Dominque’s Story

On April 6, 1994, the war began when the president’s plane was shot down. I was only 10 years old, a child in Rwanda, unaware that being born Tutsi would soon become a death sentence.

Before that day, we were just neighbors—working together, playing together, sharing life. But overnight, everything changed. Our neighbors stopped visiting, stopped speaking. A line was drawn between us. We were no longer friends; we were the hunted.
We saw Tutsis fleeing from the hills, passing through our village. They warned us: Run. Save your lives. But my father was courageous. He told us, “We will protect our home, our land, and our family.” There were seven of us children, and we were terrified.

Soon, smoke filled the skies. The Hutus were burning our houses, killing our livestock. Why? What had we done? I didn’t understand then that our only crime was being born Tutsi. For the first time in my life, I felt ashamed of who I was.
On April 8, we fled to a Catholic Church, seeking refuge. But this time was different. The priest turned us away. Desperate, we ran to a government building where thousands of Tutsis were already gathered. For three days, we thought we might be safe. But then the militia came.

They attacked us with machetes. The men tried to fight back with stones, but we were no match. Chaos erupted as we scattered, running in all directions. That day, I lost my father and three of my siblings. I saw them murdered before my eyes.
The remaining four of us ran until we reached another district, joining nearly 20,000 other Tutsis. For a moment, we thought the worst might be over. But the Hutus came back, this time with reinforcements—airplanes, bombs, guns, and more machetes. They slaughtered thousands. Five out of every six Tutsis in Rwanda were killed.

I lost the rest of my family. I was only 10, running for my life. I stumbled into a militia member who yelled, “That child—kill him!” He hacked at me with a machete—my neck, my head. I fell unconscious beneath a pile of bodies. For three days, I lay there bleeding, pretending to be dead as they checked for survivors to kill. Miraculously, they left me.

When I woke, I crawled to a swamp, barely alive. I hid in the bushes, hopeless and alone, until a Hutu grandmother found me. I was sure it was the end, but instead, she had mercy. She risked everything—her life, her family’s life—to care for me. Every day, she came to clean my wounds, give me water, and feed me. Her courage saved my life.

In May, the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) liberated the area. They found me and took me to the hospital, where I stayed for three months. I was alive, but deeply broken—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

After recovering, I was sent to a village for orphans of the genocide. There were so many of us, all carrying unbearable pain. No one spoke. No one laughed. We were alive, but we were not living.

One day, I saw some boys laughing. I asked them, “Why are you laughing? I don’t remember how.” They introduced me to drugs, and for the first time in years, I felt something other than pain. I became addicted, using drugs to mask my grief.
Years later, I met Pastor Willy and the team at Teen Challenge. I was tired of the drugs, tired of the pain. I wanted freedom but didn’t know how. Pastor Willy told me that God could help. I came to the Teen Challenge center, where I found Jesus and began a new life.

Today, I am a graduate of Teen Challenge Rwanda. I have been drug-free for years. I have found peace, joy, and forgiveness. I forgave the men who killed my family. I pray for them.

Now, people in my community seek my advice. They see the transformation in me and say, “This is God!”

Not only have I found peace, but I have also found love. I am getting married in June, and I invite you all to celebrate with me. What the enemy tried to steal, God has restored.

I thank God, Pastor Willy, Mama Shannon, Pastor Shawn, and the entire Teen Challenge family for giving me hope when I thought all was lost. My life is a testimony of God’s redemption.