“I Asked Myself If I Would Ever Love My Baby”: Mothering Children Born of Genocidal Rape in Rwanda

Abstract

The 1994 Rwandan genocide was characterized by brutal acts of widespread sexual violence against women that, for some, led to unwanted pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood. This study explores the perspectives and experiences of 44 Rwandan women with children born of genocidal rape through in-depth qualitative interviews. Emerging from the data are the themes of identity and belonging, ambivalence, and truth-telling in the mother–child relationship. Findings highlight the lasting and intergenerational legacy of genocidal rape, and practice and policy implications are discussed.

Keywords

sexual violence motherhood Rwandan genocide

Introduction

In many societies, mothering and motherhood involve not only attending to the physical, psychosocial, and emotional needs of children but also carrying out the maternal social practices that contribute to the construction of gender, kinship, and social identities within families and communities (Barlow & Chapin, 2010; Sgoutas & Takseva, 2015). Such maternal responsibilities and practices become dramatically more challenging under the extreme physical, psychological, and socioeconomic conditions associated with war and armed conflict. Indeed, even in the face of inadequate resources, displacement, and the threat of ongoing violence, women—as mothers—are expected to complete the everyday tasks needed to care for and sustain the lives of their children. Moreover, for some women, motherhood is a direct result of conflict-related sexual violence (DeLaet, 2008).

Systematic rape, sexual exploitation, and forced marriage of women and girls are some of the most common—though often unrecognized—forms of wartime human rights violations. For instance, sexual violence has been witnessed on a mass scale during World War I, World War II, the Vietnam War, and over the past few decades in the conflicts of Bosnia-Herzegovina, northern Uganda, Colombia, Timor-Leste, and Rwanda, among others (Denov, 2015). For survivors of these brutal acts, unwanted pregnancy, childbirth, and raising a child born of conflict-related sexual violence are among the myriad of physical and psychological consequences related to sexual assault. Although it is seldom easy to be a mother, motherhood resulting from conflict-related sexual violence poses a complex series of challenges for mothers and their children that shape the lives of both for decades to come (Carpenter, 2007; Van Ee & Kleber, 2013).

Post-genocide Rwanda provides some of the most moving and powerful examples of the resilience, strength, and challenges faced by these women. The overwhelming prevalence of mass rape and sexual violence that took place during the Rwandan genocide committed against Tutsis in 1994 has been well documented in academic literature of varied disciplines (Hamel, 2016; Mukamana & Brysiewicz, 2008; Mukangendo, 2007; Nowrojee, 1996; Sharlach, 2000). Only a few studies, however, have explored the post-genocide experiences of women survivors who became mothers as a result of rape and their relationships with their children. Moreover, while existing scholarship on conflict-related sexual violence in Rwanda has significantly increased our understanding of the challenges confronting survivors (de Brouwer, Chu, & Muscati, 2009; Kantengwa, 2014; Mukangendo, 2007; Umulisa, 2015; Zraly, Rubin, & Mukamana, 2013), vital questions remain unanswered. For example, what effect has conflict-related sexual violence had on the long-term mother–child relationship? How do family members and/or the larger community regard these mothers and children? What supports and services do mothers require in the post-genocide period?

Drawing on original data, this article examines the perspectives of mothers who bore children born of sexual violence during the Rwandan genocide committed against Tutsis in 1994. We begin with an overview of the literature on both sexual violence during the genocide and children born of genocidal rape. Following a review of the methodology, the voices and experiences of mothers who are survivors of genocidal rape are explored, particularly the themes of identity and belonging, ambivalence, and truth-telling in the mother–child relationship. We conclude with implications for policy and practice.

Sexual Violence During the Rwandan Genocide

In 1994, over the course of a little more than 100 days, approximately 1 million Tutsi and moderate Hutus were slaughtered by the Interahamwe (Hutu militia; Koster, 2008; Wielenga, 2014). The long-standing tensions between Hutu and Tutsi ethnic groups in Rwanda prior to the genocide were largely a result of the legacy of European colonization, which had mischaracterized precolonial Rwandan society and the construction of ethnicity (Hintjens, 1999). Years of persecution of the Tutsi minority population under a Hutu-led Rwandan government are illustrated throughout the decades leading up to the 1990s in examples of intermittent violence and in formal policies of discrimination (Umulisa, 2015). Moreover, the systematic preparation for the killing of the Tutsi population has been well documented prior to the mass murder and bloodshed that characterized the genocide (Koster, 2008; Nowrojee, 1996). The mass violence enacted during the genocide included individual and collective rape as an integral and deliberate part of destroying the Tutsi minority (de Brouwer et al., 2009; Nowrojee, 1996).

