Umwana w’umugore: The gendered realities of girls born of conflict-related sexual violence and their mothers in post-genocide Rwanda

Sexual violence during the Rwandan genocide against the Tutsi: Targeting the myth of the Tutsi woman

Between April and July, 1994, the Rwandan genocide against the Tutsi killed more than 800,000 people, exterminating an estimated 70% of the country’s Tutsi population (Lee, 2017; Verpoorten, 2005). Deeply rooted in colonial policy and strategy, ethnic tensions between Hutus and Tutsis originated from Belgian colonists who exacerbated and institutionalized the distinction between a wealthier and powerful pastoral Tutsi minority originating from Ethiopia, and a majority of indigenous Hutu horticulturalists (Lee, 2017). The Belgians’ favouritism for the Tutsis, sparked decades of conflict and discord between the Tutsis and the Hutu majority (Lee, 2017). The Hutu revolution in 1959, followed by Rwanda’s independence from Belgium in 1962, led to a Hutu regime of apartheid and discrimination towards Tutsis, that culminated in 1994 in unprecedented violence and mass killings against the Tutsis. When the genocide ended after 100 days, the country was left in economic, social and psychological ruin (Hunt, 2017). Given the vast scale of Rwanda’s violence, its intimate nature of neighbour killing neighbour, the devastating losses, and lasting scars, the challenge of (re)building the social fabric, the complexity of post-genocide reconciliation is evident and ongoing, decades later (Denov et al., 2020).

During the genocide against the Tutsi, acts of sexual violence including rape, gang rape, sexual enslavement, genital mutilation, forced marriage and forced impregnation were used as strategic weapons of war to degrade, humiliate and destroy an entire ethnic group (Eftekhari, 2004). An estimated 250,000–500,000 women and girls were raped during the genocide not only by the Interahamwe militia, but also by the Rwandan Armed Forces, the local police and individual men who joined in the atrocities, as well as by the Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) who abused Hutu women (Grieg, 2001). Up to 90% of Tutsi women who survived the genocide had suffered some form of sexual violence (Weitsman, 2008). Although rape was often immediately followed by murder, some women survived after being told by their aggressors they would ‘die of sadness’ (Eftekhari, 2004). Rape was a strategy to destroy and kill women and girls, by mutilating their bodies with extreme violence, by infecting them with HIV through rape battalions of seropositive men, and by rendering them no longer ‘marriageable or socially viable’ in a patriarchal Rwandan society (Weitsman, 2008).

Conflict-related sexual violence is not unique to Rwanda, and has been documented in armed conflicts throughout history. Sexual violence was prevalent in the wars of the ancient Greeks, Romans and Hebrews as well as in the Trojan War (Brownmiller, 1975; Niarchos, 1995). Mass sexual violence has been documented during World War I, World War II, the Vietnam war and, over the last few decades, in the conflicts in El Salvador, Guatemala, Liberia, Kuwait, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Sierra Leone, northern Uganda, the Democratic Republic of Congo and Sudan, to name but a few. This gender-based violence is not merely the result of random individual actions from morally corrupt soldiers, but as a collective strategy to perpetrate violence against women and girls, and as an act of war against the enemy (Lee, 2017). Research from multiple contexts show that alongside powerful physical and psychological health-related effects, stigma, discrimination, poverty and rejection by family and community are prevalent among after-effects of conflict-related sexual violence (Denov and Lakor, 2017, 2018; Denov and Piolanti, 2019; Josse, 2010; Kahn and Denov, 2019; Kelly et al., 2011; Kohli et al., 2014; Woolner et al., 2018).

Weitsman (2008) notes that rape as a tactic to humiliate an ethnic group is most effective in patriarchal societies where a woman’s worth is derived from her virginity or her relationship to the men in her family. The large-scale systematic use of sexual violence during the genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda was part of a government-orchestrated strategy to target the Tutsis through their women (Hamel, 2016). The dehumanized and hypersexualized depiction of Tutsi women as ‘agents of seduction’ of the enemy was transmitted repeatedly by Radio Television Libre des Mille Colline (Lee, 2017). The magazine, Kangura, published the Hutu Ten Commandments within which several items specifically related to Tutsi women, including the portrayal of Tutsi women as ‘seductresses’ and ‘manipulators’ of Hutu men, as well as the value assigned to women as childbearers. These depictions have been said to have contributed to the strategic and government-orchestrated campaign of sexual violence as a weapon aimed to shame and conquer the Tutsis (Weitsman, 2008). However, the sexual violence lies at the intersection of various other systems of oppressions in Rwanda based on gender, ethnicity, social class (Kantwenga, 2014), alongside the important history of colonialism, addressed further below.

