Late afternoon on April 13, 1994, rumors swirled, like dust devils, across the hills that the interahamwe (government militia) were appearing all across Rwanda. We, Tutsis, knew that meant certain death, unless we were able to escape from their grasp.  Because of that, few waited to confirm whether the rumors were accurate or not.

 

As urgent shouts and warnings erupted across the thousand hills of Rwanda, farmers tossed aside their hoes, shop owners hurriedly shuttered their stands, and parents rounded up their children. Where we lived, many fled into the nearby marshes, where they hid for days amongst the papyrus clogging the water, until the killers had moved on. Hundreds of others immediately headed towards the closest churches.

 

Those who hid in the marshes did so because the marshes were much closer than the churches, and they did not want to chance being caught and killed on their way to the places of worship. Those of us who fled to the latter knew that historically those seeking sanctuary in such holy places during violent upheaval were among the only ones left unscathed.

 

My mum, three sisters and two brothers and I immediately left for the church in Ntarama. It was slow going since my three-year-old baby sister was too heavy to carry all the way, and she tired easily. Even though one of us always held onto her hand, she repeatedly tripped. It seemed we spent half of our time doing everything we could to prevent her from talking or crying. There is little reasoning with a child that young when she hurts herself or is fatigued.

 

“Shush! Shush now!” I whispered in a harsh voice, as I bent over, placing my right index finger over my lips.

 

Before long, dusk was upon us, and shortly after that the dark of night. Traveling at night was extremely difficult, as we didn’t dare use a torch, which would have only drawn unwanted attention. We carefully avoided any place where we were likely to come across people –- primary trails and roads, dirt paths heading up to clumps of homes, roughshod local bars, tiny open-air restaurants, etc. They were easy to avoid as they were among the only places lit up with lanterns.

 

“Everyone, shush and stop!” Mum repeatedly whispered, tapping each of the youngest children on the head. “Don't make a single sound. We could all be killed if you make noise.” I shuddered at the thought.

 

By the time we reached the church, hundreds of Tutsi civilians –- men and women of all ages, teenagers and children --  were milling about.  That night my mum and the children slept inside the church with the other females, small children and babies while I slept outside with the other male teenagers and men.

The next day rumors circulated that government troops, along with the interahamwe, were en route to Ntarama. The soldiers, we were told, were traveling in large lorries, while the interahamwe were traveling in big commercial buses.

 

On edge, we all tried to keep busy. As the women and girls cooked what little food people had brought with them, the men and boys collected rocks of all sizes and placed them in big piles around the church.

 

“Kunyaruka” (“Hurry!”), shouted a big man with a deep voice, prodding us to collect and pile up the rocks as fast as we could. “Our lives depend on it!”

 

At night, we, the men and older boys, continued to sleep outside the church. Some volunteered to stay awake to guard the church and grounds, each armed with a rifle.

 

Those of us who attempted to sleep slept tightly together wrapped in our warmest clothes.

“Please dear Lord,” I prayed. “Please protect us from those who wish to kill us!”

 

The next morning, we experienced even greater anxiety. Everyone understood it was only a matter of time before the killers arrived.  As much to quell our nerves as to be well prepared for the battle to come, we continued to pile up rocks on the church’s grounds.

 

That afternoon, large SORTO buses arrived, each packed with interahamwe chanting and screaming epithets. Rushing off the busses -- flashing pangas, hoes, spears and even some pistols -- they attacked immediately.

 

We were able to rebuff the first of several attacks, as we had many strong and fierce fighters. But as bus after bus of drunken, crazed interahamwe arrived, the killers began attacking us from all sides, slashing, slicing and killing in a frenzy of hatred. They came at us in wave after wave all afternoon and into the night, their faces, necks, and arms speckled, and their clothes soaked in blood.

 

I, along with those near me, threw stone after stone after stone as hard as we could at the killers, not daring to rest no matter how exhausted we got. Shortly after nightfall, the killers backed off. While the men on our side vigilantly remained on guard, the boys scrambled about collecting the stones we had thrown that day, creating new piles around the church. That night few of us outside the church slept. It was simply impossible as our nerves had the better of us, especially since we feared a sneak attack.

 

Bizarrely, as if they were working a regular job, the killers didn’t appear until around 9:00 the next morning. By then, many more buses of interahamwe had arrived.

 

That morning the onslaught of violence overtook us, and the killers carried out their deadly work in a state of such fury and efficiency that it was not long before most of us outside the church were dead or dying. I was hit from behind. A panga sliced deep into my shoulder and almost before I had fallen to the ground the killer was on top of me.  Fortunately, he had only slashed me in the back before one of our men crushed his skull with a heavy rock.

 

How much later I am not sure, I found myself under a pile of other downed Tutsis. Most were dead.

 

I was not only in terrible pain, but I felt as if I were being suffocated by the bodies pinning me in place. A coppery smell also stung my nostrils.

 

I was about to push and shove them off me when I heard the voices of the killers. Wincing in pain but biting down on my lip as hard as I could to force myself not to scream or weep in pain, I remained, as still as I could, under the bodies atop me.

 

Apparently having completed their work outside the church, the killers were attacking those inside the church, tossing grenades against its walls, breaking down the doors, and kicking in the shutters covering its few windows.  Rising above the explosions and the cursing of the killers were the voices of those inside the church singing a familiar hymn.

Onward Christian soldiers!
Marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus
Going on before.
Christ, the royal Master,
Leads against the foe;
Forward into battle,
See, His banners go!

 

The breathtaking beauty of the melodious voices was otherworldly. A sob exploded from my throat before I could snuff it out.  Try as I might, I could not stanch the tears flowing down my cheeks.

 

Storming the church, the killers broke into its inner sanctum and, apparently, working their way methodically from one pew to another, left the dying and crying in their murderous wake.

 

I did not witness the savagery with my eyes, only with my ears. As more and more of the innocents were killed, the hymn continued to be sung but by far fewer voices.

 

“Please, not my baby! Don’t kill my baby. She’s done nothing to anyone!” a frantic mother screeched.

 

At the name of Jesus

Satan’s host doth flee;

On then, Christian Soldiers

On to victory!

 

As the killers neared the end of their work, they extinguished both their victims and their heavenly voices.

 

And yet, despite the fact – or, perhaps, because of the loss of the voices of their fellow congregants and neighbors – those who had not yet been viciously slashed to death, continued singing as loudly and as powerfully as they could…their voices rising and fading before being extinguished.

 

Like a mighty army

Moves the Church of God;

Brothers, we are treading

Where the saints have trod;

We are not divided,

All one body we –

One in faith and Spirit,

One eternally.

Gates of hell can never

‘Gainst the Church prevail;

We have Christ’s own promise

Which can never fail.

Voices continued to sing that beloved hymn until the very last person had been hacked to death.

 

Onward, then, ye people!

Join our happy throng;

Blend with us your voices,

In the trium…

 

I lost everything at that church. My mother. My two brothers and three sisters. And…my faith in God.