The Price of Progress, or in Other Words...

25 June 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I got a beer thrown in my face, and at the nicest restaurant in town at that. I was out to dinner with my internship supervisor and several colleagues for my good-bye dinner. I was teaching some of my colleagues, mildly new to Rwanda, the wonders of Mützig draft. We had originally been seated inside, but the football match was on and there was a jazz band playing outside, so we moved to the balcony. There was an ashtray on the table, so I lit a cigarette and carefully held it over the railing so as not to disturb the non-smoking dinner guests. About three puffs in, I was startled by the older British gentleman sitting in solitude at the table directly behind ours. He rudely, and very firmly, told me to put out my cigarette and get it away from him. Because I’m a nice guy, and also because he scared me a little bit, I put out my smoke. My supervisor, despite being a non-smoker herself, was offended by his lack of manners and subsequently went inside to tell the wait-staff. She came back and sat down at our table, telling me that it was a smoking area and to relight my cigarette. Not having to be told twice, I did so. Apparently, a waiter came out around the same time to ask the gentleman if he would like to move out of the smoking area since my smoke was bothering him. At that point, this man rose angrily from his chair, walked around to the other side of our table, politely asked my colleague sitting across the table to excuse him, grabbed her beer glass and threw it in my face. In the process he broke her glass, and immediately stormed off. Completely appalled, I had nothing to do but laugh. Ironically enough, he hadn’t extinguished my cigarette when he threw the beer. Thinking back, the way it turned out, I must have looked quite smug. After multiple apologies from the wait-staff and the manager of the hotel, I received a free polo shirt that fits surprisingly well.

The last few weeks, my last weeks in Rwanda, have been quite the comedy of errors. The beer incident and the 7 stitches from the wounds I incurred on my daring escape from the Congolese military are just two of many.

I recently wrote an opinion article for the NewTimes, Rwanda’s national newspaper. The article was about the international media’s recent coverage of Rwanda, and the prevailing perspective that the Rwandan government is excessively repressive and increasingly less democratic. My email was attached at the bottom of the article, and over the past several days I have received about 10 emails, many of which exemplify my frustrations with the media debate about this country. The debate is mainly composed of two, over-simplified arguments about Rwandan politics. Some emails came from “Proud Rwandans” who referred to me as a “champion” of their cause. Others were Westerners who had spent some amount of time in Rwanda, and most of them rebuked me for what they viewed as naïveté and misinformation.

The NewTimes is, first and foremost, a government-run newspaper. This means that articles published in the NewTimes are not generally critical of the government. And by generally, I mean never. Articles generally focus on government successes and reproach foreign media and government sources. This forms one extreme of the debate, the part of the debate that portrays the politics of this country as completely ethical and justified.

I have to admit that my article was diplomatically slanted. In fact, I showed a lot of support for Rwanda and its government. After cutting around 300 words, the article came out looking like a toothless fluff piece, just another article that falsely identifies the Rwandan state as supportive of civil society and the rule of law. For some reason, I found it necessary to mention the two journalists that work in East Africa and report for the New York Times. On some level, I find their work to be representative of the other extreme, the part of the debate that is hypercritical of the Rwandan government, and sometimes blindly supportive of unrestrained democracy and civil liberties.

Between these two extremes, there isn’t much. My article emphasized how one-sided the Western dialogue on Rwanda is, and how that dialogue is written relying on facts that, interpreted correctly, can support the thesis that Rwanda’s government is becoming more repressive leading up to the presidential elections in August and continues to use the genocide as a political trump card. What I did not, or perhaps could not, include in the article was a critique of the other side of the debate, that the NewTimes commits a similar folly by continuing to emphasize government rectitude and fervently denying any criticism. In the end, my article was just another piece of the debate that I was attempting to argue against.

Oddly enough, aside from its failings, my article led to some unexpected, and surprisingly positive outcomes. One of the reprimanding emails came from a friend of one of the journalists that I mentioned in my article. A short correspondence with her led to the reporter’s email address. Thoroughly intimidated by the situation, I postponed sending him an email, assuming that the entire situation would blow over in a week or so. To my ultimate amazement, a few days ago, I received an email from him asking if I would be interested in meeting for drinks. Despite criticizing his work for the Times in my article, I genuinely respect this reporter, and his invitation was received with a lot of enthusiasm. Actually meeting him only increased my respect, and provided a lot of insight into the world of the international media.

Despite all of the support I showed in my article, I must admit that the Rwandan government has given the international press a lot to criticize. Suspending two newspapers, detaining a political opponent and an international lawyer, and the so-called “Island Prison” have given the Western media good reason for “concern,” if I can call it that. I am not under the illusion that these “measures” taken by the government are not clear abuses of civil rights. They are, and there is no question about that. Perhaps it’s necessary, however, to ask different questions.

My article talked about particularity, regarding the Rwandan situation. 16 years ago this country was engulfed in a massive genocide that left nothing but destruction in its path. The numbers vary, depending on whom you talk to, anywhere from “several hundred thousand” to 850,000 to easily “over 1 million” people that were killed in 100 long days of hell.

In an earlier post, I talked about the singular story told by the Rwandan government about the “genocide against the Tutsi,” and how I felt that this was a misrepresentation of history. In reality, the murderous rampage consumed anyone who stood in the way of the genocidaires and their heinous crimes, regardless of ethnic background (especially considering what a fabrication ethnicity is in this country). Ethnicity, in my belief, was simply a tool used by the Habyarimana regime (and before that, the Belgians) to mobilize civilian participation in politically and economically motivated violence. When the Rwandese Patriotic Front (RPF) launched their attack from Uganda, its outward motivation was the suffering of a minority under a racist government (there are several other theories, including the motivation of the Ugandan government to attain regional influence). Throughout 4 years of war with the Rwandan forces (MRND), the RPF ended the genocide and began rebuilding the country. Along the way, some 45,000 civilians, presumably Hutu, were killed by the RPF, a crime against humanity that has yet to be prosecuted, and is fervently denied by the current administration.

Today, the “ethnic” debate still exists. 16 years is a short period of time when discussing genocide. I know that it is an oversimplification to put it this way, but think of the Holocaust. It has been over half a century since the Third Reich attempted to systematically exterminate the Jews (among others). Yet it is still a very delicate topic for people, especially if their historical roots connect to Germany or Judaism. I’m sure that there are Holocaust Deniers that exist today, but how much attention do they truly get? For the most part, they remain in the realms of conspiracy and psychotic racism.

When the Kagame administration came to power, ethnic reconciliation was at the top of the agenda. It is not my belief that reconciliation efforts have succeeded in this country. How could they in only 16 years? In fact, I wonder if it will ever be possible for those efforts to attain success. As a state, how are those issues overcome then (especially when the head of that state has contributed so much to the conflict himself)? For the Kagame administration, the answer to that question has been to limit civil rights that might contradict the government’s efforts to maintain peace by papering over ethnic tension. Being here for a mere 6 months, I’ve only just begun to understand how real of a threat unrestrained free speech presents to the stability of this country. I no longer underestimate the brilliance of the Kagame administration.

Firstly: the two newspapers that were suspended. It is useful to recognize that these “news” papers were the equivalent of what we in America call tabloids. Sadly, that is not an aspect that is often presented by the Western media. Over and over again these papers insisted upon indiscriminately disseminating information that represented a direct affront to the government’s peacekeeping policy of altering history and pretending that reconciliation has been successful. Inflammatory language and accusatory content does not serve to maintain the powerful rhetoric that holds Rwanda together, however superficially.

