to be fatal to her. She recalls the hospital treatment, separation and reunification with her family, the post-war context and her travels to Switzerland.

After the tragedy comes relief. Apolline is given appropriate treatment and, with her family, gradually starts putting her life back together, a new life, more peaceful. But at the same time, she is racked by questions from her past. She’s battered and bruised, but safe. Finally, her spiritual quest leads her to a choice, and she chooses to forgive unconditionally those who butchered her. From now on, she sees herself as a new Apolline, healed in all senses of the term.

The pages that describe this radical transformation are, in my eyes, the focal point of the book and justify the title she has given it: “As We Forgive Them”.

In Switzerland, her new adopted country, and elsewhere Apolline continues to testify, to share her experience, her life with God, her healing and the forgiveness she has granted.

Each generation needs its own witnesses to the power of forgiveness so that this idea, frequently glimpsed only from afar, isn’t reduced to a mere mirage but can become more real, more concrete. For our generation, Apolline is surely one of these witnesses.

Professor Innocent Himbaza

Dr theol. habil.

University of Fribourg

Switzerland

Chapter 1: Dedicated From Birth

“No, no, my dear daughter, that’s no way for a dedicated person to talk!”

My mother was telling me off for badmouthing one of my little brothers. Reminders of my unique situation were frequent. I wasn’t like the other children; I was not allowed to swear, show any signs of bad temper or give way to any sort of youthful excess. Ever since I was born my parents had intended me for the service of God. My name is Apolline Dukuzemariya. The traditional Rwandan name deliberately chosen by my parents means “praise to Mary”. And my Christian name, Apolline, refers to a 3rd century woman of Alexandria who was arrested by the Roman prefect and ordered to renounce her faith. When she refused, she was subjected to atrocious torture before being thrown into a furnace.

This name was proclaimed publicly by the priest at my baptism, a few weeks after my birth. In Rwandan society, baptism is a necessary rite, otherwise you are called a “pagan” and you aren’t given a first name. Who on earth would want that?

As far back as I can remember, I believed that I was going to become a nun, that I’d wear a plain dress of one colour only, and a veil to cover my head. Dedicated to God’s service: the idea appealed to me.

On Sundays we always went to mass as a family, our weekly outing. My father would assist the priest with the Eucharist. I was inspired by the beauty of our parish church, the costumes of the participants, the decorum of the gestures, actions and words. I didn’t understand very much, but I thought it was cool.

After mass we were usually hungry and thirsty. Our parents would buy us lemonade with amandazi, imbusha, ibiraha1, while they enjoyed a banana beer. If happiness exists, we touched it in these moments. We were proud of our religion.

All my family members were practising Catholics yet at the same time they were animists; they also worshipped spirits, wore amulets2 on their bodies and placed them around the house, as well as consulting abapfumu, witchdoctors, seers and soothsayers. In fact, these traditional practices were what everyone turned to whenever a need or problem of any kind arose; these were felt to be “real” whereas those of the Church were “honorary” only, just ceremonial.

We lived a few kilometres from Butare in southern Rwanda in the village of Runyinya, sector of Kibingo. Our town, formerly called Astrida, was the old colonial capital of the country. The first Catholic mission in the country was founded a few kilometres outside the town at Save. When independence arrived in the year I was born, Kigali in the middle of the country became the political capital. But Butare remains the principal city in the south of the country, the administrative centre or chef-

lieu de prefecture3 , an academic and intellectual capital with its own university.

We had lots of cows and fields. That didn’t make us cattle raisers or farmers; the work was done by labourers who answered to my mother. We had plenty to eat and we lived well. We had a good harvest of beans and sorgho4 to last until the next harvest, plus we also cultivated sweet potatoes and manioc, and our banana plantation brought in sufficient fruit.

Papa was wealthy enough that he didn’t really need to work but he taught at the local primary school. Our school was at Kibingo, a large building made of bricks with a tin roof. When it rained, it was so noisy you couldn’t hear the teacher so at that point the pupils would pick up their notebooks and revise or work on their own.

It was taken for granted that the children should chip in with the housework so from the age of six, I used to go with the neighbouring women to gather dead wood in the forest for the kitchen fire. Joining in this group activity made it seem almost like a game. Sometimes on the way home from school, a bunch of us girls would spontaneously drop into the forest and emerge with bundles of wood on our heads.

I also went down into the valley to draw water for the household, at the bottom of the Agashuru hill where we lived. Little rough paths led to the spring, a walk of about twenty minutes downhill but the way back, with a full

pail of water on your head, was arduous and exhausting. Fortunately, we girls all trotted along together, having fun and chatting as we went, which made the job easier.

