On 7 April, I remember.
Forgotten among the dead, holed up in an unlikely hiding place, rescued by a Good Samaritan, spared by a killer who has had enough of killing, surviving by chance or weapon in hand, we stayed. Like wheat grains in a harvested field, like crumbs after a meal. We are here. We are trees without branches. We are somewhere between the living and the dead. With no families. Every so often, on 7 April, we are sought out. We are asked to tell our story. So we tell our story. And then, we fall into oblivion
On 7 April in Rwanda, survivors of genocide become important.
On 7 April in Rwanda, a conscious effort is made not to kill survivors of the genocide who testify before the Gacaca jurisdictions.
On 7 April at the United Nations, they repeat the maxim: Never again!
On 7 April in the United States, the term legally convenient term acts of genocide is long forgotten.
On 7 April in Africa, there is a feeling of compassion for the people of Rwanda, but more importantly, this date conjures memories of Nigeria’s performance at the 1994 World Cup.
On 7 April in France, it is the prime time for revisionists. They are invited to appear on television along with those who are now tired of repeating that a genocide did occur in Rwanda. These so-called experts and investigators, who learned everything they know about my country on Google, explain with a smile that, that is not how it happened. According to them, it was Tutsi who planned the genocide of the Tutsi, Tutsi disguised as Hutu militiamen exterminated the Tutsi. The Tutsi? They are just a bunch of born liars. And these people are taken seriously.
On 7 April in France, no one seems to notice that France, which is home to Robert Badinter, has the biggest number of genocide suspects on its soil. France also happens to be among the few countries in Europe that are yet to prosecute a single genocide suspect. That explains it all.
On 7 April in France, the few journalists who show any interest in the genocide of the Tutsi, make inquiries, write reports, inform ; and then one day, they stop. The reason they stop is because, as Christophe Ayad wrote, "Africa makes you indifferent" (l'Afrique [vous] indiffère). In the spring of 1994, no one named Ayrton Senna died.
On 7 April, the French people remember, not without embarrassment, that for President Mitterrand, genocide in Africa is not that important, that for Prime Minister De Villepin the genocide of the Tutsi is a matter for Rwanda.
On 7 April 1994 in Rwanda, there was one million us. Three months after that, no one was left. All the Tutsi in Rwanda had to be killed. And they were.