During the genocide, an estimated 350,000 women and girls were raped or gang-raped, subjected to sexual mutilation and torture, or taken as sex slaves by the Interahamwe (Sharlach, 2000). While Tutsi women were the primary target for sexual violence, Hutu women who were married to Tutsi men or those who protected Tutsis were also targeted for rape and assault (Nowrojee, 1996). Hutu media outlets broadcasted hate propaganda before and during the genocide and heightened ethnic tensions by demonizing Tutsi women, specifically inciting attacks against them (Nowrojee, 2005). Rape and gang rape of Tutsi women and girls often occurred in public spaces with the intended aim of degrading and humiliating Tutsi women in front of family and community members (Hamel, 2016). It is widely acknowledged that political, administrative, and military leaders at the national and local levels directed, encouraged, or permitted sexual violence as a means to further their goal of destroying the Tutsi population (Nowrojee, 2005). Indeed, sexually subjugating and mutilating women was a way to punish Tutsis and pursue ethnic cleansing, and in some instances a strategy to deliberately infect women with HIV/AIDS (Carpenter, 2000; Hamel, 2016; de Bouwer, 2005).

Although scholars have offered multiple explanations for conflict-related sexual violence in the context of the Rwandan genocide and elsewhere, a dominant theory is that the effectiveness of rape as a strategy of armed conflict relies heavily on cultural norms surrounding the sexual virtue of women in society (Weitsman, 2008). During war and genocide, conceptualizations of nationalism and group identity are often intertwined with reproductive politics within the family structure. This is especially the case for those societies associating kinship, bloodlines, and lineage with the perpetuation of an ethnic group (Carpenter, 2000). In this context, sexual violence against women can be understood as an effective tool of war that threatens a community’s sense of cohesion, belonging, and longevity, especially across ethnic lines. Moreover, rape is a potent form of punishment in times of armed conflict, particularly in patriarchal societies in which a woman’s social standing is derived from her relationships to the men in her family (Weitsman, 2008). Loss of virginity, rape, and assault are likely to negatively affect a woman’s future relationships with men and be defining factors in determining her social worth and standing. Survivors of sexual violence are frequently stigmatized and may no longer be viewed as viable members of society by family and community members (Carpenter, 2000; Mukamana & Brysiewicz, 2008). Indeed, the shame of victimization for survivors of sexual violence is often far worse than the perpetration of the crime (Weitsman, 2008).

Although the vast majority of Rwandan women were killed immediately following brutal acts of sexual violence, for those left alive, the psychosocial, economic, and health-related effects of sexual violence were dire (Mukamana & Brysiewicz, 2008; Mukangendo, 2007). In the immediate aftermath of the genocide, the majority of Rwandan rape survivors were living in conditions of extreme poverty, chronic hunger, and insecure housing, as well as likely facing a positive HIV diagnosis (Nowrojee, 1996). Furthermore, many rape survivors with children were living as single heads of households outside of their communities of origin, with little or no family support (Kantengwa, 2014). In part, these circumstances can be attributed to the negative attitude toward genocide rape survivors by Rwandan society at large, as rape survivors were often not regarded as “victims” at all, but viewed instead as collaborators with the Interahamwe, playing the “sex card” to survive the genocide (Sharlach, 2000). Faced with hostility and suspicion by their communities and remaining family members, many survivors were silenced or attempted to hide what had happened to them out of fear of ostracism and rejection (Mukangendo, 2007). As marriage and motherhood are traditionally viewed as the transformative processes that make a girl into a woman in Rwandan culture, being raped is perceived as a grave violation to a woman’s identity as either an unmarried young woman and virgin or as a wife and mother (Zraly et al., 2013). Indeed, the dishonor attached to sexual violence has been so profound that in post-genocide Rwanda, many rape survivors have been relegated to the margins of society and have lost meaningful social membership among their respective communities and families in the post-genocide context (Mukangendo, 2007).

Moreover, the transitional justice mechanisms put into place for genocide survivors in Rwanda, such as the Gacaca courts, often failed to adequately protect survivors of sexual violence. Modeled on a traditional Rwandan restorative justice process that involved formal public testimony, the Gacaca courts were the primary means for genocide survivors to identify and denounce perpetrators of genocide crimes, establish punitive measures, and begin the processes of community reconciliation (Brouneus, 2008; de Brouwer & Ruvebana, 2013). Crimes of “sexual torture and rape” were considered first-class offenses of genocide, which could ultimately result in life imprisonment or other forms of serious punishment (Gahima, 2013). However, survivors of genocidal sexual violence reported they were not universally met with compassion and understanding, but rather commonly experienced revictimization, even if their testimonies were held in private settings to accommodate for the extremely sensitive and painful nature of these crimes (Brouneus, 2008). In fact, some women have stated that they were taunted during the Gacaca process by their rapists, many of whom publicly denied committing acts of sexual violence (Brouneus, 2008). Many rape survivors refused to participate in the Gacaca for fear of retribution, as perpetrators or the families of perpetrators often threatened women with further violence to prevent them from providing testimonies that could bring serious consequences for male family members (Brouneus, 2008).