Gender disparities in Rwanda before and after genocide: From Queen Mother to ‘Foyer Social’

According to Hunt (2017), the pre-colonial Rwandan monarchy viewed the division of labour between men and women as a means to achieve harmony and complementarity between equally valued genders. Rwandan women were seen as key to creating new alliances for their family by marrying into another clan (Vansina, 2004). Newly married women were given preferential treatment by their in-laws, who aimed to promote both procreation and women’s sexual pleasure. Women were also seen as important influencers for the men in their lives – husbands could not announce a decision before having had the approval of their wives (Hunt, 2017). Traditional tales also represented women through the female warrior Ndabaga, who fought against male warriors, demonstrating that women could undertake any typically ‘male’ activity (Ruterana, 2017).

Although these idealized representations in the Rwandan kingdom unquestionably valued women, patriarchal values nonetheless prevailed (Hogg, 2010). A woman’s social status was dependent on that of a male relative, either her father or her spouse, and a woman could not own land (Vansina, 2004). Women could not inherit her husband’s property upon his death, unless she had children from him, and married one of her husband’s brothers, in order to keep the children within the paternal family. It was also acceptable not only for a man to divorce a woman for giving birth to girls only, but also to force sex on his wife (Hunt, 2017).

In the 1920s, Belgian colonists institutionalized and intensified both ethnic and gender divisions. Later, in the 1940s, to convey European superiority through an idealized conception of family and gender, Belgians created the concept of female promotion – a means to model elite Rwandan families on European and Christian gender roles. Rwandan women were encouraged to leave the field, where they traditionally worked, and remain in the private sphere, where they would become ‘good spouses’ and mothers. This ideology was concretized in the 1950s with the creation of the ‘foyer social’ – a school for elite Rwandan women to acquire the skills of a ‘good wife’ (Buscaglia and Randell, 2012).

Following the Hutu revolution and the country’s independence in 1962, the conception of women as ‘domesticated wives and mothers’ prevailed and was enshrined in laws and customs during the Hutu regime. Women could not open a bank account, register a business or purchase land without their husbands’ permission; they could not inherit property; and they were not legally protected against any form of domestic abuse (Brown, 2016; Jefremovas, 2014). Children were perceived as belonging to their fathers, and a woman who married a foreigner would lose her citizenship (Buscaglia and Randell, 2012).

The genocide against the Tutsi significantly impacted notions of gender and power. The massive killing of Rwandan men left the Rwandan population composed of a majority of women, many of whom had become widowed, orphans or abandoned by their spouses (Doan, 2010). The economic precarity that ensued led women to take on their dead relatives’ businesses and to organize among each other to rebuild their communities (Doan, 2010). At the grassroots level, women became hosts for widows and orphans, healers and construction workers (Doan, 2010; Hunt, 2017). Women’s rights soon became entrenched in law. In 1999, a new law established gender equality in property and inheritance amongst formally married couples (Doan, 2010). In 2003, the revised Constitution implemented a quota of 30% women in all governmental decision-making bodies (UN Women Global Gender Equality Constitutional Database, 2021). Since 2008, Rwanda has continuously been the country with the most female representatives in its national parliament. In 2023, it continues to hold this title, with women occupying 61% of its parliament (Interparliamentary Union, 2023).

Despite this exceptional advancement, women continue to experience inequality, particularly in situations where these new laws and policies are inapplicable. Although a new law introduced penalties for gender-based violence in 2009, such laws apply only to formally registered marriages, whereas 33% of unions in Rwanda are not formalized (Kagaba, 2015). Moreover, gender-based violence amongst married couples is difficult for a woman to report, especially in rural Rwanda, as she may face violent threats and ostracization from her husband’s family, and economic challenges if her husband is incarcerated for his violence (Umubyeyi et al., 2016). Women are thus faced with challenges applying the new gender-sensitive laws in the context of traditionally patriarchal culture and structures, particularly in rural areas (Kagaba, 2015).

Intergenerational legacies of violence: Children born of genocidal rape

Conflict-related sexual violence does not only affect individual rape victims, but entire families and communities, leaving complex intergenerational legacies (Denov, 2023). The Population Office of Rwanda estimates that 2000–5000 children were born in refugee/internally displaced persons camps as a direct consequence of genocidal rape (Mukangendo, 2007; Nowrojee, 1996). However, other sources claim higher numbers, from 10,000 to 25,000 (Hogwood et al., 2018; Mukangendo, 2007; Nowrojee, 1996). In the absence of legal access to abortion, many women who were raped gave birth in secret, committed infanticide or abandoned their babies (Nowrojee, 1996). According to one study conducted in two different Rwandan cities, 716 cases of rape were reported, leading to 472 pregnancies of which 282 were illegally terminated (Angelucci et al., 1997).

