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The hunter
Part I
Neither the headmaster, nor his colleagues knew the true identity or the origin of the nickname
of the quietest man on staff at Lyce Regina Pacis, Gitega, Burundi.
The French teacher was a somewhat strange man with equally eccentric habits. Apart from
always dressing in black, he never joined the others when they broke for tea. He sat apart, always in
the same seat, reading his German newspaper, Guten Tag. He never smoked, never drank, and never
talked politics. When he did talk, it was usually about birds and flowers, and he was often seen
carrying a whistle and compass. He had a shrill voice and he never looked at who he was speaking to.
It was almost as if he was looking in a mirror behind your head to see into the back of your mind.
I met him for the first time the day we started our 2nd term. Our former French teacher had left for
another school, and he had been sent in to replace him.
We were shouting and generally causing a ruckus when the headmaster walked into our classroom,
followed by a bald man with a 30-day beard.
- This is Mister Olivier, your new French teacher, the principal said.
- Good morning sir, we shouted.
- Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.
We cheered, delighted to be called ladies and gentlemen.
-

Be kind to Olivier and good luck to all of you, the principal said.

And then he was gone, leaving us alone with our new teacher.
Mister Olivier grabbed a piece of chalk from the box and started writing on the black board. It was a
sentence I will never forget: Demain, je serai peut tre mort.
Tomorrow, I might be dead.
Then, underneath, he added: Discuss.
When he was done, he turned to face the classroom, staring at us intently. We were scared.
The first day of class with a new teacher was not supposed to be like this. But we did as we were told;
we took out our sheets of paper and began scribbling our thoughts on the pronouncement that seemed
to come straight from one of Baudelaires books.
After about 10 minutes, Mister Olivier picked up a book and flipped through it, stopping to read from
a page. We dropped our pens to listen to him. It was a moving passage about a 32-year-old Rwandese
woman who had survived the genocide. He read for about a minute, then repeated.
Then, putting down the book, he collected our 16 papers and introduced himself.
-

I am Olivier the hunter. Do you have any questions?

No one raised his hand.

When our teacher was reading through our homework, one of my classmates said under his breath:
This guy is serious.

That was our first day with our new teacher.

The next day, I observed Mister Olivier a little more closely. He was not bald, as it turns out; he
merely had his hair cut very short. He wrote with his left hand, never used coloured chalk, and as he
had the first day, he wore green jeans.
On his third day, he entered whistling a tune, just as he had done the two days previous. Before he said
anything, one student dared:
-

Where are you from, sir?

From the hills, sir, the teacher replied.
The hills?
Yeah. The hills.
And why are you called the hunter, sir?
Its my family name.
Why would you leave the city to come here to the countryside?
I hoped there would be less to hunt here.
Just the opposite, sir. The countryside is full of wildlife.
You dont understand yet.

We had not understood what he meant and day after day, we asked more questions and the more the
mystery grew, the more we loved him, the more we loved his silence. He was distant, but we felt
close to him.
On Sundays, he attended the morning mass and after joined us at Boy Scouts. A scout himself, he
taught us everything he had learned as a boy. He barely spoke when showing us how to tie and untie
knots or to signal with flags. He did it all in silence, his gestures slow and deliberate.
I was, I realize now, obsessed with him. And his secret.

***
It all began with the April war, Mister Olivier told me one day. It was Saturday and the day
students were not in. Most boarders were busy cleaning and washing their clothes.
My classmates were dying to know our teachers secret, and I had been chosen to get it out of
him.
On that Saturday, I went to library not to read but to meet my teacher. He was there reading, as usual.
-

Dont you rest on Saturday, sir? I asked.

No. You dont either.
What are you reading about, sir?
The Holocaust.
The Holocaust?

He looked at me and nodded. I knew my teacher had a passion for history. I dared:
-

Can you tell me about the genocide, sir?

What?
The April war.

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It was as if Id just stirred up the magma of a hidden volcano. He dropped his book and laid his strong
hands on my shoulders. He looked at me without speaking. His eyes were like a deers; wide and
innocent.
-

You want to know about the genocide?