Children Born of Genocidal Rape in Rwanda

Although the exact number of children born of genocidal rape in Rwanda remains unknown, some estimates place it somewhere between 10,000 and 25,000 (Hogwood et al., 2017; Mukangendo, 2007). Motherhood resulting from sexual violence presented women with a multitude of complications due to the traumatic context of the genocide and the issues surrounding raising a child born of rape (Kantengwa, 2014). Facing unwanted pregnancy from genocidal rape, many mothers sought clandestine abortions, attempted suicide, or abandoned their babies at birth (Mukangendo, 2007). Moreover, for those women who chose to keep their children, the widespread killing and displacement of people during the genocide left many Rwandan women lacking traditional familial support systems that would have aided in the upbringing of the child. In addition, the deep stigma and shame associated with carrying and keeping a child born of genocidal rape strained and damaged remaining post-genocide support networks because of the perception of these children as members of the Interahamwe (Mukangendo, 2007). Indeed, children born of genocidal rape were perceived as belonging outside of the maternal family and were nicknamed “little killers,” “the fruit of hate,” and the “children of bad memories” by mothers and community members (Kantengwa, 2014). Such children were—and remain—a major source of conflict among Rwandan families as they are often viewed as a permanent reminder of the violence and suffering that occurred during the genocide and as an obstacle to collective healing and community reconciliation (Mukamana & Brysiewicz, 2008; Mukangendo, 2007; Sharlach, 2000).

Method

This qualitative research project, funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and led by Myriam Denov, explored the lived realities of children born of genocidal rape and their mothers and family members. The study sought to examine the relationship between mothers and children born of genocidal rape through exploring viewpoints on both sides of the dyad.

In-depth interviews were conducted between June and August 2016 with 44 mothers of children born of genocidal rape. Mothers were aged between 33 and 52 years. Participants were required to be mothers of children born of genocidal rape. A snowball sampling procedure was used to recruit participants through professional networks. Participants resided in one of three regions of the country. These three different regions were selected by the research team to explore the realities, similarities, and differences of mothers in both rural and urban settings.

Informed consent was obtained from all individual participants included in the study. Data were collected through semi-structured interviews designed with open-ended questions, and researchers used probing techniques to elicit detailed responses from participants. Interviews were audio-recorded with participants’ permission. Local researchers conducted interviews in Kinyarwanda, whereas Canadian researchers used English with simultaneous English-Kinyarwanda translation.

Prior to the interview, all participants engaged in a drawing activity that we referred to as the “River of Life.” Participants were asked to draw their histories and life courses, using the metaphor of a river, showing the ebbs and flows of their life. Participants then shared during interviews the meaning of their “River of Life,” which allowed participants to explain key events and realities throughout their life course.

This study received approval from two research ethics boards: the Rwandan National Ethics Committee, and the Research Ethics Board of McGill University. The ethical implications of this research were considerable. Participants were being asked questions about their lives that had the potential to both revive traumatic memories and cause significant distress. In light of these possibilities, psychosocial support structures were put into place in advance, in the event that a participant should become distressed as a result of interview content and require a referral. With participants’ permission, researchers followed up post-interview on an ongoing basis to ensure participants’ well-being.

Interview audio files were translated and transcribed from Kinyarwanda to English. A grounded theory approach to data analysis was employed, whereby through careful reading and coding of transcripts the researchers identified key themes that were emerging from the data (Creswell, 2013). An ongoing discussion of emerging themes by the research team was part of the data analysis process. All names mentioned throughout this article are pseudonyms to protect the identity of participants.

Mothering in the Aftermath of Genocidal Rape: Identity, Ambivalence, and Truth-Telling

The experiences of mothering a child born of genocidal rape is undoubtedly a complex, multilayered process that evolves over time. Drawing upon participants’ narratives, this analysis explores mothers’ encounters with themselves, their children, their families, and their communities and reveals the ways in which stigmatization and marginalization are perpetuated by family and community actors and internalized by the mothers.