Research has shown that children born of rape during the genocide against the Tutsi suffer stigmatization, isolation, lack of access to social and health services and economic challenges (Carpenter, 2010; Denov et al., 2017; Kahn and Denov, 2019, 2022). Moreover, these children are largely viewed as belonging to, and as the descendants of their fathers. In addition, the insult ‘Umwana w’umugore’, meaning – the child of a woman – is indicative of the denigration of single mothers and their children in Rwandan society (Muhayisa et al., 2016), and helps to explain why children born of genocidal rape from Hutu extremists are often viewed by their Tutsi families as ‘children of the enemy’ (Hamel, 2016). Indeed, the mothers often see their children as reminders of the extreme violence they suffered (Denov et al., 2017).

The stigma associated with rape and illegitimate children hinders the social integration of the mothers and their children (Kantwenga, 2014). Most women who bore children of conflict-related sexual violence live in economic precarity that inevitably impacts their children (Mukangendo, 2007). Children are impacted by their mother’s poor social integration and inability to remarry or, due to their rejection by their families. Research has also documented the children’s physical and mental health are also affected, as the mother’s trauma may be transmitted to the child, leading to important mental health issues and developmental delays (Kahn and Denov, 2022; Van Ee and Kleber, 2013). Moreover, women and their children who contracted HIV/AIDS from their rapists, also have limited access to health care, drugs and treatment (Grieg, 2001).

While these children may live with the daily psycho-social and economic fallout of being born of conflict-related sexual violence, they are often excluded from systems of support (Carpenter, 2010). For example, in Rwanda, the Fund for assistance to survivors of the genocide against Tutsi (‘Fonds de soutien et d’assistance aux rescapés les plus nécessiteux du genocide’, commonly referred to as ‘FARG’), is provided only to individuals who were alive and affected by the genocide between October 1990 and December 1994 (Rwandan Government, 2013), thus leaving children born of genocidal rape, who were born in 1995, ineligible for genocide-related social and financial assistance.

Indisputably, the realities and experiences of both girls and boys born of genocidal rape are vital to explore and understand. However, given the historical and gendered realities that frame the lives of women and girls in Rwanda, and the profound forms of marginalization they may face, a distinct focus on the lives of these women and girls is important, particularly in the post-genocide context. Moreover, despite a growing awareness of the experiences of children born of genocidal rape and their mothers, little attention has focused on the unique experiences of girls born of genocidal rape, particularly from a gendered lens. To better understand the gendered experiences of women survivors of rape, as well as their children born of these sexual assaults, our study sought to explore their unique perspectives and realities. Before examining these experiences and their links to gender and power, we address the study’s methodology.

Methodology

This study, funded by the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and led by the first author, received approval from two research ethics boards: the first from the Rwandan National Ethics Committee, and the second from the Research Ethics Board of McGill University.

The research team was made up of group of Canadian researchers, local Rwandan researchers and three Rwandan youth who had been born of genocidal rape. Aligned with the tenets of participatory research, these three youth were provided extensive research training, and were involved in the design of the study, data collection, analysis and dissemination. The team’s varied skill sets and positionality helped to strengthen the overall research process: the youth and local researchers’ positionality and ‘insider status’ enhanced participant trust and rapport, while the Canadian researchers’ experience conducting sensitive interviews with children and war-affected populations strengthened data quality, ensuring ethical practice.

The research involved data collection with 73 participants: (1) individual interviews with 44 mothers who gave birth to children born of genocidal rape, and (2) individual interviews, as well as focus groups with 29 young women born of genocidal rape. ¹ Mother participants were aged between 33 and 52. Youth participants were born in 1995 and 21 years old. ²

Participant recruitment was conducted by the local Rwandan researchers who had, over several years, been working directly with women survivors of genocidal rape and their children, providing them with psycho-social support and vocational training. With Rwandan researchers drawing on their existing professional networks, ³ women and children who met with the study criteria were contacted and informed about the research and its goals. Those interested in participating were asked to contact the research team, being made aware that not participating in the research would have no impact on future care and support. Given the profound ethical implications of interviews, focus groups and participant disclosures, as a selection criterion, youth respondents were required to have already been aware they had been born of genocidal rape prior to participating in the research, although the depth of information they had around their origins and histories varied. Participants were recruited from three regions of Rwanda. Due to the sensitive nature of the research, and participants’ concerns about anonymity and confidentiality, to protect our participants we have deliberately not included the three regions of the country where the data were collected.

Separate interview guides were devised for the mother and youth participants. The team spent considerable time developing the interview guides and relied heavily on the knowledge and expertise of the youth researchers to help develop the guides. Ultimately, interview guides for both sets of participants explored the following themes: current living situations, participants’ understanding of the genocide and its intergenerational impacts, post-genocide family relationships, mother-child relationships, community stigma and belonging, heritage and identity, psycho-social health and well-being and future aspirations. Approximately five to six questions were asked under each of these themes. Interview questions were all open-ended, and included questions like: ‘Can you tell me about your relationship with your mother/child?’ and ‘How did you/your child learn about your/their birth origins?’ and ‘What is your relationship like with your family?’ Interviews with mothers were conducted by adult members of the research team. Interviews with youth were conducted by both adult and youth members of the research team.

