How Dare the Sun Rise: Memoirs of a War Child

by Sandra Uwiringiyimana

The men seemed to think they were on a mission from God to massacre us. They spoke in two languages from the region, Kirundi and Swahili. I spoke both languages, and their voices sounded familiar. Why were we being targeted by people who were praising God?

@christianity in general. Yuck.

It was typical at the time for soldiers to kidnap boys—they would seize kids and brainwash them, training them to do unthinkable things, then send them out to different regions of the country.

Oh. Oh.

A typical kid who did not yet understand the world, I would say things about our odd guests like, “Mom, that man smells.” She would shush me. “It doesn’t matter if he smells. He’s still a person. A person is a person, no matter what,” she said. “You must do what you can to help people. What you do comes back around to you.”

There were United Nations peacekeepers in our region, but they did not really make me feel safe.

We saw officials stuffing people’s limbs into long white plastic body bags, just picking up different people’s limbs and throwing them into the bags. I stared; I didn’t cry. It was too much to absorb. You’re

not supposed to see the limbs of your friends and relatives crammed into plastic bags, all tangled up together because no one knows who the limbs belong to.

She was the last person I told. I was deeply embarrassed and ashamed, even though I had done nothing

But it is not my responsibility to protect a predator.

YES. FUCKING. YES. YES. YES. Thank you.

I am the victim. He is the predator. If people want to blame me for telling the truth, that’s their problem. I have decided to tell this story because I have learned that I do have a voice. I do not want to be a part of this culture of silence.

Most rapes happen at the hands of a relative or friend, not a stranger. I want girls to know that they have the power to speak out. They don’t have to stay quiet. No matter what culture or country you are from, there will always be pressure to remain silent, to never tell. But you don’t have to protect sexual predators. By speaking up, you are standing up for yourself. And you might be preventing it from happening again. Tell people what happened. The predators expect you to stay silent. You can prove them wrong.

This went on for months. We waited, answered questions, waited some more. You really have to want to get to America to put yourself through the process. Anyone who thinks it’s easy to get to the States as a refugee has no idea.

for fucking real.

We rarely had translators to help us navigate anything, unless we had an official meeting of some sort. There were no other members of our tribe in Rochester. Everything was new to me. My brain could hardly process anything. My family was really flying blind.

this is how America treats refugees? gross.

Yes, we were refugees, but it didn’t mean we had no fashion sense. Back home in Congo, our clothes were tailored, and they fit beautifully. People in America seemed to assume that we were coming from an undeveloped land where we had no decent clothes. But we knew style.

But every day was a fresh hell. I hated school. Other immigrant kids got picked on too, especially Muslim girls who wore modest clothing, such as long skirts and baggy shirts. Any kids who were different became targets.

My white friends, Leah and Mackenzie, listened intently to the discussions. They were such good listeners. They were learning with me.

On that day, I realized it didn’t matter how I saw myself, because other people saw my skin color.

I wish the resettlement system for refugees could help mentor parents—not to tell them how to raise their kids, but to help them understand the new culture their children are experiencing. Parents have to learn how to raise their kids in a foreign land. Kids need guidance from their parents, but their parents have no idea what influences their children are facing in their new world. In my experience, the schools never called my parents to discuss me, probably because of the language barrier. My parents were on their own.

I also wish the resettlement program offered counseling for refugees. They are survivors of trauma. Moving them from here to there isn’t enough. We have to care about the people, and help them deal with their past. How can they become a part of a new society when they have never dealt with the terrors of their past? People sometimes say to me, “Oh, you’re so lucky.” When people say that, I kind of want to punch them in the face. Just because you resettle people doesn’t mean their lives are suddenly perfect.

Perhaps I was helping foster understanding between cultures, in some small way.

I think you are.

But I tried to take a broader view: The people who shot the bullets were part of a cycle of hate that they had been taught since they were born. Hate killed my sister, and I didn’t want to be part of that cycle.

Wow

I also began to understand why hair is such an important issue for African American women. I learned why the black girls in school didn’t let their hair grow naturally, but instead always straightened or relaxed it. My black friends explained that since they were already considered second tier to white women in the looks department, it was important not to have unruly hair. Black hair, in its natural state, is “nappy” and disorderly, they told me. They said, “You can’t have your natural hair out.” They said black women have to keep their hair tidy and straight, like white women, if they want to be taken seriously at work and in school. Again, I said, “What? This is crazy.”

I really wanted to leave the school, but I stayed. Someone had to push for change. I got more involved. I joined a committee with the dean and others to establish a diversity program. We held a range of cultural events, like a soul-food night, a movie night with films about civil-rights movements, a Caribbean night, a Motown dance. Our goal was to show people diversity within the black community. We also held weekly meetings to talk about current issues, and everyone was welcome to come and ask questions.

Jesus, she is so strong.

He never distanced himself or treated me any differently, no matter what I said. He didn’t tiptoe around my feelings. He addressed them head-on. He supported me. And he remained playful and sweet. I think you meet people you need at crucial times in your life, and he was one of those people.

I know now that I want to live freely, without separating myself from others, without feeling that I need to pick a side, to stick to my own. After all, if people remain divided and closed off from different cultures, it can lead to the kind of extreme thinking that took Deborah’s life.

I wrote How Dare the Sun Rise to tell my story, Deborah’s story, and the stories of the millions of people who feel invisible. I refuse to let the lives that were lost in Gatumba be forgotten. I refuse to stop seeking justice. I refuse to be silenced. Even with my last breath, I will seek justice for Gatumba.

As long as I am still alive, they have failed. As long as people hear my story, they have failed. As long as I keep fighting, they have failed!