Challenges for Identity and Belonging

Many mothers discussed how the identity of their children as “little killers” negatively influenced their own treatment among community and family members. Not only did our sample of mothers report feeling stigmatized as a result of their histories of genocidal sexual violence, they also reported facing even further rejection and marginalization by family and community members because of the perceived identity of their children as belonging to the Interahamwe. Indeed, the overwhelmingly negative attitude attached to their child’s identity was sufficient to challenge a mother’s own right to belong within families and communities. As one mother explained, this often became a profound source of shame:

The challenges were the people who hated [my daughter] when she was born. My mother, the neighbours, they were always talking about how I gave birth to a child of a killer. And that made me so ashamed, I didn’t want to go outside. I just went outside when she was sick and I had to bring her to the hospital. (Julianne)

Furthermore, giving birth to a “child of a killer” was the cause of immense internal and family conflict for mothers, which had a lasting influence on family relationships. Concealing histories of sexual violence to avoid social stigma was nearly impossible for those women who lived in their communities of origin in the post-genocide context, as sexual violence was frequently conducted in public spaces or in front of family members. Upon learning of their pregnancy, many mothers reported facing enormous pressure from family members to have an abortion, as well as being subjected to or threatened with physical violence and at times forced to leave the family home. As Maia described,

They did a test and found I was pregnant. He [cousin] asked me what happened, and I told him the truth that I was raped by many Interahamwe. He was angry with me and took me to people who could help with an abortion. I went there but told them that I can’t. When arrived at home he beat me and chased me from his home [crying]. (Maia)

The prospect of having an abortion was extremely risky for mothers, as abortion was illegal in Rwanda and women could die following a botched procedure (Mukangendo, 2007). Mothers reported having to make impossible decisions: risking their own life with a clandestine abortion, abandoning their child to salvage familial relationships, or raising their child born of genocidal rape and living with social exclusion and rejection. For mothers who chose to bear their children conceived by genocidal rape, threats of violence and infanticide at the hands of family members represented a genuine risk, while an abortion may have been a violation of her religious beliefs. One mother commented, “For me it [an abortion] would have been a sin. In addition, I could die, yet I had chance to survive [the genocide]. Time came and I gave birth. My brother came to kill my son, but he was advised to leave it” (Sandrine).

Moreover, some mothers spoke about their children born of genocidal rape as a living embodiment of interethnic tensions in the aftermath of the genocide, which led to additional challenges for belonging within existing family structures. As the mother of a “little killer,” it was rare that maternal families would accept mothers and their “Hutu” children as family members. In cases where paternal identity was known, rejection and hostility by paternal families toward mothers and children were reported as common. One reason for this was because mothers had or could testify in the Gacaca tribunals, which would reveal perpetrators’ crimes and possibly lead to incarceration. Indeed, mothers faced rejection by both maternal and paternal families because such children were considered to be living reminders of genocidal crimes, belonging neither to the families of survivors nor perpetrators:

My life was not easy, even my own family rejected me. It was too hard to see how all the families were rejecting my son. My own family was saying that my son is from killers, while Georges’ [son] family hated me, because I accused them of being killers. All the families were telling me to abandon my son. (Sandrine)

Mothers discussed the perceived identity of their children born of genocidal rape as belonging to the Interahamwe as extremely problematic in relation to their own treatment by family and community members. These challenges to identity and belonging translated to real-life obstacles for mothers and their children, such as economic insecurity and threats of ongoing violence. Given the enormous loss of human life and devastation resulting from the genocide, the fact that the identity of a child born of genocidal rape could jeopardize and rupture relationships among surviving family members speaks volumes as to how difficult it was for families, and society at large, to accept such children. In addition, the level of social rejection reported 22 years after the genocide demonstrates both the longevity and magnitude of challenges that mothers continue to confront as a result of genocidal sexual violence.

Ambivalence in the Mother–Child Relationship

An overarching theme of ambivalence characterized the relationship between mothers and their children born of genocidal rape. While many mothers spoke of long-standing antagonistic and conflictual feelings toward their child, they also described deep affection and caring in their experiences of raising a child born of genocidal rape. Across interviews, mothers struggled to portray the complexity of the mother–child relationship. Some mothers described their relationship as “missing something” fundamental. This mother noted, “There is no happiness in our family. I try to show her [daughter] a mother’s love but there is something we both miss” (Jeanne). Other mothers described the great difficulty they experienced in accepting their children, especially as infants, as well as their harsh treatment of their children as they grew into adolescence and young adulthood:

I asked myself if I would ever love my baby. I wanted to give birth to a dead baby. But now I am asking God to forgive me. I did not want him, but I like him now. He doesn’t call me mom even though he knows I am his mother. When he was impolite I hated him. A simple mistake he makes, could upset me. (Fanny)