Next: the arrest and bail of Peter Erlinder. Peter Erlinder was initially arrested in early June. Though he was never officially charged, the prosecution was ostensibly building a case based on the breach of Genocide Revision and Denial. Again, the Western media has failed to cover the most important aspects of this issue (despite the ridiculous amount of articles that have appeared over the past few weeks). Erlinder was not simply an American lawyer that took on the difficult task of defending those accused of genocide. And I do not believe that he was arrested for his work at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) in Arusha, Tanzania. I’ve always found it ironic that the ICTR is in Arusha, given that it was there in the early ‘90s that the power-sharing agreement was signed between the Habiyarimana regime and the RPF. It was after signing that agreement that Habiyarimana lost the support of his most fervent Hutu-power supporters (including his own wife, Agathe who has only recently been charged as one of the architects of the genocide). Aside from the international debate that continues to rage onward, I am of the belief that it was these people that organized Habiyarimana’s assassination. Back to Erlinder however, as part international law, he has diplomatic immunity when it comes to his work at the ICTR. Even at Nuremberg the accused had a right to a defense. It was Erlinder’s writings outside of the ICTR that became quite contentious. The international media has basically ignored these writings, and instead portray Erlinder as some sort of freedom fighter for those oppressed by the Rwandan government. Taking the time to examine Erlinder’s opinions written outside of his position at the ICTR, one might realize just how offensive and conspiratorial those opinions are. He maintains a thoroughly revisionist account of history, claiming that a double genocide occurred and that the Permanent Five of the Security Council have rewritten the history of the genocide in order to maintain their own international reputations. Unlike Holocaust Deniers who remain socially stigmatized and in the darkest corners of the internet, Erlinder and his writings have gained a lot of attention. They have been widely publicized in East Africa easily accessible amongst those to whom the memory of the genocide remains particularly fresh. Erlinder, even back in the United States, represents a grave ideological threat. Not only does he shamelessly disregard the facts of history, but he also upsets the already delicate balance that has been carefully designed by the current administration. His prosecutors made a terrible judgment call when they brought in evidence for which Erlinder had diplomatic immunity. That was a mistake. Regardless of that fact, Erlinder blatantly violated Rwanda’s constitutional law. He knew that he had done so when he came here to defend an opposition politician that had been arrested for a similar crime.

Regardless of the superficiality of ethnic identity in Rwanda, the wounds from the genocide remain raw. People have not forgotten, and no matter how fabricated ethnicity actually may be, it’s very real now. The international community has reproached the Rwandan government, saying that the laws regarding Genocide Ideology, Revisionism, and Divisionism are too vague. They have been interpreted by the international media as tools used by the government to repress opposition politicians and subdue criticism from civil society. And sometimes they are. The question I’ve come to ask is about justification though. Whether or not there are genuine civil rights abuses (there are) and political repression (still debatable in my opinion) my judgment on those facts is based mostly on my Western bias and circumstantial evidence. My time here has taught me to take a much wider variety of information into account. Though some of that information may be anecdotal, it is necessary to rely on something aside from the international media.

One of the aspects I’ve begun to consider is the large population of Rwandese that live outside of the political realm- those who are living in poverty, those who are uneducated, or those who have no access to media sources (especially media sources that aren’t under the careful watch of the current administration). When questioning the viability of democracy in this country I think it’s important to consider the ability (or inability) of such a large population (very likely the majority) of Rwandese to make informed decisions about their leadership. As an American, I believe, perhaps idealistically so, in democracy and human rights. Questioning those beliefs, however, has become crucial to my understanding of this country. When it comes to political justification in Rwanda, the accessibility of understanding and information become crucial aspects of democratic potential. When it comes to free speech, taking into account the examples above, it is reasonably understood why the government maintains strict control over civil society, thus limiting the genuine pursuit of democracy.

In the upcoming August elections, everyone knows that Kagame will be re-elected. He has, for all practical purposes, led the country since 1994 (serving as vice president under Bizimungu until 2000). In total, by 2017 he will have served for 23 years- not a short time. Most people question whether or not, at the end of his final term, he will attempt to change the constitution effectively extending his stay in office. I don’t think that will happen. The real question in my mind is whether or not the next leader of this country will be Kagame’s protégé (or proxy), or if that leader will come from an opposition stance. Considering the current administration’s control over civil society, it seems unlikely that a legitimate opposition party will be able to actually develop (probably one of the reasons the government has such strict control over civil society). I say legitimate with the view that the current opposition candidates rely on the ethnic and historical debates present here (probably another reason why the government has such strict control over civil society). Until an opposition party that has a legitimate platform emerges, the current administration (or its affiliates) is justified in maintaining their leadership position. After all, the RPF has managed to build this country out of nothing in only 16 years. Recognizing the strides that this country has made under the current leadership, I question what opposition candidates might do differently or what they might have to offer aside from controversial changes in the retelling of history. Under the RPF, primary education has become free. As an American, I find it particularly ironic (nonetheless a great success) that this country has a universal healthcare system.

In a way, everything in this country is framed by it’s violent past, but in order to move past that, politicians and constituents have to stop relying on this rapidly aging debate and instead focus on issues of greater consequence. Of all the promise that this country shows, its gaping ethno-historical wounds restrain its progress.

Furthermore, considering socioeconomics and the elite of this country (or Kigali rather), I often ponder its relation to current politics and history. Since 1959, when the Belgians effectively switched allegiances from the Tutsi minority to the Hutu majority, ethnic violence began driving Rwandese into neighboring countries, Europe, and the U.S. The Diaspora only increased over nearly half a century of ethnic violence. When the RPF restored peace in ’94, the Diaspora (many of whom had been living in deplorable refugee situations) returned en masse. Under the Habiyarimana regime, one could say that education did not particularly thrive. The general instability of Rwanda during that period did not provide much in terms of educational capacity. When the Diaspora returned however, they returned with Western (or Ugandan) education. Out of the political and economic collapse of the genocide came a group of well-educated individuals (who spoke English I might add) that helped to restore the country’s stability and promoted the astounding success since ’94. Therefore, when it comes to the rising generation, those in their late 20s or early 30s that are to be the future leaders of this country, they are generally former members of the Diaspora, and children of the returning elite. It follows then, that some of the government’s most influential supporters have a vested interest in maintaining the current version of history. The Diaspora- the people that were driven out of their homeland only to watch their fellow countrymen be ruthlessly tortured and killed- have a strong motivation to maintain that history. “Never Again” is a compelling rhetoric, especially for the historical victims.

Progress, like that made by Rwanda, always comes at a price. Perhaps that price is the suspension of civil and political rights. Perhaps I need more time. Taking all of this into account, I suppose it’s easy to see why no one has attempted to illustrate a well-rounded image of Rwanda and its politics. There are truths here that cannot be broached comfortably (or in a reasonable amount of words). Because of those difficulties, attempts to understand often transform into awkward comedy. I’m reminded of the man who threw the beer in my face and the Westerners that chastised my naïveté. I don’t understand their history or their perspective (beer guy was probably having a bad day, and the emails were probably a response from people who respect the opinion of Josh Kron more so than that of a 20-year-old intern). Understanding Rwanda, however, is much more difficult and correspondingly more consequential. I am sad to leave this beautiful country, with its rolling hills and wonderfully mild climate, because I know that there is still more to discover. Although, even if I stayed here for the rest of my life, I would in all likelihood feel the same way. The progress that I have made in the past 6 months is similar to that of Rwanda- it has come at a price. I have to admit though, that understanding myself is easier than understanding my current surroundings. I’m not so worried about going back to Western culture, or reverse culture shock. In fact, I’m not really worried at all, because I know that the price of my own progress is this intensified passion of understanding.