I also have happy memories of time spent together braiding our hair.

From the age of nine I would also go down to the stream to help wash the clothes of all the family at a place a bit bigger than where we drew water, an important job on Saturdays because on Sunday we would go to mass and had to look smart and clean. Our washing dried quickly in the sun, spread out on bushes and on the grass. One day, a crow swooped down and snatched away my bar of laundry soap!

At the end of the day I swept the outer courtyard of our house. I did this with a home-made broom of eucalyptus twigs. I also had to pull out the weeds. On Sunday, everything had to be clean. We used a broom made of fine special grass to sweep indoors.

As the eldest child, I was quickly made responsible for my younger brothers and sisters: Edouard, Jérôme, Angélique. It was a tough task, as I was no more than a child myself. Later on there were also Germaine, Hakizayezu nicknamed Toto, and the twins, Providence and Aimable. However, they all showed their big sister the same respect as they had for their parents, because that is how Rwandan society was structured.

My father also had children outside of our family. I have half-brothers that I have never met to this day.

Growing up, I became more and more aware of my father’s violence. Thanks to my vocation as a nun, he did not dare raise his hand to me. In any case, I gave him no reason to. He often repeated that he had nothing more precious than me on earth and the worst that could happen to him would be to lose me. My mother, on the other hand, was frequently beaten and often used to flee to friends or other members of her family after a battering.

Alcohol was never far away from this violence. After school, my father was in the habit of going for a drink with his friends. Rwandan culture is merry and convivial so when a man sits down with his pals it goes on well into the evening or night. Papa always came home long after sunset so he was no longer in control of himself and he took it out on his wife.

For me, this was another reason to agree to my parents’ wish; by serving the Church, I wouldn’t be at the mercy of a husband. I was going be a nun, not out of love for the Lord but to escape the wickedness of men.

***

My story begins at the end of my sixth year of primary school, which was the class taken by my father, when I failed the exam that should have opened the doors of secondary school to me.

I repeated the year, and failed yet again in summer 1975 meaning that this time, I would have to leave school for good at the age of thirteen. The life that lay ahead of me was one of drudgery in the house, kitchen, and fields. I didn’t really understand how I managed to fail the exam twice, when I was one of the best in the class.

At that point my parents talked to me about the possibility of preparing for the final exam once more in a private school run by Pentecostals in Matyazo, a village located an hour’s walk away from Butare. They enrolled me there and I worked through the sixth grade curriculum for the third time.

At the start of the Pentecostal school year, each student had to have their own Bible in the Rwandan language of Kinyarwanda. This is how I actually came to touch a Bible for the first time in my life. It was the same Bible for all the students, a black cardboard cover, red spine and the edges of the pages also in red. And I also discovered white people, the missionaries.

In Matyazo our classroom was in the same block as the church. Sometimes I would slip into the sanctuary to see what was going on there, watch the faithful, and listen to their prayers. The place was of great simplicity, devoid of all ornament, but there I found people praying and fasting.

In class we were taught the usual school subjects but the Gospel was also explained to us. For the first time, I heard the Good News of Jesus Christ. In a few simple words, I was told that God loves me, that He gave His only Son, Jesus, for me to have eternal life and that in return I can offer Him my life. It’s a new birth, when the God of Heaven comes to live inside us. Up until then, I had learnt that in order to speak to God I had to go through the priest, the Virgin Mary and the Saints, because He is the Highest of the High. Like the President, He can’t be approached by just anyone; you need patience and, above all, lots of intermediaries.

But at this point I accepted Jesus as my personal Saviour and Lord. The prayers that we recited in the family or at mass were mere rituals, with no connection to our personal needs or desires. However, the Pentecostals taught me that I can address God like a child talking to her father so I began to pray to God directly, on my own, and what I asked for was peace in my family.

Back home I started to witness to the fact that I had accepted Jesus Christ into my heart, especially with my mother. I helped her a lot in the house and in the fields because she was tired (she was expecting another baby) and also began to tell her about the Gospel.

Rwandan Christians who are born again don’t touch alcohol because of the damage it has caused in society. I put this into practice right away. When Papa was drinking, I no longer stuck a straw into the calabash for a taste like the other children.

Then in the seventh month of her pregnancy Mother gave birth to a little girl called Mutuyimana (“I offer her to God”). This premature baby was kept in an incubator and Mama went to live at the hospital with her. One of us children would visit every day and take her food, as the hospital didn’t feed the patients. That was up to the family.