The research team devised a separate set of focus group questions for the youth, which, given the lack of confidentiality inherent to focus groups, did not inquire into personal information. Instead, focus group questions explored what youth would – individually and collectively – like to see developed and implemented in terms of policy, practice and services for children born of genocidal rape. For example, ‘What could the government (local/national) do to help youth and improve their lives?’

Data collection in the three regions of Rwanda (referred to as regions ‘R, M and K’ later on in the paper) took place between June and August 2016 and occurred at the offices of the local Rwandan researchers. Local Rwandan and youth researchers collected all data in Kinyarwanda, while Canadian researchers used English with simultaneous English-Kinyarwanda translation. Interviews and focus groups were audio-recorded with participants’ permission. Interviews lasted between 1.5 and 3 hours. Focus groups lasted between 1 and 2 hours.

The focus groups with youth were facilitated by one of the three youth researchers. A member of the adult research team was present during focus groups to provide facilitation support to the youth researcher, if needed. Seven focus group discussions were initially held with eight youth participants in each group, and included a mix of male and female participants. Following the seven mixed focus group sessions, several girl participants suggested to the research team that they would feel more comfortable to share in an all-girl group. Six additional focus groups were thus held with the all-girl group, which ranged in number from six to eight girls. In the all-girl sessions, the young women raised issues which had not been discussed in previous mixed-gender focus groups, particularly with regard to experiences of sexual violence.

Interview and focus groups were translated and transcribed from Kinyarwanda to English. Data analysis was informed by a grounded theory approach whereby the researchers identified key themes that emerged from the data. To analyse the data, the team independently read and then reread the transcripts and generated a list of preliminary codes to represent subjective meanings in the data (Saldaña, 2013). Next, we implemented focused coding, wherein we sought to refine and categorize the first set of codes (Saldaña, 2013). Examples of codes/themes that began to emerge for both sets of participants included the shared mother/daughter experiences of family rejection, community violence and stigma, ambivalence in the mother/child relationship, truth-telling and disclosure and gender-related marginality. Finally, we worked to create a cohesive story of the data (Braun and Clarke, 2006; Saldaña, 2013) particularly, as it related to a gendered analysis of the girls and women in our sample. Youth researchers were particularly helpful in the data analysis process, offering their insights on the emerging data (e.g. which themes they viewed as particularly salient), alongside ongoing commentary on the developing themes and coding.

As per Hays and Singh (2012), we exercised reflexivity by engaging in team discussions that examined our underlying assumptions prior to beginning data collection and throughout analysis. Throughout data collection and analysis, a process of self-assessment, journal writing, ongoing research-related discussions and peer debriefings helped to mediate presumptions and preconceptions. When there were uncertainties about emerging themes, the adult research team frequently turned to the youth researchers for their expertise, knowledge and experience.

Since participants were being asked questions about their lives that had the potential to both revive traumatic memories and cause significant distress, support structures were established in advance, in the event a participant should become distressed and require a referral. ⁴ With participants’ permission, researchers followed up post-interview on an ongoing basis to support participants’ well-being. To ensure support beyond standard ethical protocols, our research team offered monthly group counselling sessions for youth participants following their participation in the study. Group counselling was led by a local Rwandan psychologist who was a known and trusted figure to the youth, as she had worked with many of their mothers in the past. The group counselling was free of charge and available to all youth participants for 8 months following data collection. The majority of participants chose to participate in these support groups for the duration of the 8-month period. Mothers and youth were invited to contact the psychologist following data collection for additional support.

This study had certain limitations. With qualitative research, generalizability and external validity is not to be assumed. Future research with similar populations across other cultural contexts is needed to help establish the transferability of our findings. As study participants were recruited through professional networks, an important sample bias must be noted. Participants were aware that these networks primarily focused on support for genocide survivors, which could have raised expectations that the outcome of the study might lead to additional assistance or increased advocacy for those who participated. This may have influenced the language participants used to speak about their experiences. Furthermore, it is likely that participants from lower socioeconomic statuses were overrepresented in our sample.

Findings: The gendered realities of girls born of genocidal rape and their mothers

The data reveal the intergenerational realities of gendered injustices, as well as the gendered impacts of genocidal rape on mother/child relationships, family and community relationships, identity and belonging and psycho-social and economic well-being. The data also underscore the unique sources of strength and mutual support of both mothers and daughters.

Intergenerational realities: How gender injustices against mothers impact daughters

Sexual violence can leave multi-generational impacts, with its legacy being passed down in multiple forms – whether through words, writing, body language and even in silence (Denov, 2023). In Rwanda, rape-related stigma and injustice rooted in patriarchal beliefs unequivocally affected mothers who bore children of genocidal rape. Mothers reported having lost their social status and suffered poor relations within their families and communities, due to multiple factors including the taboo surrounding their rape(s), their illegitimate child born from a member of the Interahamwe, and/or their inability to find a husband and bear ‘legitimate’ children. These injustices, largely gender-based, derived from the established or accepted role of women as either ‘virgins’ or ‘faithful wives’, as well as the patriarchal consideration that a mature woman without a husband has little or no social worth or value. Importantly, as the voices of girls will reveal further below, these gender-based realities translated into concrete daily injustices for their daughters. This section addresses these intergenerational realities.