All About Adventure

30 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

Someone recently said to me, “You are in Africa, don’t take that fact for granted.” It made me think about adventure and adventuring. I have 4 short weeks left before I head to that other continent (where adventure seems so easy), and I sometimes forget where I am. It’s so easy to forget that I’m actually somewhere different, somewhere that I should savor every moment. The excitement that accompanies international travel has sort of worn off, and I’ve become complacently comfortable in my surroundings. The boulevards lined with palm trees, the roundabouts filled with well-kept shrubbery and monumental fountains, the mild weather, the sunny skies and mid-70s- sometimes I think I’ve been hoodwinked, that they just sent me to L.A.

This week was difficult, dealing with the hardship of internship, the firm hand of Biblical law, and the arbitrary administration of justice- I caught myself falling into the trap of what I have previously referred to as “mzungu problems.” And then I realize that I am in Africa, and it gives me some perspective. I remember my first few weeks here, the wonderment I experienced about this culture, and how naïve I must have been. I remember the women’s group that I met. The phrases “make your bed” and “soap and salt” start to mean something again. And now that I’m floating around Kigali, completing an internship and committing youthful shenanigans with the socioeconomic elite of Rwanda*, the theme of adventure has gone unexpressed, at least consciously. The point is that I’ve become less naïve; at least I’d like to think so. And ignorance is supposed to be bliss.

So adventure means something else now. On Monday nights I go to trivia night at one of the “mzungu restaurants” in town. It’s within walking distance from our house and they sell beer for twice as much as truly local restaurants. It’s a beautiful atmosphere- ivy covered lattice and a spectacular view of the city at night, lights sparkling on the hillside. An Italian man owns the restaurant, and they serve excellent pizza that far exceeds my daily per diem. On Mondays, and most other nights, the restaurant is filled with expats, mostly NGOs workers and specialists from the West. Table after table is surrounded by a group of national homogeneity. I’m not attempting to degrade these groups. They’ve found comfort in one another and in the recreations of Western culture that Kigali offers in the form of a large shopping center and a variety of over-priced restaurants. In many ways, they are experiencing this culture, and know it better than I do. I respect them. But when I look at the people I sit with, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. On Mondays, Morgan and I make the walk to Sole Luna from our house, usually early to secure a good table. And we don’t sit with expats. Since I’ve been here, one way or another, I’ve connected more with a group of Rwandans than I have with most other expats, not to say that I don’t have expat friends. And I’m proud of that fact. I don’t mean to objectify those friends, or make them trophies of some kind that say I’m culturally sensitive, because, in most ways I’m not. That’s what makes our friendship so meaningful to me. I’ve found some great friends here. And when I look around the table on Monday nights, I look at people with whom I can laugh, and joke, and talk about politics and philosophy, and trivialities at the same time. I don’t look at people whose nationality makes them more conveniently similar to me. In that I find adventure. For most of my life I’ve been surrounded by cultural homogeneity. And now I’m completely out of my element. Somehow, though, I’ve found people I connect with on a level that far exceeds superficiality. Somehow, on the other side of the globe, in a society that has until now been completely foreign to my existence, I’ve begun a great adventure. And that adventure is more than safaris and the Nile. This adventure is deeper and more personal. I’m in Africa and I’m learning to remember that, to savor every moment, and not just every moment that sounds good when I tell it to other Americans when I return to the States. I savor the moments for myself, when I’m yelling at Sunny about Rwandese politics or eating a whole lot of pork, and still not eating as much as everyone else. All of these experiences, however insignificant, remind me where I am. And being in Africa really is an adventure.

This is Africa, a bit Like Marx

23 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I could do this in America- the lazy summer shenanigans. I’ve gotten lost in the lethargy of summer and the terminal mindset of having 5 weeks to go. And now I realize that 5 weeks is actually a really significant portion of the time that I’ve spent here; it’s enough time to do something new. I still have time to learn something, and I think I gave up on that for a little while.

As an expat, or at least someone who’s a part of that community, I think it’s easy to become discouraged- getting to know people only to see them leave at the end of their contract. There’s a sense of pomposity, or self-righteousness maybe, when you stay abroad for long enough. At least in my experience, it’s easy to begin thinking that I’ve seen everything, done everything, and that I have some idea what this country is like. In reality, I haven’t seen or done much, and I am only beginning to understand the broader outlines of the Rwandan experience. Sure, I’ve been to the genocide memorials, the Millennium Village (twice actually), some extremely rural areas, and the tourist hangouts on Lake Kivu among other places. And after all of that, I felt as if I’d accomplished something. Maybe I have. Recently though, I’ve caught myself falling into the numbness that often accompanies the warmer of the two solstices. The days are always the same length here, being so close to the equator, so I don’t even know if solstices are applicable. But you get what I’m trying to say.

My internship isn’t particularly challenging, as most internships aren’t. I spend my days reading the news, becoming completely consumed with the plethora of international crises, and intermittently completing the small amounts of work that I manage to get my hands on. Interning at the largest government institution in Rwanda, one might think there would be more work involved. But, as I’ve been reminded over and over again- “this is Africa.” And that’s supposed to serve as some sort of excuse.

My last entry was about “Embracing the Chaos.” For some people, that’s the culturally sensitive thing to do. Cultural sensitivity, however, just ends up being boring, and sometimes even this sort of arbitrary obedience to the way things are. When I really think about it, I’m a fairly insensitive person when it comes to the restrictions of cultural failings, at least in the States. So, really, why would I succumb to what I perceive as cultural limitations in another society? Of course, there’s always a level of decency that needs to be maintained in order to be successful and respectable. I’m not arguing against being polite or refraining from bringing up painful histories. I suppose I’m arguing against passively accepting inefficiency, or as some might say, “embracing the chaos.” Saying “T.I.A” (this is Africa) holds no significance for me anymore. Yes, this is Africa. Thank you for the reminder. Now, do something.

Now, linking this with my first paragraph, there’s this thing about social integration. Coming into a foreign society, I had this desire to assimilate, to become a part of that society, and, by doing that, to feel like I’ve done something meaningful. But maybe I’ve gone too far. Perhaps this is a stretch, an intellectualization of the simple fact that, for one reason or another, I’ve gotten lazy and homesick. Or maybe I’m just following the logic. Continuing with the latter assumption, my endeavors to assimilate, to “embrace the chaos,” and to accept that “this is Africa” have been successful. My naïveté with regard to interning at the RDB was that my work there could be meaningful. Thus, my assimilation into this culture has simply meant that I accept its failings. But now, reflecting on this, I realize that overcoming that apathy might be another step in experiential learning- accepting cultural shortcomings, and not being consumed by them. Making comparisons to other countries might be inaccurate, but I don’t support the conservative and often times bigoted culture of the Bible belt, and I don’t accept the culture under-aged sex trafficking in Thailand.

