27 March 1994,

My father says there is trouble coming. People are angry; they don’t want President Habyarimana to sign the Arusha Accords. The Interahamwe, extremist Hutus, want all Tutsis dead. They will never agree to peace. What extremes are they willing to go to? Father worries that their plan is to kill President Habyarimana and blame the terrible act on the Rwandan Patriotic Front.
President Habyarimana is coming here, by plane, in 10 days time. My training with the RPF will be complete by then. I will be a true man like my Father. Each day my arms and legs grow stronger. I have lost my baby fat from the combined forces of training and the thin, pale food – food that is bland and tasteless. Time seems distant, hours and days weaving in and out seamlessly. It seems as if the day is consumed by the sound and vibration of pounding–the feet of fellow soldiers falling repetitively on the hard dusty ground. The scent of sweat and dirt invades my nostrils day and night. The world seems washed out, colors faded–my focus consumed by training, both physical and mental. There is unrest coming that I can feel stirring in my bones.
It is not long before President Habyarimana will arrive, and by then I will be ready to do my duty and protect innocent Rwandans from the Interahamwe. A warm glow of pride swells up in my chest at the thought of fighting alongside my Father. Father says that I am still too young, only 16, but this is my calling, my purpose. I strive to protect those who can’t protect themselves. My greatest fear is of the possibility of losing my father in this imminent conflict, the thought tugs me down, choking me. I pray to a higher power that the remains of my family may stay intact.
-Sentwali


7 April 1994,

Father’s fears were correct–yesterday, they Interahamwe shot down President Habyarimana’s plane. His death will be the final straw that breaks the tentative and relative peace, peace relative to the chaos of the coming days. In the faint light of dawn, my squad and I leave camp, violence has already begun.
A mere week ago I was excited to join the action, to protect the innocent, but now I'm not sure. My name means brave, but I certainly don’t feel it anymore. I know I must stay true to my duty, and I cannot not give in to fear. ‘Protect the innocent.’ This is the moment I have been waiting for since the day I joined the RPF. Yet all I want, now, is to retreat into the safety of camp again. I must learn to prepare for the worst and hope for the best. I will certainly need to rely on strength and hope to get me through this tough time safely.
-Sentwali

9 April 1994,

Anger fills the core of my being, making me want to scream out. My body quakes as the overwhelming emotion, hatred seems to be consuming my very being. Hate for the United Nations, hate for the Interahamwe, hate for myself and most of all hatred at human nature and our lack of morality. The UN came on a rescue mission, rescuing the innocence of white minds rather than the lives of Tutsi people. There are Tutsis are getting killed by the thousands. They are not even attempting to halt the killing, the massacre, the murder, whatever word it is you use.
We have been out fighting back against the Interahamwe since the violence began. I know that their goal was to kill us, but their deaths weigh heavily on my conscious. After all that they have done to the Tutsis and what they did so many years ago to my Mother and little sister, Neza. I was seven when they were brutally ----- and killed at the hands of our Hutu neighbors. Still, I feel that I should not have the right to take a life, that is too much responsibility.
I can remember all of the horrible things I have done and seen in the last few days, everything is as clear as if it was happening before my eyes this very second. In my sleep, the sights and sounds replay, haunting me, keeping every memory fresh. Every memory that I wish to forget, erase from my mind, they replay each time more horrific than the last. I no longer can distinguish which memories are real and which are dreams, everything seems vague and uncertain, fluid and uncapturable.
One of my more prominent memories is of a young boy, hardly older than thirteen, standing above a woman, killing her. I stood there, seemingly helpless and in shock before I remembered my duty to protect these people. The boys face held a malicious grin as he held a machete over her helpless form. He hacked away at her body slowly, enjoying her suffering, prolonging it. I felt a salty tear slip down my grimy cheek almost similar to the way her blood seeped from her veins, wetting the dust on the ground. There was coagulated blood on his dirty leather boots, I had no way of knowing if the blood was from the woman or the countless others dead in the street. The pungent smell of death hit my nose in waves and started to cloud my senses, that is when I slowly raised my gun, I shot him. The bullet bore mercilessly into his skull, just above his temple, killing him. His death was quick. There was no struggle as a cold blanket of stillness enveloped him, clouding his eyes and stilling his arm.
He deserved worse for the things he had done, I thought. Am I no better than him? I don’t know what to think anymore, everything is all one big nightmare that never seems to end. I haven’t got time to dwell on my moral well-being, though, because the fight isn’t over, I don’t have the leisure to stop and think about what I have done. I have to keep going.
-Sentwali