Given their situation, mothers in our study reported that when family members learned of their rape, pregnancy and/or birth of the child, they were frequently rejected and forced out of their families and communities. These mothers explained the long-term impact of the rejection and social exclusion, which reportedly continued decades after the end of the genocide. Many mothers had not been able to fully repair their relationships with their family and community members and continued to face powerful forms of stigma, hate and rejection. These mothers explained:

We got married, but his family [husband] hated me so much because I had a child of an Interahamwe. And they still hate me. When I gave birth, my husband loved my child. I didn’t remember the person who raped me, because I was raped by many (Region K, Mother 07).

All my friends hated me because I was pregnant. All my relatives who survived [the genocide] hated me. Even my mother. They were all telling me to abort. I refused (Region K, Mother 03).

It was hard because everyone was abandoning me. They were saying that I was a wife of Interahamwe and they were saying that I [should] die rather than give birth to a child of a killer. So I raised her, and I hated her. I was asking God why didn’t she die. I even wanted to abort [the baby] (Region M, Mother 06).

Demonstrating important intergenerational realities, the stigmatization against mothers often translated into daily insults and ostracization of their daughters. Highlighting the importance of a patriarch in the family, alongside the marginalization of single mothers, a common insult girls reported receiving was ‘a person who does not know her father’. These young women born of genocidal rape explained:

Yes, they used to say that I am HIV positive, [and] a person who does not know her father etc. . .(Region R, Youth 12)

She [neighbour] told me that I was fool because I didn’t know my father. She came and asked me: “Who is your father?” and I told her that I don’t know. . .he is dead. She started calling me a fool [crying. . .] (Region K, Youth 08)

The ostracization of mothers also translated into key economic challenges for their children. In many cases, girls who depended solely on their mothers for access to daily supplies, food, education and socio-economic advancement, found themselves in precarious economic situations. This mother explained how her socio-economic situation – as a result of being shunned by her family – directly impacted her children:

No one helps me. I am paying rent for our house, I am paying school fees for all my children, I don’t have a job. We even sometimes don’t get food. This is my life today. The consequences of that are that all the children are not consistently going to school. They lack discipline because they don’t have someone to follow and support them [in their studies]. They are not performing well at school. One has even given up. (Region K, Mother 03)

For girls, lack of access to education was another significant consequence of the mother’s social exclusion. Registration forms for school in Rwanda require the name of the child’s father, which reportedly made school registration problematic. This mother explained the complexity of the marginalization and its impact on her and her daughter within their community, and at school:

When people learned that [my daughter and I] are HIV positive [from the rape], they started marginalizing us. My daughter was affected, and I think this is among the things which made her change her behaviour. And at school, when teachers asked her to give them the name of her father, she came to me, and I told her that I don’t even know [his name] myself. This made her so sad, and she was feeling bad in the community. She found a strategy of giving the name of her stepfather, when she was asked to write the name of her father. (Region M, Mother 04).

This girl born of rape made links between family stigma, socio-economic marginalization and her being forced to drop out of school:

I went to visit my family, but they chased me away. . . [crying]. . .Then I returned to my grandmother’s home. . .I stopped my studies due to lack of school fees. My grandmother was harassing me, and I was sad (Region R, Youth 06).

These examples not only reveal the gendered injustices experienced by both sets of participants, but also the ways in which marginalization and stigma were shared and intergenerational experiences of both the mother and children born of rape.

Gender-related consequences on identity and belonging: The realities of dualism, enemy identities and family and community violence

Struggles with identity and belonging were key themes that surfaced during interviews, particularly for girls. Girls reported that given their birth origins, they often struggled to determine who they were, where they belonged, and their identities were often linked – by family and community – to their perpetrator fathers. Moreover, girls often spoke of their identities in forms of dualism and dichotomies. For example, they described their lives in terms of ‘good’ and ‘evil’, often juxtaposing their loving mother, with their ostracizing community. One youth participant drew a picture of ‘the sun and the moon with spots of darkness’, explaining to the interviewer that her life was a ‘mix of light and darkness’. She explained that the light represented her mother and the unconditional love her mother gave her, while the darkness symbolized her community who rejected her. Another youth participant drew a tree planted in two different gardens – ‘one that is good and the other that is bad’. The ‘good garden’ represented her loving mother, while the ‘bad garden’ referred to her community.