I’m not attempting to equate institutional inefficiency with bigotry or child sex slaves, but I think the analogy is valid. On the so-called “Dark Continent,” the acceptance of these cultural shackles in the face of development is unacceptable. Acknowledging those failings and attempting to embrace them is even more backwards. And it’s all the more challenging to know that I can’t fix it. That’s probably my American desire for perfection and instant gratification. It’s true though. As an outsider, I’m not in the position; I don’t really have the right to make such a critical analysis of Rwandan culture. Perhaps my argument is a bit like Marx and the proletariat. There will be no violent revolution of people that aren’t consistently late, that work efficiently and have effective time management skills- people that realize the importance of order in development. Perhaps only the tide of history will bring with it an upheaval of chaos, and the phrase “this is Africa” will be only an obsolete memory.

The truth is, I couldn’t do this in America. I’ve been knocked off of my horse called determination and landed in a puddle of apathy. Realizing that now, I need to get back on the horse.

Embracing the Chaos?

16 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

Today, a million women trapped me, but I’ll get to that later. I’m trying to give up my Western perspective, and it’s not working out very well. There has been an interesting succession of events over the past two days. Starting early Saturday morning, I could hear the throbbing beat of music emanating from the large stadium near our house. Walking to the bus stop, I realized that these sounds meant political support. Hundreds of people clad in RPF attire- shirts, hats, flags- flooded the streets, on foot, on moto taxis, and in dozens of buses. Red, white, and blue blanketed the bustling sidewalk, an eerie expression of support for the incumbent administration.

Once in town, everything seemed normal enough, overwhelming as usual. We went to the fabric warehouse, a mall of sorts-small rooms jutting off of a large corridor, each filled with six-foot high stacked bolts of fabric in every color and pattern. The warehouse has a much larger selection of fabric than Kimironko, the market, if anyone can believe that. But it’s remarkably less stressful. I was still greeted with “karibu,” (you are welcome) every time I entered a store, but after that I was left alone to shop, without the constant attention of the storeowners. Maybe I’m becoming more accustomed to the hustle and bustle of Kigali city life. Or maybe I look less like a mzungu. Or maybe I know where to go to avoid that sort of attention. I know how to say “I’m not called mzungu,” and that seems to help, especially when it comes to negotiating prices (“ntabwo ni twa mzungu”). I bought somewhere around 5 meters of fabric for less than $20. Haggling is almost enjoyable for me now, the drama of impossibility- getting a cab to town that supposed to cost around 3,000 Rwf, I’m told costs 5,000. Here’s the typical back and forth:

Driver- “Taxi?”

Rob- “(nods)”

Driver- “Enter!”

Rob- “Ni angahe (how much)?”

Driver- “5,000”

Rob- “Bof! Ntabwo ni twa mzungu. 2,500.”

Driver- “No, no. 5,000.”

Rob- “Ehhh, 3,000.”

Driver- “OK, 4,000”

Rob- “(starts to walk away)”

Driver- “OK, enter.”

Rob- “3,500?”

Driver- “OK, let’s go.”

VICTORY!

Living in a society where everything is for sale and everything is negotiable is difficult to get used to. I miss the days when I knew what things cost and items were clearly labeled. But I have to admit that shopping is more fun. There’s always the chance that I’m going to get jipped, and vendors almost always try to make me pay around 3-times as much as something genuinely costs because of the color of my skin. There’s a sense of adventure now, though, with every purchase that I make. The chaos is something I’ve begun to associate as being African. One of my co-workers frequently tells me to “embrace the chaos,” and I try to follow that advice everyday. It’s difficult though, to give up that part of my American-ness. The structure of the West is enviable, but there is a sense of losing something in that structure. Shopping here is a much more personal experience. You have to get much closer to vendors and other customers to attain success. The distance of scanners and bar codes is non-existent. As usual, I don’t know which system is “better” or “worse.”

Later that night, while I was at home eating dinner, there was the third grenade attack to hit Kigali. This time, as the U.S. Embassy mass email informed me, the attack occurred near the city center in Kiyovu, most likely very close to where I am currently writing this blog. The U.S. Embassy message didn’t give any other information, and it has been through other local sources that I have come to know that there was one casualty, and several injuries. The attack hasn’t appeared in any international news as of 3 p.m., and I have yet to see the New Times for today. Interestingly enough, the grenade attack that occurred on 4 March was not written about in the international press either. Popular belief of the motives behind these attacks has been Kagame’s impending reelection, to occur in August. Earlier this week, the main article on the front page of the New Times read “Kagame Confident of Ruling Party Victory.” Truthfully, I don’t know a single person who isn’t. But that article certainly doesn’t settle well with those who realize just how “confident” Kagame must be. The suspension of two local newspapers, the high profile arrest and bail of opposition leader Victoire Ingabire, the arrest and/or exile of four high ranking military officials, the deportation of a leading Human Rights Watch researcher, and the recent news coming out of the Times and BBC have left my human rights, democracy, American alert bells ringing. But what I have come to realize is that there is a different side to this story, and whether it’s a justification or not, I think it’s worth contemplating.

Starting with the suspension of these two newspapers, they actually did break certain laws regarding the press. Granted, these laws have been cited as being markedly vague and largely left up to the interpretation of an administration headed by a man who recently made Reporters Without Borders’ top five Predators of the Press list, but the suspensions were legal. And looking at the offenses in the context of Rwanda’s history, some comments made crossed some post-genocide lines. This has become a main theme in my thought processes regarding political issues in Rwanda, just how far does the government need to go in order to prevent the ethnic divisionism that, contrary to much Western opinion, still exists. And that brings me to the Ingabire question. Aside from making several comments that resemble the retaliatory genocide ideology of the early 90s, she doesn’t seem to have much of a political platform outside of simply opposing the Kagame administration. Objectively the situation seems to be easily understood- a Hutu opposition leader coming back to Rwanda after years of exile is almost immediately arrested under similarly vague laws. Seems like a question of political pluralism, and there’s a definite possibility that it is. There is also the possibility that it’s a question of national sovereignty and the prevention of recurring ethnic crises. The same questions will apply to the arrest and exile of several leading military officials. It could be part of a general shake up of the military, partly in response to the grenade attacks and suspected complicity. It could also be an extension of a systematic harassment and repression of any form of opposition to the Kagame administration. With the deportation of the Human Rights Watch’s leading researcher, more questions arise. Human Rights Watch has been in Rwanda since 1994, and since that time they have been critical of human rights in Rwanda. Many members of the Western press would like to assume that her deportation was a political move to prevent future criticisms, and to disregard the accusations against her faulty paperwork as falsified or the result of mismanaged bureaucracy. But looking at it from a different perspective we can see that it could just be a question of national sovereignty. If her papers were forged, something that seems unlikely for a top researcher working with one of the most well respected human rights groups in the world, then the government would have every right to deny her visa application, just as we would do in the United States. And from an objective perspective, if the government of Rwanda was truly attempting to prevent criticism from Human Rights Watch, it doesn’t seem as if refusing to grant a single visa to a single researcher would be a particularly effective means.

As for the remaining criticism coming out of the international press, it always seems as though there is some train of thought that justifies what immediately seems to be a blatant affront to human rights and political freedom. If anyone has read the Times article regarding the so-called Island Prison in Rwanda, I hope you have also read the Minister of Youth’s response that came out in the Opinion section. This exchange expresses my confusion (also see the BBC article regarding Kagame’s avoidance of lawsuits leveled against him by the widows of the former president’s of Rwanda and Burundi while visiting the U.S.).