Moreover, a major challenge in the mother–child relationship was that children often served as physical reminders of traumatic experiences of sexual violence and loss during the genocide. For some mothers, the strength of this association resulted in feelings of anger, blame, and guilt, which were often directed toward their children. In other words, many mothers found that the daily presence of a child born of genocidal rape was a factor that impeded their own ability to heal from genocide experiences. Some mothers admitted to blaming their child for their ongoing hardships:

The hardest part was that the person who raped me, killed my grandfather. So everyday I remember that, and it is very painful. And when I see my daughter, I see her father in her. . . . There are things that you can forget but those are things that you live with and to forget them are not that easy. . . . So sometimes I think that it is her fault, the things that happened to me. (Sara)

Mothers also described feelings of guilt that created emotional barriers to solidifying a secure bond between mother and child. Some mothers shared that they did not really consider themselves as “mothers” to such children:

When she asks me how I conceived her, I tell her I didn’t want to have her. I never planned it. . . . She doesn’t see me as a mother and I don’t see her as my daughter either. I did not want to have her. (Jeanne)

Nevertheless, despite the significant challenges identified by mothers in securing a loving relationship with their child, many mothers also described a profound attachment to their child born of genocidal rape. Certainly, it appears that this attachment evolved out of the unique complexities of what it meant to be a mother in these circumstances. In some cases, the social rejection that both mothers and their children faced together as a result of their child’s identity eventually made their relationship stronger. For example, one mother shared how the unique circumstances characterizing their lives positively contributed to the mother–child relationship: “The fact that he is my son and because all our families rejected him, I love him so much. No one else can love him more than me” (Sandrine). Furthermore, the emotional attachment between mothers and children born of rape was influenced by the challenges of single parenthood. Even though such children are now young adults, many mothers spoke of a lasting obligation to fulfill the role of both a father and a mother in their child’s life. In reflecting on the differences between raising a child born of genocidal rape and their other children not born in this way, mothers described how this additional responsibility influenced their relationship:

I prefer the one [child] I had during the genocide. She is my first born and I gave birth to her during problems, and she doesn’t have a father, so I am her father and mother. And I see that if I don’t take care of her no one will. . . . The others [children] love me too, but she is the most loving. (Julianne)

Mothers’ narratives illustrate the nuance and complexity embedded within their relationship with children born of genocidal rape. Indeed, the mother–child relationship posed a complex series of emotional and real-life challenges, which stem from the unique set of circumstances in raising a child born of genocidal rape.

Truth-Telling and Disclosure

Mothers continually had to weigh whether it was better to remain silent or to tell their children about the events leading up to their birth. Mothers described the latter as “truth-telling”—or having an honest discussion with their child born of genocidal rape about the violent circumstances surrounding their origins and conception. Whether or not mothers had shared their experiences with their child born of genocidal rape appeared to be a defining factor in the mother–child relationship and was often identified as a critical point of stress in the lives of mothers. Mothers frequently reported how the relentless interrogation by their child regarding paternal identity was a constant stressor and point of tension in their relationship. This was especially the case for the many mothers who had experienced gang rape or multiple rapes by many men over an extended period of time and for which the question of paternal identity was impossible to answer.

Moreover, “truth-telling” was often complicated by the fact that family or community members had already insinuated to children through insults and name-calling that they were born from the genocide, as “bastards” or born of “killers.” Indeed, for many mothers, “truth-telling” was not merely a matter of disclosing the child’s true origins but rather finding the courage to share a complete and honest account of their own painful experiences leading up to conception. The shame experienced by mothers and stigma imposed upon them by community mores influenced a mother’s decision to discuss this information with their child. As this mother explained, “I first hesitated to tell him because I felt it was shameful. The whole village could say ‘look at that woman, she slept with killers’ and I felt that it was not something to tell to the child” (Susanne).

Mothers described how difficult it was for them to broach this topic with their child, in part because of a reluctance to reveal experiences of sexual violence and in part because of fear of the child’s reactions. The nature of their child’s reaction to the “truths” shared by mothers had a powerful influence on the subsequent mother–child relationship. Changes in that dynamic, or observations of changes in their child’s behavior, led some mothers to believe they had made the right decision by disclosing the information, whereas others regretted it. Each of these mothers described the very different reactions that their children had to their disclosures:

He was a very bad child, doing whatever he wanted, going to school only when he wanted. But when I told him about his history, it was like he was regretting the time he wasted in behaving so badly. He started begging me to help him go to school. At home he changed a lot. He became responsible. He did not want me to get tired. I was like a queen. He was taking care of me, especially when I was sick. (Fanny)

I took responsibility to tell him the truth about what happened to us during the genocide. From that time, my son changed completely and became so anxious, sometimes behaving like a baby. He never talks, he never laughs, he doesn’t like anything, sometimes he even refuses to eat. He is so strange. . . . My son is so angry and sometimes he says that if he could know his father, he would take revenge on him on my behalf. But I tell him it won’t be good. (Annick)

Despite the challenges and risks involved in “truth-telling,” mothers who did disclose the circumstances of their child’s conception reported that it was important to have shared their experiences with their children. Nevertheless, there were also mothers who had not discussed this topic with their child. Mothers who chose not to have this conversation often cited not wanting to recall painful past experiences, as well as being fearful of further disrupting their child/children’s lives. In this way, a mother’s silence could be seen as a strategy to protect her child from additional hardship and emotional distress.

