CHAPTER ONE: THE STORY OF MY FAMILY
Hello! My name is Murasira René Bonceouer. I was born in Rusizi district formerly known as Cyangugu, western part of Rwanda. My dad was an interpreter at Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) as it was and still widely known. He had been working that job for years by then, where he spent his working days mediating the doctors with their patients; patients who were plenty in number with various backgrounds especially Congolese folks in addition to Rwandans.
It was in early 2000s in the aftermaths of the the Second Congo War war as it was named as well as the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda. Wounds were all over people’s bodies. Some fresh, others festering. Souls needed to be amended too. Nightmares, traumas, fears, starvation, that’s what you could find in the refugee camps located in Bukavu. That’s the world my dad had to deal with despite a dawn of hope for some, as Rwandans were finding their way home, some international organizations giving aid and there were no more fights.
As an interpreter, my dad was assigned to a medical team, translating between doctors and patients with remarkable ease. He spoke fluent French, English, Kinyarwanda, Swahili, and several local Congolese languages. To many patients, he was more than an interpreter; he was the reassuring voice that transformed confusing medical terms into words they could understand. .
Within that team, is where he met my mother. She was a Belgian medical doctor in Medecin Sans Frontier. She had grown up thousands of kilometres away in Belgium, yet fate had brought them together in Bukavu, where compassion mattered far more than nationality. They fell in love. Later, they built the family that eventually became mine.
As for their incomes, they both earned a significant amount of salaries and we were labeled as a wealthy family in Kamembe where we resided. Sometimes I would ask my parents why they didn’t set home in Bukavu and chose to travel everyday, and the answer was that my dad wanted it. The question usually rose on Thursdays and Fridays once tiredness kicked in due to early mornings on such a young kid. Before birds, I would be awake, getting ready along with my parents to travel to Bukavu where my school was. It was a prestigious school which was formerly reserved only for whites, and to be honest, it was better than any other that could be found in Kamembe.
On the way, me and my mother would refer to dad as Mr. Chauffeur as he normally drove our way in his black Mercedes-Benz. We told stories, teased one another, invented silly games, and laughed until our stomachs hurt. The atmosphere is still engraved in my mind. I still feel stupid for sleeping sometimes on those journeys. Sometimes I would be peeking through the car window to see fog over lake Kivu and Rusizi river as the early sun shone on the waters. The situation on the border when my parents got their documents checked… Haaaa.
As much as tiresome my parents’ job was, they always remembered to arrange parties once they got a moment. Dad would say: “Let’s get our own medicine too.” Be, the birthdays, be the baptism as we were Catholics, be the salary raise at work, be a successful operation, … There would be plenty of reasons to celebrate for my parents and their colleagues at work. My dad, as the only native of the place among them, was always the host. He had a motel in Kamembe where the guests would lodge but he preferred to host the parties at home to make it look like it was just friends gathered to share something to eat and some drinks in his big yard with one of the greatest views of Kivu lake.
At a certain moment in the past, there was a celebration being prepared. It was a bigger one. My parents were about to celebrate their eighth year of their marriage. It was highly anticipated and carefully prepared. Plenty of people were invited, music bands, some of the best artists, everything that would make it as vibrant as possible. As a kid I had always wished to be in their wedding photograph, and I thought it was the day. And yes it was, but… it was also the last one to see them.
It was the last party.