Today, on my way into town for my traditional Sunday stay at Shokola, I found myself trapped along the mile long stretch of dirt road leading to my house. It was the march of a million women in support of gender equality. Either end of the dirt road was under heavy guard by the military and police forces, and people and cars bounced back and forth between both exits in utter confusion. I wasn’t allowed to get close enough to the road to even have a clear view of the march. In the distance I could only see masses of white shirts meander down the main roadway. I heard from a passerby that Kagame was a part of the demonstration.

I suppose I could be a cynic about all of this. Interestingly enough, I could probably be an optimist. I think it’s much more complex than that. Joining either side of this debate, that of the international press or that of the socioeconomic elite in Kigali, would be far too simple. Both of those perspectives are well justified, but somehow incomplete. Both are swayed by certain allegiances and preconceived notions about politics and freedom. I haven’t been able to reach any firm conclusions about this country. Perhaps Rwanda doesn’t need democracy right now. Perhaps it needs a strong hand like Kagame’s to bring it out of the utter destruction of 1994. I think the justifications of the issues above don’t really go far enough, and Western expectations probably go too far. What I do believe is that giving up on a strictly Western perspective is necessary when it comes to comprehending any truth that I might find in Rwanda. I look at it sort of like I look at haggling. Embracing the chaos, learning to love the chaos- I’ve learned to look outside of my “comfort zone.” Politics, metaphorically, can be similar- different, exciting, chaotic, un-American. And out of the chaos that consumes this society, I think there are better solutions than those offered by the West. Whether or not the current administration is evil or benevolent or necessary, I have to bring myself to a point where I don’t look at it as inherently flawed. I’m constantly overwhelmed, and it makes me a stronger person.

Impeach Bush and Cheney

9 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I got stuck at a gusaba yesterday, as if it wasn’t strange enough to begin with. A gusaba is a traditional marriage ceremony. It precedes the actual wedding, and represents the process of bringing two families together through the negotiation of bride price. Aidah, our cook, invited us to the ceremony. As usual, we were the only mzungus there. On entering we received one of two responses, a blank stare or a inviting “you are welcome.” The location was outside of Kigali in a small umudugudu, or neighborhood. Driving in we saw Aidah walking along the side of the road in a traditional, draping fabric dress, yelling in Kinyarwanda to our driver. She told us to hurry as everyone was waiting for us to arrive so that they could start. We were instructed to sit on the second row, almost immediately behind the parents of the bride. The tent was constructed in a U-shape, one side for the family of the bride, the other for the groom. At the top of the U was a sort of altar with four chairs and several traditional objects- a bowl of beans, 10 milk jars, a Rwandan peace basket. Most of these things represent fertility and prosperity for the joining families. Everything was covered in varying leopard print fabrics and Rwandan baskets of all sizes.

On either side of the U, facing each other, were couches and small tables. A negotiator, usually a family friend, represented each family. These two men traded off arguments through a microphone in Kinyarwanda for about 20 minutes before the groom even walked into the tent. Dressed in flowing leopard print fabric and wielding a walking stick covered in goat fur, the groom and his groomsmen entered slowly and were seated near the back. Along with the groomsmen came several women that represented other potential brides in the family. At one point, the bride’s negotiator offered one of these women instead of the bride. Obviously, this was a joke, and the crowd laughed uproariously especially since this woman was approximately 50 years old.

What I found so strange about this ceremony was the juxtaposition of tradition and modernity. The attempt to maintain certain traditions was often compromised by the necessities of the present. The use of a microphone throughout the process was only the beginning. The bride was born again Christian, and refused to have alcohol during the ceremony. This contradiction of tradition was probably the most blatant, as beer generally plays a large role in this process. Instead, they used soda, mostly orange Fanta and Coca-cola. For example, at one point, the father of the bride is supposed to present the father of the groom with banana beer inside of a large Rwandan peace basket. Instead, upon opening the peace basket, a 2-liter of Coca-cola was presented. Humorous, yes. Traditional, no. At another point in the ceremony, each family has a sort of Rwandan wedding singer, each representing a shepherd of the cattle that is the bride price. Each came in to sing and dance about how beautiful and healthy the cattle were. At strategic points in their performance, an electronic “moo” came on over the PA. Both singers gave a flower to the bride’s family, and a pastoral stick to the groom’s.

This whole process takes around two-and-a-half hours. About two hours in, the bride appears. She was introduced by a series of dancers. First, the young females doing dances that represent cattle and fertility, followed by the intores, or male warriors. One of the intores, clad in his traditional headdress and fabric, wrap skirt was sporting a black t-shirt that read “IMPEACH BUSH and CHENEY.” Being the only Americans there that understood what impeach meant, we were the only people to notice how ridiculous this was.

Being in both Rwanda and Uganda for the past 4 months has made me almost immune to such awkward expressions of culture, but the tension between tradition and modernity is still almost unbearable to experience. The nostalgia for the past in these two societies is equally matched by a desire for the future, for development and all that comes along with it- capitalism, technology, Americanization. The love of American culture is almost palpable, as is the faith in the systems of American “success.” I feel sad and maybe a little bit guilty about this situation, and it’s probably because I have sub-conscious white guilt. Seeing how globalization has destroyed these traditions is disheartening, the death of culture. The imitation of Western culture is often associated with the loss of native tradition. But what I have realized is that this assumption is not really true. There is definitely a loss of tradition on some level, but it’s definitely not becoming homogenized with Western traditions. Like the pull of hyper-globalization, the pull of tradition is strong too. The gusaba I attended was probably not the same as one I might have attended 20 years ago, but even less so did it resemble anything I would find in the Global North.

I’m overcoming my former sadness regarding the loss of tradition, and instead recognizing the beauty in the joining of two cultures. Like the gusaba, I am witnessing the combination of two separate entities, becoming one, and making something new. I see expressions of this awkward cultural combination everyday; they’re entertaining, funny, strange, uncomfortable, and usually embarrassing. In the end, though, they’re African and recognizing how they are African is more important than looking for signs that they are not.

The Paradox of Progress

3 May 2010

Kigali, Rwanda

I finished my journal today. I mean that I ran out of pages and, luckily, I had a backup. There’s something about a new Moleskine- the smell, like the library smell has spoiled, the crisp pages, and the unscathed black cover. These qualities are all the more noticeable in comparison. My old one with its broken spine and yellowed pages smells the same with the hints of over usage- ink, mold from the rainy days, and dirt from the leaves flattened between the pages.

Finishing something like that can be profound. I’ve had this journal since high school. Part of that is because I hardly ever find time to journal in the States especially when I’m in school, and as a result more than half of it has been filled since I came to Rwanda in January. Going back and reading the things I wrote three years ago was a cathartic experience; it was funny too, to read the adolescent angst of those formative years. Seeing how I’ve changed and grown from my own perspective in my own tiny scribbles got me thinking about the road that has brought me to where I am- In a tiny room with too many clothes and a bed that’s too big in Kigali, Rwanda, I’m here for the summer. I stay up too late and wake up too early- weird bars and political discussions with the volume all the way up. Clothes and shoes and luggage cover the already inadequate floor space of my living quarters. My white brick walls remain bare. The red paint on the concrete floor is chipping. My door squeaks if I don’t close it all the way and I only have two books on my shelf.