Discussion: The Intergenerational Legacy of Genocidal Rape

The legacy of sexual violence continues to have a powerful influence on the lives of mothers who bore children born of genocidal rape, as it shaped their personal experiences of identity and belonging, and relationships across socio-ecological systems. Exploring the perspectives of these mothers reveals a number of important observations. First, the narratives highlight that the women experienced marginalization, stigmatization, and social exclusion not only as survivors of sexual violence but also as mothers bearing the “children of killers.” Blamed by family members for visiting the sexual assaults upon themselves, and, thus, tainted, in the community’s eyes, mothers in the study experienced multiple layers of stigma. The nuances of this stigmatization are vast, further complicated by the imprint of genocide. By virtue of giving birth to a child born of “the enemy,” the mothers experienced a virtual forfeiting of their family birthright and the protections and benefits therein. Moreover, mothers observed that their children born of genocidal rape were likewise rejected by both their maternal and paternal families, leaving the child in a “no man’s land,” without a social group with which to identify and belong. Faced with this confluence of rejection by family and community members on both “sides” of the interethnic divide, and suffering from the aftermath of sexual assault, the mother’s stigmatized identities were often internalized, resulting in feelings of shame and self-isolating behaviors.

Second, against this backdrop, the mother–child relationship was characterized by a highly ambivalent and complex set of interactions that change over time. From the onset of pregnancy, each mother faced an impossible choice: to violate the laws of her land and her God by committing the “sin” of abortion or to suffer banishment from family, kin, and society by allowing the pregnancy to proceed. The birth of the child evoked tension between the mothers’ instinctual feelings of love and tenderness, and revulsion associated with all-too-vivid memories of the child’s conception; feelings of revulsion toward the child, in turn, often led mothers to experience deep feelings of guilt and shame.

As the children grew, the mother–child relationship became ever more complex. Some mothers who struggled to locate a positive emotional bond with their child found that enmity and traumatic memories could erupt when the child was “impolite” or “made mistakes.” For some mothers, their child represented the unrelenting embodiment of the perpetrator or perpetrators and became impediments for “moving on” in the trajectory of healing. Moreover, the child served not only as a constant living reminder of the genocide, emblematic of the losses and horrors of the past, but also as a proxy for all the hardships of the present. While all mothers reported experiencing a challenging relationship with their child during the course of their lives, rural and urban differences were important. Mothers who were living in rural areas were economically more marginalized, often isolated from and rejected by their families of origin, and lived in greater poverty. This socioeconomic situation increased the pressure on mothers to provide for their child(ren) under difficult circumstances, simultaneously intensifying the tension in the mother–child relationship.

However, it is important to note that the mother–child relationship was not uniformly negative across the mothers’ narratives. Some mothers described how they developed a deep bond with the child as a result of shared trauma and shared marginalization. Maternal “duty” and the fulfillment of the responsibilities of motherhood offered some mothers a sense of purpose and meaning in a context otherwise seemingly devoid of existential coherence. In such cases, the mother–child relationship could represent an antidote to the genocidal horrors and the social exclusion that followed.

Inevitably, all mothers were faced with the decision of how, or whether, to disclose to their child the truth of paternity. Mothers who deferred this disclosure reported their anguish in fielding the child’s questions about their father’s identity. In some cases, the family and community may have revealed—through actions or words—that the child was an outcast, thereby hinting at some dark secret. Nonetheless, it fell to the mothers to supply the definitive story. This decision point presented the mothers with intersecting dilemmas. In the case of gang rape or multiple perpetrators, precise paternity was impossible to discern. Furthermore, disclosing the truth also meant the inevitable sharing with the child the story of sexual violence, itself an experience steeped in shame and stigma for the mothers.

Some mothers in the study feared that the truth would negatively affect their child, and at times, these fears appear to have been borne out. Instances of children becoming withdrawn or motivated to seek revenge were reported. For other mothers, “truth-telling” presumably helped to liberate the child and strengthen the mother–child bond.

