The Girl Who Smiled Beads, A Story of War and What Comes After By Clemantine Wamariya and Elizabeth Weil 276 pp. Crown Publishers, 2018

I have been wanting to read Clementine Wamariya’s memoir “The Girl Who Smiled Beads” since it was published in 2018. After finally finishing it, I want to share my thoughts about this profound memoir. The 276-page book proves both inspiring and controversial.

The title itself comes from an old Rwandan folktale called “Umukobwa Useka Amasaro Agaseseka” that Wamariya’s beloved childhood nanny, Mukamana, frequently told her back when she was just a little girl happily playing in her courtyard in Kigali, unaware of the turmoil to come.

Wamariya’s story begins with her happy childhood in Rwanda, abruptly disrupted at six when she and her sister, Claire, escaped the 1994 genocide. Their journey through the harsh realities of refugee life took them across African nations – Burundi, Congo, Zambia, Malawi, Tanzania, Mozambique, and South Africa.

Each location presented its own set of challenges and occasional glimpses of human kindness, such as the generosity of a Congolese, Mama Ndebele, who tenderly braided her hair, as well as a wise elder in a Burundian refugee camp who distracts children from the “cholera-rotten latrine” by recounting tales.

The memoir doesn’t just chronicle Wamariya’s journey through these landscapes and her psychological and emotional voyage. The narrative weaves through her resettlement in the United States under a program for genocide survivors in 2000, her adjustment to life in a Chicago middle school, and her eventual rise to Yale University. Her story caught the attention of influential figures, including Oprah and President Obama, which makes her a model of resilience and hope, especially for young girls navigating the aftermath of trauma.

Wamariya is a masterful storyteller. It makes the book nearly impossible to put down.  Her ability to convey the complexity of human emotions amidst the backdrop of war and displacement is remarkable.

However, the memoir does prove controversial in its intentional omission of key context. Throughout her childhood journey across Africa to her ultimate US resettlement and celebrity spotlight, Wamariya hides whether she and her family belonged to the ethnic Tutsis targeted in Rwanda’s genocide or were instead moderate Hutus. This omission is significant given the memoir’s implications that she is a genocide survivor, a claim never directly stated but implied through public appearances and the book’s framing.

Furthermore, the early chapters portray the genocide as generalized chaos, lacking clarity on perpetrators and victims. However, the genocide against the Tutsis was a meticulously organized extermination campaign, with Tutsis of all ages and genders as the primary targets based solely on their ethnicity. Extremist Hutus had predrawn target lists, set up checkpoints to identify Tutsis through ID cards or physical traits, and used radios to incite violence against all Tutsis. This calculated, systematic genocide contrasts with the chaotic fog of war that the memoir misleadingly evokes. The same vagueness extends to Wamariya’s family’s experience during the genocide. Despite all surviving, the book omits any discussion of their experiences or backgrounds, which could have provided valuable context.

Wamariya’s account of traveling from Kigali to her Grandma in Butare during the genocide without incident contrasts sharply with the experiences of those targeted. This suggests her family may not have been direct targets of genocide. Furthermore, she admits to learning about the Tutsi genocide not from family or personal experience but from Philip Gourevitch’s book.

Critics, myself included, might argue that these omissions seem deceptive. Failing to directly identify the genocide’s systematic, targeted nature while vaguely framing it as chaotic war obfuscates readers’ comprehension of events. For Rwandan readers especially, such absence of details raises skepticism regarding the memoir’s authenticity in depicting the ruthless, meticulously orchestrated extermination of Tutsis that occurred in 1994. It appears that some genocide survivors also formally expressed concerns about Wamaraya’s narrative around genocide shortly after the publication of this memoir.

Despite these criticisms, the memoir shines a light on the human aspect of the refugee experience, often overshadowed by political narratives. Wamariya’s descriptions of life in refugee camps, her childhood memories in Kigali, and her adaptation to a new life in an affluent Chicago neighborhood are vivid and engaging. Characters like Claire and Mukamana, the nanny who shared Rwandan tales with Wamariya, add depth and warmth to the narrative, making it a compelling read.

Wamariya’s reflections on the term ‘genocide’ and its limitations in conveying the depth of her experiences add a layer of complexity to her story. The book navigates this delicate topic with a sense of strategic ambiguity, perhaps to make the narrative more accessible to a Western audience unfamiliar with the nuances of the Rwandan genocide.

In the end, while some clarity is lacking, “The Girl Who Smiled Beads” beautifully recounts a remarkable young girl shaped by adversity. It humanizes refugees, inspires resilience, and compels self-reflection—a journey across continents and the power of storytelling against trauma’s specter. End