Regardless of the mess, life is getting more normal now, whatever normal means in my life. I have routines and regular places. Trivia night is Monday. I went to my favorite café on Sunday and stayed there for four hours drinking macchiato and African and masala teas from tiny white pots. I took my shoes off and lounged back on the big couches and smoked cheap Rwandan cigarettes while I wrote in my journal like I was Hemingway or Camus or something. Friday night routines are becoming regular, alongside the consequent Saturday morning ones. And I've developed my reading list:

Indivisible Human Rights by Whelan

Outlines on the Philosophy of Right by Hegel (I just have to finally finish it)

and also books that I need to read more thoroughly than I did the first time:

Disgrace by Coetzee

The Politics of Land Reform in Africa by Manji

The River Between by Ngugi wa Thiong’o

It’s not long, but the books (mainly the first two) are going to be time and thought consuming for at least a month. Listen to me. Where does summer go in adulthood? Can’t I just find a sprinkler and make mojitos all day and run around and pull shenanigans? I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m supposed to do as a 20-something, revert to my childhood and drink and do everything I can to stay out of trouble. And read. My parents keep telling me that I need to get a regular summer job next time around, and maybe I will, just so I can do those things. And then I think about how bored I get without travel and accomplishment and mental challenges. I guess I could pick up a hobby and go on a road trip, but everything sort of pales in comparison to working at the largest government institution in Rwanda and backpacking Europe. Working in a Starbucks or Wal-Mart seems like a joke I might make about consumerism, not serious career prospects. I guess that’s the paradox of aging- nostalgia and ambition.

Reading through my journal, I saw a lot of both, probably more nostalgia than ambition. And as I walk home from work in setting sun, I look over the hills of Kigali, covered in multi-colored rooftops. In my slacks and tie, all I can think about is walking across a hot grass lawn and stepping into an ice-cold puddle of hose water, my shoulders on fire from the blazing Arkansas sun. Goosebumps run up my leg and cars drive slowly by in the street, almost as if the heat makes them lazy too. And as a moto-taxi whizzes past me, I’m jolted back to Rwanda soaking up the beauty of summer like an adult- in slacks and a tie. There’s something in that to be happy about too. I’ll never get back that form of my youth, and I’m nostalgic about that. But I have something better now- ambition.

The Glossy Image of Rwanda

14 April 2010

The week of mourning has ended. 16 years after the atrocities of 1994, the Rwandan experience of the genocide and its remembrance is all the more poignant, saddening, and in my mind, singularly memorialized. At least within the Rwandan context, and as far as I’ve seen in the international realm of memory (which mainly consists of a few made for TV movies) there is no room for historic pluralism. The story of the Rwandan genocide is the story of “the genocide against the Tutsis.” This telling of the story leaves no room for the other events that have, in fact, led to much more pertinent, lasting, and, above all, current international crises such as that in the DRC and the mass amounts of internally displaced people and refugees. These events, however, are left out of the national memory as they deviate from the politically and socially useful state-sanctioned memory promoted by the Kagame administration.

Being in Kigali for the week of mourning was an eerie experience. The experience of living in Kigali is in general an eerie one- the all-too-well-kempt gardens at the imperious Ministry of Defense, the freshly mown grass and well-shaped shrubbery that line the boulevards (the ones that people get fined for walking on), it’s all far too… perfect. The lawfully enforced week of mourning is in my experience a week of unified obedience to the government’s version of history- fines for loud music, restaurants close early, people displaying a general air of sadness and grief (and expecting even expatriates to exhibit the same). It seems, in fact, that the process of grieving has been universalized. Control of the press is control of the people, and free speech and freedom of the press have never been Rwanda’s strong suit, especially when it comes to the genocide.

This weekend I visited one of the first, and perhaps one of the most blunt, genocide memorials. Located in the southern province near Butare, Murambi Genocide Memorial is in the most beautiful area of the country. During the genocide in late June, this area served as Zone Turquoise for the French Operation Turquoise. To the international community, Operation Turquoise was sold as a way to stop the killing, to end the genocide. In reality, Operation Turquoise was a green zone for high-level Hutu orchestrators of the genocide to escape to neighboring countries, and effectively evade justice. Even though the French had secured the southwest region, acts of genocide continued to take place within Zone Turquoise. The only protection given by the French military was that given to the Rwandan government responsible for the failure of the Arusha Accords and the perpetration of state-sanctioned genocide. The school in Murambi was a Tutsi stronghold, with over 50,000 unarmed civilians living within the compound. From the compound you can see the rolling hills of Rwanda, some terraced with cassava and maize, others covered with banana trees that sway lackadaisically in the cool April breeze. It was there that 50,000 people were isolated without food or water for weeks on end and subsequently slaughtered. Mass graves spot the campus.

In 1995, one of these mass graves was dug up in an attempt to bring justice to the dead. Apparently, the means by which they had been buried actually worked to preserve the bodies. Therefore, instead of reburying the victims of such an atrocity, survivors and the creators of this memorial decided to go another direction. Now, when you visit Murambi, you walk through room after room after building after building full of the 850 chemically preserved bodies of the victims. Covered in white, lime-like preservative, the rotted flesh resulting from 16 years of decomposition fills the compound air with a thick stench of death. In each room, several tables display the horrors of genocide in a similarly horrific manner. Because the skin is still intact, along with some bits of hair and teeth, you can almost discern the facial expressions of these victims. The bodies are mangled and flattened from the months they spent thrown into a mass grave. Arms cover faces, as if shielding their eyes from imminent death. One room contained only children, their smalls bodies placed into rows. The body of an infant laid by itself on a table in the middle of the room next to a vase filled with wilting flowers. Broken skulls and machete wounds were blatantly apparent. There's something universal about the human experience that promotes a respect for the dead. That this memorial would find it necessary to be so blunt poses many questions about propriety, decency, and human justice. It is often difficult to understand the genocide, and it is even more difficult to empathize with the grief experienced by its victims. In my opinion, this memorial crosses the line of decency and moves into the realm of aggressive memory, memory that gains some sort of cryptic retribution on those who attempt to turn away from attrocity. But, then again, who am I to judge the ways in which the survivors relate their experience?

Our guide, a survivor of the genocide at Murambi, was thoroughly convinced of French complicity on a scale that I had yet to see before visited Murambi. As I have acknowledged previously, the French government and military were nothing but complicit in supporting the conditions that precipitated the genocide. And while it was occurring, the French government thoroughly supported the genocidal government of Rwanda with material and technical assistance. The Murambi memorial, however, seemed to insinuate a level of complicity that exceeded reality. One of the main focuses of our tour was a spot on the compound where they say the French military set up a volleyball court on top of a mass grave.

This is a part of Rwanda’s story; it’s a part of “the genocide against the Tutsis.” However, the residual anger toward to the French is waning. Diplomatic ties have been restored after a two-year hiatus. Sarkozy recently visited to offer an “all-but-sorry” statement of “French mistakes.” Most of the Rwandans that I’ve talked to support the French football club Arsenal (I find this expression to be particularly entertaining as more and more fans leave Man U and Chelsea). Despite the recent switch to English language education, schools continue to teach French and many Rwandans are either conversational or fluent. My point with all of this is that diplomacy and international relations have dictated a change in the national memory, and it has been effective. The Francophone influence is revitalizing after years of imposed forgetfulness and anger because it makes good political sense now. Kagame, an Anglophone, continues to refuse to speak in French, probably because he can’t. I can’t help thinking that it has a symbolic meaning. Yesterday, as I walked out of the RDB, I saw a broadcast of one of his speeches. The subtitles were in French.