At the social level, exclusion from family, kin, and community deprived mothers from benefiting from the social capital inherent in these relational networks. According to the mothers’ narratives, that exclusion is durable. Shunned and banished from their relational networks, and prevented from joining the social economy, this “collective injury” worked to exclude mothers from the possibility of “collective healing” and from truly participating in the rebuilding of post-genocide Rwanda.

Finally, it is important to acknowledge that one of the major limitations of this study is the lack of socioeconomic diversity within the sample. As rape was universally employed as a strategy of genocide, women from all socioeconomic backgrounds were subjected to sexual violence, some of whom may have subsequently given birth to a child born of genocidal rape. However, as the majority of mothers in this study were recruited through existing professional networks, which target impoverished women of a very low economic classification in Rwanda, there are no perspectives of women from higher socioeconomic backgrounds. Further research in this area may want to consider how socioeconomic status may influence the lives of survivors of genocidal rape and their children.

Conclusion: Implications for Policy and Practice

Understanding and responding to the needs of mothers with children born of genocidal rape in Rwanda and other postwar contexts require a comprehensive approach that considers all levels of the social ecology. This includes interpersonal, familial/community, and societal interventions to decrease stigma and marginalization and promote the bonds of social inclusion. On the individual level, our findings echo those of others who suggest that mothering a child born of genocidal rape may be a resource for resilience for Rwandan genocide survivors (Kantengwa, 2014; Zraly & Nyirazinyoye, 2010), and contact with other women in similar circumstances may reduce shame and improve the mother–child relationship (Hogwood, Auerbach, Munderere, & Kambibi, 2014). However, our findings indicate that mothering in this context may also represent anguish, loss, horror, and hate and, hence, act as an impediment to healing. As silence and secrecy may reinforce internalized stigma and shame, mothers should have the opportunity for exploration and validation of such nuanced and ambivalent feelings toward their children in “safe” individual and group support settings where self-compassion is emphasized. Furthermore, “truth-telling” children about the circumstances of their conception may present a myriad of conflicting concerns for mothers. Therefore, great care should be taken by helping professionals to refrain from agitating for a particular outcome that may fit with Western models of trauma recovery and rehabilitation, or prevailing cultural beliefs, but which may not reflect the complex realities of mothers forced to bear the children of genocidal perpetrators. Support for strengthening the mother–child dyad, especially early in the relationship, may also be an important component of support at this level. However, mothers themselves should be empowered to determine how, when, and whether it should occur. To create increased access to mothers in need, individual and group support could be provided through a system similar to comprehensive community-based HIV/AIDS treatment and care in Rwanda (Zraly & Nyirazinyoye, 2010) and other contexts.

Community-Level Practice Implications

Individual and group support, while necessary, is not sufficient to mitigate the pervasive impact of stigma for mothers and their children born of genocidal rape. Marginalization is a social process and, therefore, it follows that effective practices should necessarily include families and communities to promote acceptance and inclusion. While internationally led and locally driven community-based psychosocial interventions designed to mitigate collective trauma have been well documented in post-genocidal Rwanda (e.g., Richters, 2010; Staub, Pearlman, Gubin, & Hagengimana, 2005), specific issues relevant to women and their children may have been left unaddressed in such efforts. Our findings suggest that post-genocidal community interventions should recognize that social inclusion of women impregnated due to genocidal rape—and their children—is a vital part of societal recovery. Strategies shown to reduce social stigma could be incorporated into community interventions, including (a) expressions of protest from the stigmatized community and its allies, (b) education about the realities of the stigmatized group, and (c) contact between the stigmatized group and other sectors of society (Rusch, Angermeyer, & Corrigan, 2005).

First, for mothers marginalized by their association with the “enemy,” activism through song, drama, and poetry may help women reconnect with their sense of self-worth and transform stigmatized identities (Worthen, Veale, McKay, & Wessells, 2010). Specifically, grassroots theater companies in Rwanda, such as Mutabaruka and Mashirika, using theater as a tool to reconstruct Rwandan national identity and historical narrative (Breed, 2008), could bring issues pertinent to mothers and their children born of genocidal rape into their performances to empower mothers and foster connection with community. Second, the media might be leveraged to shine a light on the challenges, needs, hopes, and dreams of these mothers and children. Rwandan radio soap operas, such as Musekeweya, or “New Dawn,” shown to facilitate change in social norms with respect to intergroup prejudice (Paluck, 2009), could incorporate the experiences of mothers and their children born of genocidal rape into their broadcasts. Education through such outlets has been shown to promote compassion and (re)establish social bonds among disparate sectors of post-genocidal societies, including Rwanda (Pearlman, 2013).

