A Scarred Past

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

In a Kigali torture chamber, Tutsi soldier Afande Kayihura hurled a grenade to expedite our demise, frustrated by our mere existence. The explosion took 17 lives and shattered my tibia, causing severe bleeding that later induced a coma. This photo captures the scar on my leg.

Scars of Survival

In a world where scars, both visible and concealed, serve as the solemn echoes of life’s trials, my body carries a narrative that transcends mere pain and suffering, standing as a testament to the indomitable resilience that resides within the human spirit and the steadfast love bestowed by a higher power. These scars, intricately etched across my being, bear a significance beyond their mere physical presence – they are not merely imprints of the agonies I endured in the clutches of my adversaries, but living testaments to the unyielding battles fought against the merciless tormentors of Rwanda. Each scar serves as a poignant storyteller, a chapter in the tapestry of my existence interwoven with threads of survival, hope, and the divine touch that guided me through the darkest of hours.

The narrative unfolds with the resounding cadence of RPF rebels’ footsteps, a haunting prelude that echoed through the verdant expanse between the sheltering canopies of Mt. Sabyinyo and Mt. Gahinga. In the shadow of these colossal sentinels, they emerged, harbingers of impending tragedy, shattering the serenity of my idyllic native village. Their arrival shattered the cocoon of my youthful innocence, exposing me to the grim reality of humanity’s capacity for inflicting pain upon its own in the pursuit of power and self-interest. The tranquility that once enveloped our community was abruptly engulfed in a maelstrom of turmoil and brutality, as the marauding RPF rebels laid siege to our homes, leaving in their wake a trail of devastation and despondency. Miraculously, against all odds, I endured, clinging to life’s fragile thread, my ankle bearing the cruel scars of shrapnel wounds. A testament to the horrors of those times, my memory is etched with the nightmarish vision of the Tutsi government’s assault on the Kibeho refugee camp, a massacre orchestrated under the indifferent gaze of UN peacekeepers. We, the defenseless, were abandoned to the mercy of butchers, slated for slaughter like helpless sheep.

In the midst of an unfolding nightmare, a journey stretching from Goma to Franceville, the specter of death became an unrelenting presence, encircling us in its chilling embrace. Our companions, day after day, were the lifeless forms of the fallen, a constant reminder of the fragility of existence. As we embarked on a harrowing crossing of the Congo River into Gabon, seeking refuge, the UNHCR’s security personnel greeted us not with compassion, but with brutal beatings that left me wounded, akin to a headless chicken bleeding profusely. Shockingly, the very staff tasked with protection seemed to revel in our torment, their cheers mingling with our anguish. Amidst this ordeal, a twist of fate spared me, yet the heavy air bore the weight of departed souls. Survival itself bore a heavy cost – the relentless beatings inflicted upon us by UNHCR security at Mvenge International Airport imprinted permanent scars on my upper lip, forehead, and beneath my eye. These scars, etched onto my skin, stand as a painful testimony to the depths of human callousness, a whispered reminder of the cruelty harbored within our fellow beings.

As if the scars of history weren’t already weighty enough, destiny’s malevolent hand ushered in yet another sinister chapter. UNHCR’s ostensibly protective intervention transformed into a nightmarish ordeal, as we found ourselves abducted and forcefully repatriated to Rwanda. Within the gloomy depths of torture chambers, the vestiges of my belief in human kindness crumbled to dust. Savage acts of cruelty etched themselves across my face and neck, as Tutsi soldiers sought to suffocate life itself from within me, bearing grim witness to the abyss of human wickedness. Then, in a bitter twist of fate, a handheld grenade, launched by Afande Kayihura, shattered my surroundings, snuffing out the lives of 17 comrades with whom I had shared years fleeing from Tutsi rebels, while leaving me gravely wounded. A fractured tibia and shrapnel strewn across my body, a tapestry of scars etched onto my legs, stood as a solemn testament to the unrelenting forces that relentlessly sought to obliterate us.

