The silence of Nyamata , 10 April 1994 E-Book

Ludovica Iaccino

• Herausgeber: Alcyone
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The dawn arrived quietly.The sun, just risen, shone uncertainly on the hill.A dull grey light, impregnated with mist and silence, greeted Caritas when she opened her eyes.A gloomy atmosphere had brought a strange sense of foreboding throughout the village.There were no chants at the spring that morning and Caritas did not dance on her way to collect the water.Fearful children held on to their mothers’ pagnes while the women filled the canisters in silence and returned to their homes straightaway. On her return home, Caritas was surprised not to find her mother and grandmother outside preparing lunch.Instead she saw her father who was waving to her to hurry up. “What’s happening?” she asked, in alarm.“Shh!” said her mother and then looked at the radio, waiting for the broadcast to start.“We confirm this morning’s news. Our Hutu president Habyarimana and Burundi’s President Cyprien Ntaryamira are dead,” a voice said.That bitter surprise hurt more than a cold grip around Caritas’ heart. Through the story of Caritas, a beautiful Tutsi girl, and her life in the village of Nyamata, the author leads the readers through the events that culminated in the 1994 Rwandan genocide.Ludovica Iaccino conducted extensive research in order to collect facts and shed light on one of the worst massacres of modern history.

Leseprobe

Ludovica Iaccino

The silence of Nyamata , 10 April 1994

UUID: 9791094670002

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To my Queen and King, Pasqualina and    

Giuseppe;

to my princess Chiara and my prince Omar.

“At least 800,000 people were killed in three months. It was as if the Twin Towers had been destroyed three times a day for three months.”

Davide Musso

Ludovica Iaccino

The Silence of Nyamata is the first book by Ludovica Iaccino, an Italian journalist whose investigative work focusses on worldwide conflicts and human rights and aims to shed light on underreported topics.

Ludovica is passionate about Africa in particular and, to write this book, she conducted extensive research for almost five years.

In 2011, Ludovica moved to London where she has been working for the online paper International Business Times. She also writes for iecoAfrica.com and her blog Beinquisitive. 

PART ONE

Imagine fourteen hills covered by a carpet of red dust, hills where the sky embraces fields of papyrus and banana trees, eucalyptus forests, coffee and grain plantations and, everywhere, flowers.

Imagine the voices of colourfully dressed women, dances around the fire, the explosive joy of weddings, children playing football, fishermen smoking the fish they will sell at the market; kids’ laughter, bicycles by the thousand, African nuns laughing together with European nuns.

And now, imagine broken glass, crushed, mutilated and outraged bodies, the fractured skulls of babies, raped women no longer with arms, legs or faces, houses on fire, machetes, shotguns, grenades, sticks, screams of hatred and pain, abandoned pity, violence, the indifference of God.

Now that you have imagined all this, try to put it in a church with its walls entirely covered with blood, and you will realise only one tenth of what happened in Rwanda.

It may, however, be too early to understand the enormity of what is written above; so, for now, concentrate on a small house made of bricks and mud, and on the deep sleep of a girl: Caritas Kagera, long hair ruffled over her face and a blanket covering her head.

An external noise disturbed the calm of her dreams; she opened her eyes slightly and saw that it was still dark outside; the sound of a dog barking woke her up definitively.

“Is it time to wake up already?” asked her brother André in a sleepy voice.

“No, Dédé,” she answered and smiled. “Go back to sleep, it’s still early.”

Little Claire was sleeping deeply, clutching a stuffed doll: a gift from some missionaries a few years ago.

Caritas decided to get up but she struggled to leave the warmth of her bed. She quickly put on her orange pagne (a rectangular textile used to cover women’s legs), a jumper and a pair of sandals; she tied her thick hair in a long ponytail, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to protect herself from the nocturnal cold and went out.

“Good morning,” said Caritas, stifling a yawn with her hand; she sat in the clay courtyard and yawned again.

The cold air was still rich with the aromas of last night’s dinner; and stray dogs wandered around the houses, searching for food.

Caritas raised her eyes to look at the sky, still black and dotted with stars: the total absence of clouds was a clear sign that this day too there would be no rain; the beans and sorghum cultivated on the family’s land would definitely suffer from the lack of water.

“It won’t rain again today,” she said.

Her mother looked first at her, then at the sky, and burst into tears; Nyamata was a very dry land and not very fertile because of the lack of water. When the Itumba (the rainy season) arrived, the whole village celebrated as it was a sign of prosperity.

The two women heard a noise and turned their heads: Grandma Isis was always the third to wake up; she settled herself into a chair and invited Caritas to go and sit between her legs.

Caritas obeyed; every morning her grandmother combed her long black hair.

Yolande gave them both a mug of hot milk.

Slowly, one after the other, fires were lit in the other country yards; the sleepy village was coming back to life.

Caritas looked at the large pale moon that would soon go and hide behind the hills, to welcome the sun.

She stretched herself and yawned one more time.

“Your hair is beautiful and men love long hair,” her grandma told her.

“She should cut it,” Yolande interjected in a cross voice. “Every time she washes her hair, she spends more than an hour sitting under the sun to dry it.”

“It’s not my fault!” Caritas answered, irritated; her mother was always complaining about her hair.

“Caritas, you need to find a husband,” Grandma Isis continued.

“But I don’t want a husband, I’m still young.”

Grandma Isis sighed. “When I was your age, I was already married and expecting your mother.”

“Mama,” Yolande sighed. “Don’t give her strange ideas, we need Caritas for another couple of years. She needs to help us here.”

“Don’t worry, Mama, I’m not leaving this place any time soon.”

“You’re such a beautiful girl,” Grandma Isis continued. “You have so many suitors and you could choose whichever one you like most. Not every girl has such a privilege.”

“She’ll still be beautiful in a few years’ time,” Yolande answered, while she heated some water in a pot to wash herself with.

“I don’t want to get married yet. I don’t even have a boyfriend!”

Grandma Isis shook her head. “You’re always wanting to be playing with your brother and sister, but they’re still young. You’re almost sixteen!”

Yolande entered the house, shaking her head with disapproval. Caritas followed her and picked up two plastic canisters. When she came out again, she joined the two women and started peeling potatoes.

Grandma Isis was humming an old love song and nodding her head in time to the melody.

“Caritas, when you come back you must wash your father’s clothes; we need to wear the good clothes to go to church.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Remember you need to mend your brother’s socks and fix the hem of Claire’s skirt; she tore the skirt at school…that girl is so wild.”

“She’s wild because she’s just a kid,” Grandma Isis commented, but Yolande was not listening to her and went on: “Caritas, you need to go and buy some soap and some meat.”

Georges Kagera, Caritas’ father, came out and greeted the women; then he sat in front of the threshold and lit a cigarette.

“Drink some milk, instead of smoking,” his wife said, pointing at a steaming mug.

Georges shrugged, “I’m not hungry, I just want to smoke.”

When Caritas spotted some women heading towards the wood, she put the knife on the plate, got up and kissed her family goodbye and, silent and still sleepy, she headed toward the source of life for the entire village: the Rwakibirizi, a small creek that flowed from an underground slope. The creek was the meeting point for hundreds of women and girls who, with one canister on their head and another in their hand, crowded round the spring – this is what they called it –to get a supply of water for their households.

Caritas loved going to the spring, as the atmosphere there was really pleasant.

While she was walking, immersing herself in the pre-dawn darkness, the chatter of people around her prevented her thinking, and so she started to sing an old song that her grandmother had taught her when she was young. Anyone watching her would be struck by the fluidity of her movements and the singular grace of her every gesture; she tasted the simplicity of life with an extraordinary amazement, typical of children.