Girls reported strained relationships with members of their families, steeped in violence, exclusion and where their identities were often linked to their perpetrator fathers. Youth participants frequently highlighted family tensions with their siblings that were not born of rape, and/or with their stepfathers. For example, one youth reported being maltreated by her siblings who insulted her by declaring that she was a ‘Hutu’ and that she came from a ‘wretched and damnable race’. Another participant reported being ‘chased and evicted from her home’ on several occasions by her family and that she had been physically hit by one of her half-brothers. This half-brother threatened ‘to bring her to the river where her father had thrown away and killed members of her brother’s family’. He also accused her of being a ‘Hutu who perpetrated the genocide’.

Highlighting gender-based forms of violence and discrimination within the family, girls reported experiences of sexual violence, as well as being forced to engage in heavy domestic work. Several girls reported having been sexually assaulted by their step-fathers at home. The fallout of disclosures of sexual abuse by stepfathers were, of course, significant. Some mothers reportedly supported their daughters, while others blamed them:

Before, we were living with my stepfather, my mother, and my siblings. But later something occurred in our family and my mother decided to leave the man. My stepfather raped me when I was young, and I told this to my mother who made decision that me and her, we had to go and live alone. My siblings stayed with their father, but sometimes they come to visit us. (Region K, Youth 13)

I told [my mother] that her husband wanted to rape me. Instead of defending me, she was angry with me [crying] (Region K, Youth 20)

In addition, some girls reported being denied access to education by their families who left them at home to do heavy chores, manual labour and domestic work. Youth participants often described situations at home whereby they were to do all the housework and ‘were like their [family’s] domestic/maid/servant’. Another participant described that she ‘is like a worker for her older sisters and the rest of the family’. These other youth described similar realities:

Yes, when I was nine years old, I recall that they used to treat me in a very bad way. I was working very hard at home. I did my primary in a low-level school, yet my cousins were sent to good schools by my aunts. It was even hard to do my homework because I was always busy doing domestic work while others were busy only in their studies. Nevertheless, I would perform better [at school] (Region K, Youth 04).

When I reached [grade] 6, I was living with my grandmother. They made me drop out of school and I stayed at home doing all heavy [household] activities (Region M, Youth 11).

Girls born of rape also reported being systematically neglected and excluded within the family by their stepfathers, who often did not consider them ‘true family members’. Most stepfathers refused to financially support children born of rape:

Whenever my husband is asked how many children he has, he always says “two”. Yet, he should say “three” [to include the child born of genocidal rape]. He never pays school fees for her. He says that it is my business. (Region M, Mother 04)

[My mother’s] husband is rich, but he used to harass me, saying that I am not his daughter. . .that I don’t have a father. He would visit his children at [boarding] school, but he never came to see me. (Region K, Youth 08)

These forms of familial exclusion led to feelings of profound isolation in the youth:

[Who is the most important person in your life?] [long pause] There is no one in my life (Region R, Youth 14)

At the community level, girls and mothers reported similar forms of social exclusion and violence and frequently reported that community members linked girls’ identities to their perpetrator fathers despite the fact that the vast majority of these girls had never met these men. As these participants – one mother and one daughter – explained the treatment by community members:

One day when I was with other children who are neighbours, one child called me “Interahamwe”. What I knew was that Interahamwe were killers during genocide against the Tutsi. So, I went home and told my mother about what happened to me. Instead of talking, she cried a lot. (Region R, Youth 13)

The situation was not good. They [neighbors] were not happy with me, and they even used to call my child “Interahamwe” (Region R, Mother 11).

The community responses inevitably had deep and powerful impacts. This daughter explained how perceptions of her as a child born of rape led to community member’s insults about her physical appearance as a child, resulting in furthering her mother’s shame and social exclusion:

[My mother] told me that people used to say that I was ugly. My mom was even ashamed to bring me along when she knew she would meet people [in public] (Region R, Youth 06).

Given the trauma that mothers had endured, they too, reportedly, at times, associated their child with the perpetrator of their sexual assault. These mothers explained:

I lived there [with my family] for many years, I left when I got married. . . And living there was hard because even my family didn’t want to see my child. . . It was so hard, and I was always silent. I was about to lose my mind. Those are things that lives with you each and every day. And the hardest part was that the person who raped me [during the genocide], killed my grandfather. So, every day, I remember that, and it is very painful. And when I see my daughter, I see her father in her. Even if we are laughing, I can just stop laughing because of that. There are things that you can forget, but those are things that you live with, and forgetting them is not easy. . . I am married, but my husband doesn’t accept her. So sometimes I think that it is her fault, the things that happened to me. (Region M, Mother 03)

When I was seeing her, the situation I passed through during genocide was immediately coming in my mind. I was seeing the man who raped me at 15 years old. Nothing was making me love her [daughter] at that time (Region M, Mother 04).

These experiences of rejection and violence by family and community, often led to the internalization of hate in daughters, where they began to associate themselves with their perpetrator fathers. One young woman reported that she did not like her height, or her smile – things that people tell her resemble her father. Another young woman noted that what saddens her the most is that everyone tells her she ‘resembles her father’.

