Memory and justice

EUGÉNIE – I was twenty-seven years old, married and had four children. I still have two orphans that I took care of. These orphans are my brother’s children. Of the whole family, as far as one searches, only I and these two children remain. After the death of Habyarimana, we first wandered in the hills, in the bush. Until the moment when the soldiers told us to go to the commune to better protect ourselves. We trusted them. We went near the shops in the mall. It was in the middle of the night that we went to the church. We spent two days there and the third was when we were attacked. The militiamen and the soldiers were mixed. There were very many of them; it looked like there were a thousand. The church was full and so was the neighborhood. They entered. They first threw the tear-gas bombs into the air. Immediately, they looted us. “Give money, give money,” they shouted. But at the same time, they were killing. The one on the left was holding you back, the one on the right was hitting you with a machete. You no longer knew who you were dealing with.
YOLANDE – What weapons did they have?
EUGÉNIE – All the weapons. Machetes, clubs, clubs, axes, knives, firearms. They murdered everyone and left. After they left, I heard cries of suffering of all kinds. They were half-dead people. Children crying under the corpses, anxious mothers, so much suffering that I cannot identify them. I was in the middle of these two benches that you see there. In the morning, they came back to finish off those who weren’t quite dead. As for me, I wasn’t visible. I had too many corpses above me. That was my chance. After they left, the silence was total. All the survivors had been murdered. The assassins returned two days later. They killed again and after they left, I fainted. I stayed there for a very long time. Probably two weeks. I wasn’t even bleeding anymore. It looked like I had no blood left. I didn’t realize anything. I couldn’t stand up. Fifteen days after the attack on the church, I was still there, half-dead, naked among the corpses rotting above me. I had my hands crushed and the tendons of my feet cut off. And my head was split open with machete blows, my neck half-opened. I was covered in maggots, I even ate them because they were in my mouth. I didn’t realize that my parents, my children, my husband were dead. I didn’t realize anything. I was hungry. I crawled on the less painful side all the way to the outside. There, I met the assassins.
“Were you in the church?
– Yes.
– Were you breastfeeding your dead children?
– Yes.
– You, not even death can accept you.
– Finish me, I beg you.
– We don’t want to get our hands dirty.
– They spat in my face one by one, and left. I went back to the church where I found sweet potatoes that I ate. I looked for clothes on the corpses, put them on as best I could. The assassins came back soon after and stripped me again. They told me "You have to stay naked for the rest of your life.
` Today, it’s my brother’s two little orphans, whom I picked up after the genocide, who dress me every morning. I don’t tell my story to anyone, because I am disgusted by human nature.
The man destroyed everything in me. I only agreed to testify because you, too, are a widow who lost her children. We have a similar story.
That’s why I trust you.