30 years of Rwandan genocide: 'I found a dead woman with a newborn baby still attached to her'

Exactly 30 years and a month ago a huge unmarked Boeing landed at the Kigali International Airport. Onboard, there were more than 250 peacekeepers from Bangladesh. 

I was one of them, recruited in Dhaka, for I spoke French fluently. They needed me to facilitate communication with the French-speaking Rwandan population, mostly Hutus, and Tutsis in the minority. 

At the time the two ethnic groups were busy negotiating a peace deal of power-sharing between the ruling Hutus, led by  Habiarimana, and the exiled Tutsi leadership, stationed in the newly built Parliament Building, fortified by a contingent of highly-trained Tutsi soldiers.     

The Kigali landscape resembled that of our CHT. We were soon huddled into our accommodation in Kigali's modern Amahoro Stadium complex, overlooking the beautiful capital and the Parliament. 

I was always fascinated by Africa and its people. The weather in this land-locked Central African country offered a round-the-year temperate environment, between 15 and 22 degrees celsius. It bore no sign of pollution. Pristinity and greeneries mingled with the breeze and soothed the mind and body.

The following days were fun. The food we ate under the United Nations Assistance Mission in Rwanda (UNAMIR) was of class. Hundreds of jerry cans of mineral water came from Greece. Fruits, meat, butter, bread, jam, cheese, rice, oil, spices, fresh milk and all were flown into our compound from Israel, the Middle East and Europe.

The author stands in front of an APC in Rwanda. Photo: Courtesy

Among the peacekeepers from the highly disciplined Bangladesh Army, there was joy. Five times a day, they lined up to say their prayers. And soon they made friends with the surrounding areas. 

Children were allowed into the compound and the peacekeepers open-heartedly shared their abundant stocks of food with them. Soon, Bangladeshis won the hearts and minds of  Tutsis, Hutus, Twas and Rwandan Muslims.   

On the political front, the negotiations did not progress much. A large population of Tutsis living in Kigali and elsewhere in the country were anxiously looking at the negotiations. 

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They were in constant fear of persecution and massacre secretly planned by the ruling and majority Hutu population. Rumours of Hutus arming themselves with imported machetes and small firearms spread. At the firing range of the Hutu army, some white French military experts were seen instructing the Hutu military. 

During those days, I woke up in the middle of the night on several occasions to face dozens of Tutsi families — men, women and children — desperately seeking shelter inside the stadium.  

As I talked to the crowd of Tutsis, it became clear how fear of being slaughtered had gripped them. Tutsi women carried with them their last possessions of beddings; and begged and argued with me for shelter.  They told me harrowing tales of an impending massacre they were facing. 

I was advised not to allow them inside, for it might trigger panic among the hundreds of thousands of Tutsi families and lead them to overrun the UN compound. 

It was during one of these nightly encounters that I was pushed into a concrete drain by the crowd. I landed on my sheen and lost a lump of flesh. Bleeding from the wound, I gathered myself quickly and was pulled out of the deep drain by a peacekeeper. 

I had no pain at all at the time. I persuaded the panicked crowd to return home and then noticed that my right sock was totally soaked in blood. I then received first aid.  

On the day the Rwandan genocide started, I was told that I would have to attend an official meeting with the Hutu government delegation, led by its home minister. It was all very quiet and peaceful. I knew that President Habiarimana of Rwanda was on a visit to neighbouring Burundi to meet his friend and counterpart there.               

The meeting was smooth and pleasant between the Bangladeshi peacekeepers and the Rwandan home minister. It ended, amid pleasantries, towards the late afternoon. 

I rolled a cigarette and went out into our compound to enjoy the puffs. Within five minutes after the departure of the minister, heavy machine gun fire with deafening blasts erupted around us. I could see black smoke rising from the airport area. The blasts and gunfire intensified every minute.    

"Was the minister ambushed or what?" an officer shouted. 

"No, an aeroplane crashed at the airport, look!" someone shouted back. 

Soon it was hell unleashed. 

I shall never forget a young tall, sharp-nosed and slender man walking down the mountainous road alone with a machete in his hand. He said everyone in his family had been hacked to death and he killed an attacker to save himself before fleeing. I could clearly see he would not make it, because Hutu checkposts were everywhere on that road and he was recognisable from far away with his Tutsi features.

On the infamous Radio in Kenya-Rwanda on FM, it was announced that President Habiarimana and the President of Burundi on their way back to Kigali were killed as their plane had been shot down. 

The broadcaster was asking all Hutus to kill the Tutsis wherever they are, I was told by a moderate Hutu, who was an electrician at the stadium. 

"When a mosquito bites you, do you think before killing the mosquito whether it's a child, female, elderly, young or old?" the broadcaster was quoted as saying,  trying to incite a genocide, almost unprecedented in the history of mankind. 

"Red alert, red alert, red alert," shouted a top officer. For someone like me, a journalist by profession, I did not fully comprehend the military red alert. As I looked around, everyone was running to grab a firearm. The entire stadium transformed into a fortified territory of Bangladeshi soldiers. 

The shooting now spread everywhere. Mortar shells blasts, machine guns and around midnight, I could hear desperate voices of women, children and men being slaughtered

The two UN installations — the stadium and its HQ around the corner did not come under attack. Stray bullets whizzed past my ear, piercing the window panes. 

Photo: Courtesy

In the early morning hours, as wounded Tutsi men women and children started gathering outside the both main gates of the stadium, APCs were placed, with soldiers in combat gear and readiness. 

The stream of fleeing Tutsis, moderate Hutus, Twas and Muslims reached an alarming number and was increasing by the minute. Most had horrendous wounds. The main gates were not opened, but the refugees were encouraged to jump the six-foot-high iron fence. 