This photo depicts the aftermath of a brutal attack by Tutsi soldiers on the Kibeho Parish refugee camp in 1995, during which my right ankle was grievously wounded. The assault claimed the lives of thousands of Hutu refugees and left my ankle shattered into pieces, severely impairing my ability to walk.

In this photo, a prominent scar on my right leg serves as a stark reminder of the harrowing encounter with Tutsi soldiers. The deep gash was inflicted when they callously employed a blunt metal object to strike my tibia, slicing through muscles and leaving me in excruciating pain within their confines. As I bled and struggled under their torment, their laughter served as a chilling backdrop to my anguished ordeal.

Amid the profound depths of agony and the relentless grip of despair, a glimmer of hope intertwined with divine intervention began to shine through. The scars etched onto my body transcended being mere marks of torment; they became emblems of resilience and symbols of survival, a tangible proof of an enigmatic force that guided me through the most shadowed of days. For years, I concealed the agony and the multitude of scars adorning my body, silenced by a malevolent system that sought to suppress our voices. However, over time, I came to realize that within each scar, I beheld not just my own unyielding strength, but also the gentle guidance of a benevolent God, a presence that ensured my endurance even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.

These scars, like haunting photographs in a gallery of pain, are not just mine – they stand as witnesses to the horrors faced by millions of Rwandans, Burundians, and Congolese people. The world, often indifferent to the plight of the oppressed, looked on as a storm of violence claimed countless lives. Yet, against this backdrop of apathy, my story emerged, a lone voice bearing witness to the atrocities that history seemed content to forget.

In the present day, I carry my scars with a sense of pride, no longer viewing them as tokens of surrender, but rather as badges of victory over insurmountable challenges, and as emblems of the profound love that God has shown me.

It’s not that I emerged from the onslaughts of Tutsi soldiers unscathed due to any inherent superiority, but rather because of a Divine choice to bestow upon me the gift of survival. This gift wasn’t a reflection of my worthiness, especially when I consider the dear ones who did not make it, like my childhood friend Ntuyenabo Deogratias (Doga), my father, my numerous siblings, uncles, grandparents, and friends. My journey has been marred by the searing pain of loss, the specter of death, and the grip of despair, yet within this darkness, a glimmer of hope has persisted, and an unyielding spirit of survival has thrived. I prevailed not due to my strength or merit, but because the benevolent God of second chances and boundless love deemed it fit to guide me through the depths of adversity.

As I reflect upon the journey I’ve traversed, my intention isn’t to dwell in pain’s embrace with bitterness; rather, it’s to illuminate the profound resilience residing within the human heart and to underscore the transformative force of divine grace. My narrative stands not only as a personal account but also as a testament to the indomitable light that perseveres even within the bleakest of hours, offering us a renewed chance to forge connections with our fellow humans. While the scars of our past are etched upon our skin as a constant reminder, they needn’t be shackles; instead, they can be a reflection of the profound love that God showers upon us, encouraging us to find the strength to extend forgiveness to those who once inflicted harm. In doing so, we can collaboratively construct a better world, one that defies the malevolent intentions of adversity and fosters the legacy that the devil sought to taint.

This photo captures the car with a visible indentation, marking the spot where a bone was extracted. The evidence reveals that a section of my tibia was forcefully removed due to the explosion, resulting in the paralysis of my entire leg. Interestingly, divine intervention prevented the amputation that seemed inevitable.

Subscribe Now

Join Our Newsletter

Orcinteger faucibus odio cursus facilisi sitenim egestas ele imperdiet etiam situ eltrices vestibulum sit. Orcinteger faucibus odio cursus facilisi sitenim.

DR. WILLIAM

Orcinteger faucibus odio cursus facilisi sitenim egestas ele imperdiet etiam situ eltrices vestibulum sit. Orcinteger faucibus odio cursus facilisi sitenim.

Dr. William A. Twayigize

DR. WILLIAM

A Scarred Past

Scars of Survival

Subscribe Now

Join Our Newsletter

DR. WILLIAM

DR. WILLIAM A. TWAYIGIZE

Quick Links

CONTACT