Sources of strength, mutual support and care

Despite the myriad forms of violence, abuse, social exclusion reported by both mothers and daughters born of genocidal rape, participants nonetheless found strength and support in each other. Some mothers reported that their daughters became a source of strength, even a ‘gift’. Many mothers drew upon their faith to give meaning to their child as a positive event after mass violence:

I accepted it [the pregnancy]. . . Everyone was dead and I felt like I need to take care of her, because she is the only family that I have now. (Region K, Mother 08)

When I saw the baby, I was so happy. I thought it was a gift from God to counsel from the pain I had due to my children being killed during genocide. (Region R, Mother 06)

These mother described how, over time, they learned to love their daughters, despite the challenging beginnings:

I didn’t feel happy because of the way I got pregnant. But as the days and years have passed, I now love her [daughter] so much. We are sisters, best friends. (Region K, Mother 05).

. . . I hated her when I was pregnant. But when I found out after the genocide that everyone in my family was dead - my parents, my seven siblings - I started wishing that she [daughter] could be born so that I can have a family. I called her [name] because I loved her so much. . .because of how she was born. I was raped, so not being able to find out who is her father makes me feel like I’m her mother and her father (Region K, Mother 01).

In a similar vein, many of the young women expressed a strong attachment and bond with their mothers, and a relationship based on mutual support and care. The young women indicated their appreciation for their mothers – for simply loving and caring for them, and for having chosen not to get an abortion. Several youth made reference to their mothers’ difficult circumstances following their rape and childbirth, whereby many were rejected and abandoned by own their families and were left to raise children alone. Such situations reportedly helped create a stronger bond between the youth and their mothers, and hence, a stronger relationship based on mutual support and care:

My mother is my best friend. My mom was requested by many members of her family to reject me, but she never did it. Instead, she took care of me like other children, she showed me love and I love her as well (Region M, Youth 15).

My mother, for me, she is at the same time my mom, my dad, my older sister, and my friend. She is everything. (Region M, Youth 07)

She [mother] has sacrificed her life for me. She has been a good mother for me. When everyone abandoned her because of me, she didn’t leave me, she continued to love me unconditionally. . .She treats me well - as her child, her sister and as her best friend. We talk about everything. The only thing she doesn’t want to tell me is her genocide problems. . . but I think it is because she feels ashamed because of that (Region R, Youth 03).

Despite the challenges, youth participants expressed hope for a better future and looked ahead with much anticipation. One youth revealed that she represented ‘a tree which grows, despite being planted in bad soil’, signifying hope for the future.

Discussion: The gendered experience of being born of genocidal rape in Rwanda

Interviews with mothers who experienced conflict-related sexual violence, as well as the interviews and focus groups with young women born of genocidal rape, sought to explore their unique and gendered experiences in post-genocide Rwanda. Despite Rwanda’s important advancement in gender equality since 1994, girls born of genocidal rape in Rwanda continue to suffer gender-related consequences rooted in patriarchal practices. Girls were directly affected by the discrimination against their mothers as they suffered both socially and economically from their mothers’ social isolation. The findings correlate with previous studies showing that in situations of genocidal rape, the repercussions often fall on the victim rather than the perpetrator (Weitsman, 2008), with rape survivors becoming outcasts, losing their marital status, which ultimately lead to their economic precarity (Lee, 2017; Mukangendo, 2007; Wax, 2004). This poverty is directly transmitted to the child, as has also been demonstrated by Carpenter (2010) in children born of rape from other conflicts such as in Bosnia-Herzegovina or Sierra Leone. Carpenter (2010) explains that women who chose to keep and raise their babies born of rape are particularly prone to social exclusion and economic precarity, compared to women who abandoned their babies. This reality stems from multiple factors, including the fact that the child is a constant reminder of the rape, as well as the perception that keeping the enemy’s child is an act of betrayal on the part of the mothers.

Findings particularly relate to the difficulty for the girls in accessing education and persevering at school. Although girls born of conflict-related sexual violence have a formal right to education in Rwanda, in practice they face many challenges relating to the necessity to register under a father’s name, the difficulty for mothers to pay for school fees and the social exclusion at school, among others. These educational challenges have also been demonstrated in Muhayisa et al. (2016), but continue to be underexplored in the existing literature.