22 May 1994,

I can't stand this anymore, the killing, the screams of terror. When I close my eyes I see the bodies of those I have killed. My only sense of feeling is consumed by the sensation of people's blood merging with dirt and drying into a thick crust that coats my body. My awareness is pervaded by the metallic stench of blood. Screams ring in my head, terror as their eyes go dark and the life seeps out of them. My mouth is filled by the taste of blood, sweat, and dirt mix with my saliva. My throat is scratchy and dry.
When I look into people's eyes I see fear, fear for their lives and fear for their families. I see anger for what people are capable of doing to each other, and sadness for those that have died unfairly. Most of all, I see people look around, some eyes filled with determination and yet more filled with despair.
I remember when I could look into the eyes of the person next to me and see happiness, joy, love, or contentment. That is merely a faint memory now. What could drive an entire race to that level of hatred, neighbors killing neighbors and friends killing friends? Why?
I thought I had lost everything when my mother and sister were brutally and animalistically slaughtered. Now, even that pales in comparison to what I know and feel now. Just hours ago, Father and I were assisting the RPF in capturing Kigali. A great victory for our cause, but to me, it will forever be one of the worst days of my life.
We were making our way through the city, Father was about 20 yards ahead of me, everything seemed to slow down. Though probably filled in by my imagination, I remember seeing a dark blur streaking towards Father. I opened my mouth, trying to scream. My parched throat crackled as I tried to warn him, a silent cry came out. It was too late, though, the bullet had buried itself into my Father’s chest quickly followed by more. He staggered back and fell to the ground. “Nooo!” My cry was strangled and desperate. A fellow soldier grabbed me by the back of my shirt “Come on soldier, we have to keep moving.” Was is just my imagination that saw that bullet? Could I have warned him, saved him? I viciously fought my way through the city I became numb to emotion, and the feeling was blissful. It didn’t last long.
I'm only 16 years old and everytime I close my eyes, I see is death. Every silence is louder than the next, filled with fearful screams. I can barely take it, I just want to forget. I just want to see my family again, but I know I have to keep going. Make my father proud, persevere. This is not the end.
-Sentwali

18 July 1995,

Exactly one year ago today the ceasefire was declared. I was sent to America as a refugee once the shaky government was back in tentative control; I was placed in a high school with other children my age. I can’t help but envy their innocence.
Since coming to America, I have only made one close friend. Her name is Urimana; she, like me, came to America as a refugee after the Rwandan and Burundian genocides. She is a Tutsi from Burundi, I am a Tutsi from Rwanda. I saw my family be killed and she lost her family as well. The one thing about that she can never understand is how guilty I feel for killing while trying to protect Tutsi lives.
I miss my Father, his absence gnaws at me, ever present. The constant feeling of ‘I could have done something more, I could have saved him.’ overwhelms me. I will never fully recover. I will never fully trust again. Sometimes I think about joining the US military, in a way I feel like that is what I was meant to do. I will do all that I can so that others do not have to face what I did. I will fight to protect the innocent. But even more selfishly, I will fight because I crave feeling numb to emotions. It’s like the world of horrible things I have seen disappears in the wake of the dire situation. I will fight to forget.
-Sentwali


1SG. Aaron Sentwali of the U.S. Army died on November 12, 2010, in Iraq while on his 5th Tour of Duty. He was killed alongside two other soldiers when they hit an I.E.D.