I do.
Come back tomorrow then. We will meet under the bamboo trees.

That night, I could not sleep. My mind raced with all the questions I wanted to ask him. I had heard
about the genocide in Rwanda, and I had always wanted to meet a survivor; to find out what it was
really like. The moment Mister Olivier agreed to speak to me, I knew my wish was finally coming
true.
I blew out my candle, and tried to put my mind to rest, but I couldnt sleep. So I lit the candle again
and carried on reading.
The next day, when I met my teacher, I didnt say anything. I just listened, let him tell his story. He
spoke for a full two hours.
Ctait en avril et en pleine floraison, he began.
It was April, and the flowers were in full bloom.
From the moment he started speaking, I was entranced. His story was like a movie to me. As he
described what happened to him, his voice changed. It went from a soft whisper to an agonized cry.
His voice trembled as he described the sounds of exploding grenades, the screams of dying children.
I didnt ask any questions. I was beginning to understand my teacher a little better, and hoped to solve
the rest of the mystery one day. It was dark when he finished his story.
When I woke up the next morning, I sat on my bed, thinking about what my teacher had told me. He
had left Rwanda in 1991 to join the Rwandan Patriotic Front and had fought in the war. And after the
genocide, he tried to build a new life a normal life. But he couldnt.
The transition from soldier to civilian was a tough one for him. And he was traumatized from having
lost more than 50 relatives during the war.
He didnt want to, but he became distant with others, couldnt maintain relationships. He isolated
himself, going out only at night, throwing himself in his thoughts and his books.
I met my classmates after breakfast and told them the story.

On Monday, May 11, 2007, we gathered in our classroom after our math lesson. We had a 15minute break before French class. Our teacher didnt know it, but we had planned a birthday
celebration for him instead. When the bell rang, Mister Olivier walked into the classroom and was
surprised to find us sitting in silence. He was used to walking into a circus.
- Whats wrong? He asked.
The girl we had chosen to lead the celebration stood up.
-

Can you turn around and face the blackboard, Sir?

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The hunter did as he was told. On the board, we had written: Joyeux anniversaire, Monsieur.
Before he could say anything, we started singing Happy Birthday in French. He closed his eyes,
savoured every syllable.
When we had finished singing, we laid our gifts for him on the table: some candy, a map of Rwanda,
candles, a slew of birthday cards and several small wrapped parcels. Our teacher didnt say a word.
Our master of ceremonies filled in the silence.
-We are happy to be with you, Sir, she said, then delivered a five-minute speech before inviting the
teacher to unwrap his gifts.
As he untied the bows, his strong hands were shaking, and we could see his eyes were brimming with
tears.
In the first small box, there was a photo of all of us and some cookies. Out of the second, he pulled
small pieces of paper on which wed written our own personal messages to him in French. The other
parcels contained a bracelet, a watch and a book.
After he had taken in each gift, Mister Olivier stepped toward us.
-Come closer, he said.
- I want to thank each of you
Lining up single file, we took turns hugging our teacher. He whispered a quick merci in each ear.
Then we all sat in a circle and talked.
-

The hunt is over, he finally said.

We knew what he meant. His pain was over. He had been liberated from his past.
We cheered. This was exactly what wed all been hoping for.
He opened his bag and pulled an old blue photo album from it. He drew us close and began flipping
through the album, walking the class through his story. When he had finished, before the next class
started, he pulled a photo of himself out of the album and gave it to us as a souvenir just as wed
given him a photo to remember us by.
When our Swahili teacher came into the classroom, we were absent minded, our French teachers story
still racing through our minds.

The next day, during morning mass, we watched our teacher, who usually sat silently, sing for the first
time. A green polo replaced the somber black t-shirt he normally wore. The bracelet we had given
him shone on his wrist.
He had accepted our gifts. He had accepted us as members of his family.
I now know that when the April rain falls, he will not be out hunting anymore. He will join us as we
gather around a friendly fire. And together, we will sing.