the accidental activist

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“My father was a talented engineer.  He could fix any type of truck, and he used his income to help the poor.  Our neighbors’ school fees and hospital bills were always paid.  My mother would bring needy people to our table, and order us to give them the best portions of meat.  She’d explain that these people rarely had the chance to eat well.  Both my parents were very religious.  But they always taught us: ‘Humanity first.  Everything else comes after.’  When the genocide began, they invited our Tutsi neighbors to hide in our house.  There were seven of them.  Some lived under the beds.  Others lived in the cupboards.  I was a teenager back then and my job was to change the waste buckets.  It was a miserable existence, and it went on for months.  But we prayed with them.  We tried to give them hope.  We told them that God was in control.  At night we’d give them Muslim dress so they could go in the backyard and get fresh air.  Our neighbors suspected us because our curtains were always closed.  We never slept because we knew the penalty for hiding Tutsis was death.  But all seven people in our house survived.  Unfortunately my mother and father died a few years ago, so I must tell their story for them.  Their names were Mukamunosi Adha and Gasano Juma.  They saved seven lives.  And they valued love and humanity more than anything.”   (Kigali, Rwanda)

(2/3)  “The killings were being encouraged by the national radio station.  Every day they would announce how many people had been killed.  They’d announce the location of the killings.  And they’d give thanks to those who were doing the killing.  One morning I was sitting in my bedroom, and I heard an announcement on the radio: ‘Everyone is being killed in Gatobotobo except for those under the protection of the Felix family.’  I knew then that we were in danger.  Not long after the announcement, the Minister of Internal Security came to our village for a meeting.  It took place on a hill overlooking our property.  He could see everything that was happening in our compound.  When he left the meeting, his convoy began driving toward our home.  The minister was riding in a truck full of armed soldiers.  When he passed by me in the street, the truck slammed on the brakes.  All my bodyguards ran away and I was left completely alone.  My neighbors began to gather around.  They were laughing and applauding and saying, ‘This is the guy who was stopping the killings.’  The minister walked over to me.  He pushed me on the ground and leaned over my body.  He was covered with sweat.  His eyes were wide.  There was dried spit on the edges of his lips.  He had the face of the devil.  He took off his belt and began beating me until I lost consciousness.” (Kigali, Rwanda)