My Rwanda Story

Rwanda Story

By S. Mason Pratt

Chapter One. October 2006

Kigali, Rwanda. In the heart of Africa. Land of the worst genocide in modern times. Where the Hutus massacred almost a million Tutus. Where Livingston met Stanley. Where Diane Fosse, now murdered, worked with her gorillas. That’s all I know about this god-forsaken place, she thinks.

Suzanne Daigle is the junior officer here. Technically, a full-fledged State Department embassy, it’s really an defenseless outpost, she’s thinking. Less than a dozen foreign service officers, all vastly more experienced than me. Shit. Her Harvard education—she was in the top ten percent in her class—counts for nothing here. Got to ask questions, listen and soak up information. Work hard, and keep your opinions to yourself. Glad to be here, eager to learn. I can do this.

After a short briefing by State’s head of Central African Affairs, she’d made hurried preparations for her flight to Uganda and the bone-jarring trek by jeep on dirt roads to Kigali. She recalled the briefing officer’s remarks. She’d proudly told him that she was bilingual. “You’ll have to lose the Quebec dialect,” he’d said, dismissively. The crash course in Rwandan history was still a blur.

Suzanne strolls through the Embassy gardens, the flowers in perpetual bloom. She savors sweet scents and cool air—a jungle surrounds this small but surprisingly modern city of gleaming glass and steel. Striking, with short, curly black hair, blue eyes, and recent tan, you would be forgiven for thinking that she has not a care in the world, except that her face is now taught in concentration and her brow wrinkled with concern.

Standing in the shade of the bougainvillea and jacaranda trees, she peeps over the parapet and concertina at the nearby government radio headquarters.

“You’re thinking there’s no security setback here, right?”

Suzanne wheels around to see Sam Waters’ broad grin, and she relaxes. Sam’s a seasoned veteran with an attitude borne from experience. She values his opinion. Finds his short, squat body, balding head and friendly presence calming, non-threatening. Unlike the others.

“You startled me. But, yeah, I suppose I was thinking about that.”

“Sorry. Good that you’re on alert.” He joins her at the parapet, his eyes scanning the horizon for any threat. “And no U.S. Marines nearby. The only Special Forces detachment is hours away across the border in the Congo.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. Knowing it’s not true. What good would they be, she thinks. Are they in danger? She was not going to reveal her ignorance by asking.

“I’m sure they’ve told you, our new instructions from Washington are to keep away from the northern Congolese border.”

This gives her a reason to ask. “Yes, and why is that?”

“Washington’s reacting to recent reports that Hutu infiltrators from refugee camps across the border are killing local officials and Tutsi families. It’s the same old Washington reaction—you know, head in the sand, avoid conflict at all cost.”

“So . . . when the RPA sends forces in response to these incursions, it’s the local civilians who get caught in the crossfire?”

“You got it.”

Suzanne has been briefed on the RPA. In reaction to the genocide, the Tutsi military arm, the Rwandan Patriotic Army or RPA, led by General Paul Kagame, now President Kagame, had invaded from their northern enclave and, in a brilliant maneuver, marched east and south, and then north again to take Kigali. The RPA quickly seized power. The Tutsi minority was in control again But under siege by marauding Hutus along Rwanda’s border with the Congo, formerly Zaire.

In the confusion that followed the genocide, RPA soldiers filled the vacuum and became the de facto government. The rule of law was non-existent in most of the country. Those who had suffered through the genocide, Tutsis and moderate Hutus, were out for vengeance. Anyone who could not produce papers and explain their whereabouts faced arbitrary arrest and summary execution—there was no such thing as a fair trial. She’d read the reports of bodies piled up like cordwood. And the Hutus were spreading ethnic propaganda once again. The cycle of violence was not over.

Like a sudden pang in her side, the absence from family and friends—her need for home—almost makes her keel over.