Amid the chaos and the invasion of refugees, more than half of the oval-shaped stadium was filled to the brim. Toilets overflowing, wounded and bleeding men, women and children cried for help. Many were already dead. 

The four-man team of Bangladeshi infirmary was overwhelmed with a single doctor in charge. The stench was unbearable. In addition to taking photographs and documenting the carnage, I thought of making open-pit toilets first, at the back of the stadium where the fence meets a steep slope. 

In the early morning of the following day, a group of refugees led by an elderly man named Ellie (he became a great friend of mine in later days and died of AIDS in 2004) approached me saying that at least three members of the group had medical backgrounds and they wanted to help.

Soon, I was given a hand-held loudspeaker by the Bangladeshi officials. An armed peacekeeper was also assigned to me "for any help". With the help of Ellie and other members, we set up a small first-aid corner inside the stadium that had a fantastic running track and a lush football field. 

We made our own bandages by tearing clothes, collected antiseptic liquid from the refugees and soon we had surgical equipment to stitch wounds. I assigned the volunteer group to make a list of refugees and keep records of everyone receiving treatment at the centre. The refugees kept pouring in.

It was time to build the toilets. In the early morning, I went to the rear side of the Stade Amahoro, away from the two main gates. To my horror, dozens of mutilated corpses were lying on the slope of the mountain edge and even inside the fence. 

About six women in an advanced stage of pregnancy were among the dead. Ellie told me the military had raided a maternity ward at the foot of the mountain last night, killing almost everyone. Those who escaped met with their deaths trying to find shelter. 

As I walked by the bodies, I suddenly found a dead woman lying there with a newborn baby on the ground, the umbilical cord still attached to the mother. I thought I saw the baby move her finger. Without a second thought, I tore the cord, held the baby in my UN cap and ran to the First Aid Centre.      

Photo: Courtesy

Ellie and others were surprised by the arrival of the baby at a time when they only dealt with deaths and injuries. As soon as Ellie held the blood-stained baby, a female volunteer rushed to help. After about an hour, I returned to the centre to find the baby wrapped in a clean cloth, cleaned and properly detached from the cord. I held the girl with pride and astonishment. 

Now Ellie asked me to name the baby so that he could put her name in the registrar. Quite automatically, I uttered the name "Augny" which means 'fire' in my mother tongue Bangla. She was born in fire, I justified.

Photo: Courtesy

In the following weeks, I tried to help and address some of the most complex situations of my lifetime, alongside the Bangladeshi contingent, comprising brave soldiers.  

I witnessed mountains of dead bodies, people trying to live, mothers fighting for the lives of their children and then themselves hacked to death. 

I shall never forget a young tall, sharp-nosed and slender man walking down the mountainous road alone with a machete in his hand. He said everyone in his family had been hacked to death and he killed an attacker to save himself before fleeing. 

I could clearly see he would not make it because Hutu checkposts were everywhere on that road and he is recognisable from far away with his Tutsi features.

I missed my newly born daughter, my two sons and my wife back home. The stench of rotten bodies covered the land and skies and travelled with you 24/7. I wanted to lose the sense of smell. For the first time in my life, I looked at the full moon from the stadium one night and hated it.

I needed to go home. I needed to escape from the killing grounds. And there was hope for us all. Having spent three months in Kigali, it was time for me to go home. I needed a break from hell.

I sought help from Ellie, Kabanda and Beatha at the centre to find a foster mother for Augny. I did not ask once, from anyone, which ethnic group Augny belonged to. 

It was not until 2004, 10 years after the genocide, that BBC World Service flew me to Kigali from Dhaka to meet Augny at her foster parent Beatha's home, 20 km away from Kigali. 

I learnt that Augny was a Tutsi and Beatha a Hutu. Her birth was a bridge between these two arch-enemies, still waiting to be friends. She is slightly more than 30 years old today.          

It was time to go home. The Tutsis were winning the war with their Hutu enemies fleeing or trying to flee. I bid farewell to all the co-fighters trying to establish peace in a country that now remained heavily stained with human blood.

About 30 of us were whisked to the Kigali Airport one day. The airport was totally abandoned with all Hutu workers deserting it. 

Photo: Courtesy

We first had to ensure that we slept in mosquito nets, for fear of Malaria. I had a solid trunk on me and I set up a bed, not knowing when our flight would come to pick us up. We heard that negotiations were underway to a ceasefire. We spent three nights at the airport. 

On the final night, a frail-looking man approached me in the middle of the night, by my mosquito net, and said in clear French he wanted to trust me with an artefact belonging to the Tutsi King. He said it was on display at the Kigali airport to attract tourists as evidence of the rich culture of Rwanda. I said if I return to your country, I shall return it to the future generation.

The following day, we were told that a Canadian Air Force C 136 plane would be picking us up any time. We all looked to the sky. And suddenly we were told only 40 people could board the plane. Within the last three days, over a  hundred people were brought to the airport for their passage home.

The seatless cargo plane landed on the runway with its engines running. It opened its rear hull and moved slowly. The exhaust from the two jet turbos hit us hard and almost blinded me. 

I struggled my way with my trunk and my camera when two armed Canadian soldiers in combat gear jumped from the plane onto the runway preventing the 100 or more people from boarding the plane. Suddenly I found myself hit by a rifle butt. I retaliated with a punch. 

Just then an officer of the peacekeepers (all I remember about him was that he was a Major in the Bangladesh army and he resided in Azimpur in Dhaka) stretched his hand to help me in. We were in the plane, which sped on the runway to fly away. I was going home.

PS: During my visit to Kigali in 2004, I returned the wooden artefact to the Minister of Cultural Affairs who then promised to preserve it in the Kigali Museum.