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Shattered Face, Unbroken Spirit: A Survivor’s Tale In the mid 1980ies, during my primary school years, the teachers would segregate students based on their ethnic background, instructing us to line up as either Tutsi or Hutu. This divisive practice always left me, the lone Tutsi to rise, vulnerable to ridicule from my peers. The teacher’s acknowledgment of my identity brought no solace, as other students would often use it as an opportunity to mock me further. The teacher would call upon other students, asking them to observe me closely, to see how a Tutsi looks like. This degrading spectacle made me feel like an outsider in my own classroom, reinforcing the isolation and discrimination I faced daily. When I finished school I decide to go seek opportunities in the city but that only led to violence and rejection. I was always bullied and in the end was forced to return to my home town. Returning to my village for solace proved futile as chaos erupted following President Habyarimana’s death, a week after I arrived. Seeking refuge near Lake Muhazi, I found myself in a nightmare of stones and gunfire, witnessing horrors beyond comprehension as other Tutsi were ruthlessly targeted. After the militia and soldiers left, thinking everyone was dead, I emerged from the lake, battered and broken. As I stumbled onto the deserted street, I encountered a young child and asked him help. Desperately thirsty and weak, I asked him for water, only to be met with a demand for payment under the threat of calling the militia to finish me off. Defeated and resigned to my fate, I told him to summon them, hoping for a swift end to my suffering and he complied. When the militia arrived and saw the extent of my injuries, they deemed me beyond saving and left me to my fate. Miraculously spared, I stumbled upon hope when urged to seek medical help at the suggestion of another Tutsi who was hiding in a bush nearby. Arriving at Rwamagana hospital, amidst the chaos of the genocide, I found sanctuary amidst the brutality of the Interahamwe. Despite the hospital being a supposed place of healing, it was not immune to the terror that plagued the nation. Militia would come to kill other Tutsi patients, but once again, their perception of my impending demise spared me from their brutality. Three agonizing months of recovery followed, each moment a battle against looming mortality. Emerging from the hospital with a disfigured appearance, I was unable to bear the sight of my own reflection. I avoided mirrors, haunted by the grotesque image staring back at me. Even children, usually so full of curiosity and innocence, recoiled in fear at the sight of me. Dread and isolation enveloped me like a suffocating shroud as I struggled to navigate a world that now saw me as a living embodiment of tragedy. It wasn’t until 2014, with assistance from the Genocide Survivor’s Fund, that I found hope through a reconstructive surgery. This intervention not only restored my physical features but reignited resilience within me, a testament to the enduring power of healing amidst devastation. — Survivor, Rwamagana, Eastern Province, Rwanda