Finally, social contact between mothers, their children, and their communities may further promote social inclusion and connection. Research has shown that members of a majority group who have had the chance to form relationships with minority group members are less likely to stigmatize members of this minority (Gaertner, Rust, Dovidio, Bachman, & Anastasio, 1996). Community-based interventions, such as the Byumba Diocese of the Episcopal Church of Rwanda’s sociotherapy programs that seek to reaffirm individuals’ sense of belonging (Richters, 2010), could be expanded to include mothers and their children born of genocidal rape. Indeed, contact between marginalized mothers, their children, and all segments of their communities may be an important strategy to encourage compassion and decrease stereotypes, discrimination, and stigma. However, women and children alike should be prepared for the inevitable backlash that such efforts may generate.

Policy-Level Implications

The development of national policies that recognize the special needs of mothers forced to bear children born of genocidal rape and afford them and their children protection, rights, and benefits would be important. For example, children born of genocidal rape are not eligible for financial compensation offered to other genocide survivors from the “Fund for Neediest Survivors of Genocide in Rwanda” (FARG) because they were born after 1994 (Hamel, 2016). This can place a particularly harsh burden on mothers, as single heads of households, who struggle to afford school fees and locate other resources essential to their children’s well-being. Cast out of their families and communities, unmoored from social networks and the social capital inherent therein, and excluded from the formal economy, mothers and their children would benefit from policies that respond to their particular psychosocial and economic needs and experiences.

With the Rwandan population approximately 70% female in the aftermath of the genocide, it is extremely important to note that many post-conflict development and recovery efforts have been female-led, especially within the civil society sector, which saw a flourishing of organizations and associations by and for women, such as the Association for Genocide Widows (AVEGA; Powley, 2004; Zraly, Rubin-Smith, & Betancourt, 2011). Moreover, formal nation rebuilding efforts in post-genocide Rwanda have been hailed for significantly advancing the inclusion and protections afforded to Rwandan women, such as through the National Gender Policy that was first adopted in 2004 (Berry, 2015). However, gendered social norms and customs still remain an impediment for the grassroots level advancement of women’s rights and access to social power, especially for women and their children living in poverty (Berry, 2015). And while the Rwandan government implemented one of the most ambitious transitional justice mechanisms to seek accountability for genocide victims through the Gacaca, many have argued that rape survivors—particularly those with children—appear to have fallen through the cracks of such efforts for justice (Gahima, 2013).

Finally, the findings of this study in Rwanda also point to the importance of national and international recognition of forced impregnation during conflict or genocide as a war crime and children born of rape as secondary victims. Although the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court includes “forced pregnancy” as a gender crime for the first time in the history of international jurisprudence, advocates doubt it will ever be used in the court, nor will it likely recognize long-term consequences to children and their mothers (Carpenter, 2010). Real change will require not only shifts in global cultural norms that perpetuate marginalization of victims of sexual abuse, genocidal rape, and forced motherhood in international human rights instruments, but also legislative reforms at local and national levels. Of paramount importance to Rwanda, and all societies recovering from genocide and interethnic conflict, is building and sustaining capacity at the local and national level to respond adequately to the needs of women surviving sexual violence and their offspring and to acknowledge and validate their place in post-genocidal and post-conflict development efforts.

Footnotes

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This study was funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (435-2015-0523).

ORCID iD

Leah Woolner

Author Biographies

Leah Woolner holds a Master’s of Social Work from McGill University and is a community-based practitioner and organizer in Montreal, Canada. She has worked on research projects related to sexual violence, migration, gender and sexual identity, and intergenerational trauma. Currently, she is the vice-chair of PINAY Quebec, a grassroots community organization for Filipina immigrants and migrant caregivers.

Myriam Denov is a full professor at McGill University and holds the Canada Research Chair in Youth, Gender and Armed Conflict. Her research interests lie in the areas of children and families affected by war, migration, and its intergenerational impact. She has authored and coauthored several books on the impact of war on children including Child Soldiers: Sierra Leone’s Revolutionary United Front (Cambridge University Press) and Children Affected by Armed Conflict: Theory, Method & Practice (Columbia University Press). She holds a PhD from the University of Cambridge, where she was a commonwealth scholar.

Sarilee Kahn, assistant professor at the McGill University School of Social Work, studies the intersection of psychological trauma, culture, migration status, and religion for individuals holding stigmatized identities. As a practitioner, she worked with conflict-affected individuals in Afghanistan, Iraq, Bosnia, Liberia, and Sierra Leone. Her research highlights the experiences of individuals seeking refugee status on the basis of gender, sexual orientation and/or gender identity, and the migration pathways for LGBTQ refugees fleeing to Europe, the United States, and Canada. She holds Master’s degrees in social work and public health and earned a PhD in social work from New York University.

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