Someone had to keep house while Papa was working and I was away at school, so my mother’s goddaughter came to live with us and take care of us. She was a divorcee, and replaced our mother to the extent that she also shared our father’s bed. The change was obvious, and I reported back to Mama. We were both very sad.

Although this stepmother prepared food for Papa, she neglected the children. I was the only one allowed to taste the sauces and meat, while my little brothers and sister had to make do with sweet potatoes and beans. I was shocked to see them left to themselves, but what could I do?

One day, our grandmother paid us a visit and discovered my miserable siblings huddled in their corner. As for me, seated at the table with the adults, I felt ashamed. This was not a place of honour; I was there as a token figure, so that nobody could say the children were mistreated. Grandmother was seized with compassion, and decreed that from now on, Angélique should stay with her. Aged only five, she was the most vulnerable. Our stepmother didn’t oppose this decision so I washed Angélique’s dress ready for the following day.

The next evening, when he came home, my father flew into a rage because his daughter had been taken away from him, and our stepmother accused me of having handed her over to our grandmother. Papa ranted and raved, shouting and swearing all through the house. “Apolline,” he roared, “I daren’t hit you, but I tell you, tomorrow you aren’t going to school. You’re going to your grandmother’s and you’ll bring back the child you have given away.” That night I couldn’t sleep. I shed every tear in my body. It was our stepmother who gave my sister away, not me. I’m not an adult in this family, I only did what I was told to do. It isn’t fair! Next morning, I was still crying as I left for my grandmother’s house. I felt too miserable to go on living like this.

On the way I remembered the school trip we had recently taken to the mountain of Huye, overlooking Butare. It has a number of pools that supply the town with water. Now I told myself: “That’s the solution, I’ll throw myself into a lake”. But then I thought of my little brothers and sisters. Who would protect them if I wasn’t there anymore? So I swallowed my tears and went to find my little sister Angélique at my grandmother’s.

When Mama returned from the hospital my father’s new wife refused to leave, so for the time being they formed a ménage à trois, with the baby.

And then tragedy struck: one morning, the baby didn’t wake up. She had stopped breathing. Mama was hysterical, convinced that her rival was to blame. “You’ve killed my baby!” she screamed all through the house. It was too much for Papa, who punched her in the face to make her shut up, leaving a scar just above her chin that she was to bear for the rest of her life. And Mama went back to her family again.

We were left behind with our stepmother and life was horrible.

As Mama was complaining everywhere that Papa had taken another woman, he was forced to build another house for our so-called stepmother. Mama immediately came home. This was balm to my heart. I continued to tell her about the Gospel, every day. I explained to her how much the religious envelope we had been wrapped in up to now had blinded us. “We think we are Christians, but we don’t really know God,” I explained. No-one had told us that Jesus can transform our lives when we accept Him as our personal Saviour and Lord.

Mama was receptive and interested, although she still resorted to amulets and consulted the seers. One day, one of these declared: “It’s good, Apolline is going to pass her school exam!” I was incensed. “I refuse this prediction!” I told Mama, “I don’t care about your soothsayers, it’s the Lord who will help me!” And indeed, I finally passed my exam. I was going to be able to continue my education and have a better future than just a household drudge.

With hindsight, I tell myself that Heaven allowed me to fail twice in order to lead me to Matyazo. Without these failures, I might never have known the Gospel.

***

With my certificate in the bag, I left my family home to start my secondary education in a Methodist boarding school at Kibogora, a prefecture5 of Cyangugu on the shores of Lake Kivu, in the far west of the country.

That’s where the Methodist station had been planted thirty years before, becoming the point of departure for the activity of the Methodists in the whole of the country. The institute bore the name of the “father” of Methodism, John Wesley, and was run by American missionaries. On site there were always missionaries, either passing through or long term. Tuition fees were high and there was no question of my parents making the long trip to Kibogora for the sole purpose of paying, and even less of letting me take the money with me, so they entrusted it to a Swiss missionary called Alfred Tobler when he came to preach at Matyazo, so that he could take it to Kibogora.

John Wesley Institute had one hundred and fifty pupils divided into six school years. It was a mixed school, but girls and boys slept in separate dormitories.

Until that time, it had trained future pastors but for the previous two years it had also been training primary school teachers. This was great for us, because we received double training. In spite of the educational restructuring, the Institute retained its Bible courses and spiritual training alongside the national curriculum for future teachers. The Institute required students to have their own Bibles, so I was given another one by my parents, this time in French. Our teachers were Rwandan, Burundian and Congolese but there were also American missionaries who taught in French and gave English lessons. One of our teachers, our Principal Aaron Ruhumuliza, was later to become a bishop.