Girls also faced challenges relating to identity, belonging and self-image. Girls born of rape described their identities and sense of selves within the dualities of ‘good’ and ‘evil’; between their loving mothers and their ostracizing communities. Their identities were also invariably linked to their fathers: their fathers’ violence during the genocide, his status as the ‘enemy’, as well as his absence in the girls’ lives. The girls’ ascribed identities as ‘children of the enemy’ often translated into daily insults on their physical appearance, which, in some cases, led to a negative self-image. The girls often appeared to internalize their rejection from the community into forms of self-hatred. The girls’ navigation of their identity relates to previous research by Carpenter (2010), who demonstrated that upon reaching adolescence, it becomes imperative for these children to understand who they are, and who their fathers were, in order to create an identity for themselves. However, in a patrilineal society, children born of rape are viewed de facto as the enemy, even though most of them were raised by their mothers (Lee, 2017; Mukangendo, 2007; Van Ee and Kleber, 2013; Weitsman, 2008). Dualities of good and evil, father and mother, echoes a finding from Lee (2017), who states that even prior to the genocide, although many marriages occurred between Hutu and Tutsis, the concept of a mixed ethnicity does not exist, as the ethnicity was always bestowed to the children by their father.

Girls born of genocidal rape endured the gender-based repercussions in their relationships within their families, often demeaned and overlooked by their stepfathers, who often do not consider them as their own children, as well as suffering direct physical, psychological and verbal abuse by half-siblings, and sexual violence by their stepfathers. In some cases, girls were denied education by their own families who left them at home to do heavy chores. Many girls reported having ‘no one in their life’ and reported significant isolation and rejection. Some studies have also showed lack of care and affection from the children’s stepfather and that child abuse and neglect can increase in periods of conflict or societal stress (Carpenter, 2010; Kantwenga, 2014).

Finally, in multiple cases, the girls and their mothers showed immense strength and resilience in overcoming their histories of violence. One of the key elements that allowed them to move forward was their relationship itself – which reportedly brought them love and support despite many forms of adversity. Indeed, similar to this study’s findings, it has been documented elsewhere that survivors of rape and forced impregnation can view motherhood as providing new meaning to their lives, as reason to continue living, and eventually as a path towards healing (see Carpenter, 2010; Kantwenga, 2014).

Conclusion: Recommendations for policy and practice

A comprehensive response to the issue of girls born of genocidal rape must simultaneously address the particular needs of these girls, the socioeconomic precarity of their mothers, and the larger question of gender inequality. Girls born of genocidal rape in our sample identified similar needs in terms of economic support, social integration and challenging family relationships.

A first step towards addressing the unique realities of girls born of genocidal rape must be the acknowledgement and recognition of their precarious situation. On a national level, greater recognition by the Rwandan government of children born of rape as secondary victims of the genocide has been stated by youth as being an important step towards improving their condition (Denov et al., 2017). Recognizing their status as victims of the genocide would allow these girls access to certain support programmes, for example the ‘Fonds de soutien et d’assistance aux rescapés les plus nécessiteux du genocide’ (FARG), which only supports victims who were alive during the genocide (Rwandan Government, 2013).

Children born of rape in general have been shown to have higher rates of mental health issues and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) partly due to traumatic births, difficult mother-child relationships, social stigma and identity issues (Van Ee and Kleber, 2013). Many girls reported social isolation and exclusion. During interviews, girls mentioned that being able to connect and share their experiences with other children in their situation, particularly other girls, brought them comfort, hope and the feeling of safety. Long-term and local support groups for girls born of genocidal rape are thus an avenue to respond to the unique needs of these young women, and to offer both peer and psycho-social support.

Girls’ relationship within their families must also be addressed through local and national actions. Importantly, to prevent an intergenerational cycle of sexual abuse, a clear and efficient response must be mounted against the sexual harassment and abuse committed by girls’ stepfathers. The 2009 law against gender-based violence was a significant step towards the right direction, however, it was only applicable to formally registered marriages; and difficult to apply to women who are economically and socially dependent on their husbands (Kagaba, 2015; Umubyeyi et al., 2016). An efficient response to gender-based violence against the girls and their mothers must enable mothers to be economically and socially supported to denounce or leave abusive partners.

Girls born of genocidal rape are highly dependent on their mothers, and as such the economic and psychosocial needs of the mothers must be taken into account. The solution to mother’s economic independence must be culturally appropriate while ensuring women’s empowerment. Mothers’ socio-economic advancement is intrinsically linked to their social integration. Mothers who lack a solid social network are less able to find sources of income. In the context of social stigma towards mothers of children born of genocidal rape, the solution to mothers’ social integration must include a fight against stigma, as well as the creation for these women to build new relationships within their communities.

This study established that gender inequality affects girls born of genocidal rape at multiple levels. The taboos surrounding rape and illegitimate children, coupled with the memory of genocidal violence create a social environment where girls are perceived as illegitimate children and are often associated with the violent crimes of their rapist fathers. These perceptions arise from centuries of patriarchal beliefs exacerbated by European colonialist propaganda, alongside patriarchal perceptions of Tutsi women as inaccessible ‘seductresses’. In this context, the ultimate response towards breaking the cycle of violence on women and girls must be a model of gender equality and laws against gender-based violence must be better applied. Where appropriate, and paying attention to the unique realities of both culture and context, policies must be implemented to advance economic and social conditions of this unique and important group of conflict-affected women and girls.

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