Josh Ruxin, the director of Rwanda Works and a prominent expatriate within the Kigali community recently authored an article that appeared in the New York Times. The article is a tribute to the 16^th anniversary of the genocide, and the progress that Rwanda has made in the years since. It is an optimistic, but still pragmatic view of Rwanda’s progress and hope for the future. The focus of the article is the development of a thoroughly Western capital city and infrastructure throughout the country that has been built with the massive influx of foreign aid that poured in after the genocide. In the face of the crippling poverty that affects over 40% of the population, massive overpopulation, and a severely lopsided age distribution (around 60% of Rwandans are under 25), Ruxin sees hope for 2020, the deadline of Rwanda’s Vision 2020, a set of goals to bring Rwanda into the international economic spectrum on par with countries like Brazil and other recent economic powerhouses. Ruxin commends the progress that Rwanda has made in the past 16 years as a viable model for the next 10. In my opinion, the past 16 years do not provide viable social, political, or economic models with which Rwanda can continue to function. In the years since the genocide, particularly the years after Kagame took power in 2000, Rwanda has undergone what I like to refer to as Western globalization shock therapy. Suddenly within the past 16 years Rwanda is an attractive tourist destination as well as an enticing model for all types of development work. The influx of foreign aid has given the government, whose outward appearance of democracy and Western predilections attracts the eager donors in the West, the ability to impose massive changes within Rwanda. Ruxin’s article highlights these improvements. The article, however, seems to forget something about history and context. Like many people, Ruxin seems to view Rwanda as the “one-in-a-million” country, unaffected by power struggle, the vulnerabilities of greed, and the failings that accompany widespread poverty. The facts and popular opinions point in another direction. The election in August will unquestionably reelect Kagame. Any opposition party that has attempted to thrust itself into the national spectrum has had it’s leaders harassed and been labeled as “ethnic,” therefore becoming legally excluded from participation in the political realm. In response to this repression, it is my opinion that the recent grenade attacks were an act of rebellion against Kagame’s administration and the international praise that it receives for Rwanda’s high-level of security. With regard to economic viability, 90% of Rwandans still rely on subsistence agriculture. In the most densely populated country in Rwanda where the average mother has 6 children, the move into local industry, urbanization, or mono cropping, the only solutions the international community seems to be aware of have had disastrous results. The entrepreneurship that proved so effective in places like South Africa has been promoted here to a certain extent. However, the limitations of the fact that less than 10% of the population has legal property rights severely restraint the entrepreneurship model with regard to gaining capital. Regardless of this, too, the average Rwandan has less than .9 hectares of land to use as collateral. To reference De Soto, the dead capital that is untitled land in Rwanda, will most likely be somewhere along the lines of “zombie capital” even if it is titled. And if land were lost in the market, Rwandans would effectively lose the one reliable source of income that they have come to know over the past 1,000 years.

Rwanda has made serious progress in the past 16 years. From the devastation of the genocide until today, the country has become somewhat of a beacon of hope for development. But the progress that Rwanda has made is unsustainable, especially over the course of the next 10 years. First of all, the progress of the past relies on the Kagame administration. To keep developing like Rwanda has been means keeping Kagame in power for far more than 10 more years, which becomes completely antithetical with reference to the idea of real social and political development. To make viable progress over the next 10 years, especially if Rwanda is to meet the goals set by Vision 2020, the leadership in the country, both in the government and in civil society, needs to diversify its means. There is no universal model for development, one that is functional at least, especially not one that can be imposed onto an entire country over the course of 10 years. Western shock therapy cannot function in Rwanda as the government policy for another 10 or 15 years. Rwandans are not Americans. Ideas here are different, solutions, work ethic, efficiency, problem solving efforts- no matter how much this country has been able to appeal to Western sensibilities, it is important that Rwandans begin to employ development efforts that aren’t hopelessly attached to the Western standards set forth by the past 10 years and by Kigali. Solutions to Rwanda’s problems have to start focusing on the long-term issues that affect the majority of Rwandans, not simply the economic and political elite of Kigali.

The shock therapy has given Rwanda a firm foundation on which to build real change. The number of university graduates has quadrupled in the past 10 years. The government now pays for all of primary school and two years of secondary. The hurtles of the recent emphasis on English are being confronted, and on a large scale it is working. Healthcare (Mutuel) has been largely successful and costs less than $2 per year. Technological advances have increased communication in Rwanda on a large scale. The real problems still linger though. Many of the problems that precipitated the “ethnic” tensions of the past 60 years are still just as unresolved as they were in the era of independence. If Rwanda is to continue along the same road, the road of development, of improvement, and positive change, then the relationships between the international community, the state of Rwanda, civil society, and the population must undergo severe changes.

Like the process of memory and memorialization, there must be room for pluralism. There must be room for the truth from different perspectives about the past, the present, and the future. And I know that this is not what anyone wants to hear about his or her favorite African country, but the glossy image of Rwanda needed to be soiled at some point and I’m kind of a messy person.

Mere Words

30 March, 2010

I received my packages today. With much excitement and the use of a surprisingly large knife, I carved my way into the mess of cardboard and tape that protected my treasures from across the great blue. With several people standing around in tense anticipation, including our very Christian, very conservative assistant, I opened the first package, the one filled with underwear.

Corine had told me that everyone had wanted to send something in the package, and she refused to tell me about anything that was included (aside from the underwear, I was really excited about that), so everything I found was a surprise.

I’ve been here now for 3 months, exactly half the amount of time that I will be here in total. When you study abroad, you read a lot of different analyses of what they call “culture shock.” Each study abroad agency has a different one, and I haven’t really found any of them to be accurate, except for their nominal capabilities. In each one that I read, I find new words to describe how I’m feeling. Half way through my experience, which happens to be about 2 months longer than the typical study abroad, I should be: in the disintegration stage (the lowest point before reintegration); feeling homesick, helpless, and depressed; or frustrated, embarrassed, tense, and confused. Most of these analyses are depicted by a line-graph. The main point of the graph is that my emotional state will dip very low before I gradually become accustomed to the foreign culture.

Receiving these packages, though it made me realize just how much I miss all my friends and family, did much more than that; it was a wake-up call. While I’ve been here, of course I’ve felt the homesickness and confusion and tension and definitely the frustration of a foreign culture. Africa can be a frustrating place, especially for an American who wants everything right now. Not only that, but I’ve been dealing with frustration with the program I chose to study abroad with. My classes haven’t been challenging, and I haven’t felt as though my time here was being well spent. I found myself angry and disappointed with my teachers and other authority figures. I wanted to drop out of one of my classes simply to make a statement of principle.
Last week was perhaps the most challenging week since I have been here. It started out pleasantly enough. On Friday we traveled three hours to Lake Kivu on the border of Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Although this geographical region is a focal point of refugees and civil unrest, our time there was relaxing and enjoyable. Aside from being a “home” to the Banyamulenge among several other refugee groups, Lake Kivu is a tourist destination. The water is a cool, blue-green, and clear enough to see the slippery rocks on the bottom. The climate, high in the mountains of Western Rwanda, was breezy and warm. We took a slow-moving wooden boat out to one of the islands on the lake called Napoleon Island. Once there, we began hiking to the top. Along the way, our guides ran ahead of us into the dense forestation on the mountainside, and we heard loud claps. In just a few moments, the sky was thick with bats flying overhead. Thousands upon thousands of large, black and brown bats emerged from the woods to put on their aerial display. Being a small island, the path to the top was steep. The ground was loose with grey and black ash-like dirt, and centipedes lazed in the shade of guava trees. The sky was grey that day, and the top of the island provided a cool and breezy environment to relax. From the top I could see the hillside horizon that was the DR Congo. The water swirled far below me, almost like the top of a rain cloud.

That night we met a couple of German guys that were also staying at our hotel. They worked for a German development NGO; I think it was focused on water purification. It was an uproarious occasion, and late into the night Marcel decided that he wanted to call Corine, after Morgan told him how attractive she is. Instead of hitting on her like I expected though, he decided to tell her that I was in prison because they had found me “in a very dark room.” I don’t know what that was supposed to mean, but it was truly hilarious. After a few minutes, I think she heard the girls laughing and I got on the phone to tell her that, “I’m just hangin’ out with some Germans.” I’m not sure Corine liked it very much.
So it looked as though my week would be an enjoyable one; what with such a great start, it couldn’t go too far downhill. It turns out I was wrong. We returned to Kigali on Sunday, and immediately began packing for a week in Matimba in the Eastern Province. I’m not sure if we just weren’t given much information about what our week would be like, or if I just wasn’t listening. Either one of those options has been proved quite likely during my time here. After another three hour drive across this tiny country, we arrived at TTC Matimba, a teacher’s training college in a rural area. I think it is important to mention that everywhere in Rwanda is basically rural excepting Kigali. The students at TTC are mainly 18 to 19 year olds that scored lower on their tests and couldn’t get accepted into one of the universities in Rwanda. I found it ironic that the school system here sends the students who score low into a teaching career. Nevertheless, the students immediately surrounded us, eager to practice their newfound English speaking skills with native speakers. Some of the questions we were asked were quite entertaining. The conversation would generally go something like this:

Student: I would like to ask you a question.
Rob: Sure.
Student: From where are you in United States?
Rob: Arkansas.
Student: ? (puzzled look) How much money to get to Canada?
Rob: Uhh, probably like three or four hundred dollars.
Student: Oohhhh.

And while this sounds mildly entertaining, it became much less so after it occurred 10 to 20 times. It became even less entertaining when it occurred as I was sitting in my bed reading. While their curiosity was inspiring, I came to resent it. I found it intrusive and boring.

During the week we stayed in the boys bunk, a large concrete and brick room filled with around 15 bunk beds. Throughout the week, I came to understand their lifestyle less and less, each day was a new surprise that further confused my Western sensibilities. Each night the students kept the lights and radio turned on until around 11 pm. After that, they walked around to each other’s bunks to chat in Kinyarwanda until midnight or later. Several times during the night, I woke up to see a small group huddled around a flashlight in the middle of the room. Then, around 5 in the morning all the boys woke up. The radio was switched on along with the lights, and people began to take bucket baths, to dance, to talk, and most of this was done stark naked. Every day, I got out of bed around 7 after a few hours of cocooning myself beneath my sheets and my pillow. Every morning we had a plain omelet and a large piece of maize meal bread. Then we went out into the surrounding area to interview vulnerable families about their lifestyle. Every day we would inevitably be followed by a group of 5 to 35 children that were either too young to go to school, did not have the money to pay school fees, or were wearing their uniform and had just gotten out for lunch time. These children didn’t want anything from us; in fact, they weren’t really interested in communicating with us at all. They simply wanted to stare. In Rwandan culture, mzungus are seen by children as ghosts, and often told that if they are not good, the mzungu will come and eat them. At the same time, however, there seems to be a mysterious attraction to my pale skin. Sometimes, when the crowd of children becomes overwhelming, we all turn around at the same time and growl at them, only to see that their fear is real as they run away screaming.

Interviewing some of the poorest families in one of the poorest countries in the world was a completely life changing experience. Since I’ve been here I’ve been questioning my definition of poverty constantly, and this experience was perhaps the most intense period of redefinition. I found myself looking at people who had a tin roof without holes and more than 1 hectare of land as the wealthy. I said to myself, “These people seem to be doing really well.” Reflecting on those thoughts brings out how ridiculous they really are. I find it amazing that a family with upwards of 10 children finds ways to survive with half a hectare and no other source of income. Access to water generally requires a 2 to 3 hour walk, and that’s on the days that the tap is functioning. Some families had so many children that it became difficult to remember all of the names.

If all of this wasn’t frustrating enough, I was still dealing with my own Western, mzungu problems. For lunch everyday we had a boiled egg, more maize bread, and a tree tomato. This is a good lunch compared to the families that eat maize meal and beans twice a day. Most families only have meat 1 to 3 times a year.

Coming back to Kigali at the end of the week was a relief. I hadn’t showered in 5 days and had tried to tame my bowel movements so as to avoid the boys’ bathroom that smelled like a dirty elephant cage in the zoo. By the time I left, I had mastered the art of squatting over a hole in the ground. Against this background, Kigali became the center of civilization with both Internet and running water. Before I left for the Eastern Province I found myself missing things like Cheezits, good wine, and Waffle House. The frustrations that I felt before I left, or while I was there, have become obsolete. Thinking about staying here for another three months doesn’t intimidate me as much as it used to. Most of the culture shock charts emphasize the development of coping mechanisms. Maybe that’s what is happening. I’d like to think though, that I’ve developed a sense of contentedness with my life at this point.

Getting my packages, with all the comforts of the US, and all the letters from all of the people that care about me even from 5,000 miles away, showed me that my time here isn’t just about how my worldview is changed while I’m here. All of the shallow tensions and frustrations that I’ve experienced are just that, shallow and meaningless. While I value my sanity, I acknowledge that my anger and disappointment with my teachers, with Rwandan public transportation, and the service industry here in general is minute. The ways in which I can see that I’ve affected other people’s worldviews, your worldview if you’re reading this, is what is important to me. Many of the leaders that I’ve met with have urged me to be an ambassador with Rwanda, to share the story of this country, its obstacles, its successes. Although it may not have seemed like much all the way in America, the chapstick, the underwear, the cookies and the candy brought with them a powerful message- a message of success. I have, on some level, made an accomplishment, through all the tension and frustration. It makes me proud of myself to realize that my time here can do something, that it can change the way other people view the world. Thank you all for reading and encouraging and raising me. And now I’m happy that I can finally give something back, even if it comes in the form of mere words.

Puzzles

4 March, 2010

Back in Rwanda

I haven’t posted anything new in a while. This post will bring my time in Kampala to close and explain my first few weeks back in Kigali.

We left Kampala on the 23^rd. We boarded the pastel painted Japanese-made bus early in the morning. My bag was hastily packed, and I’m almost positive that I will never see some of my possessions again. That’s alright though because I don’t want to carry a fully loaded 50-pound bag across Europe. As I crammed myself in between the mounds of luggage and into a small and uncomfortable seat, I thought about my memories of Kampala. Our last few nights in Kampala were some of the best. We finally went out to the big clubs in the middle of town with our friend Kizze. We met the so-called “50 cent of Uganda”; his name is Bobi Wine. Look him up on Youtube, it’s entertaining. At one point we realized, in the midst of pounding club music and a packed dance floor that Kizze had left. Luckily we found a ride with a new friend Peter, and we made it home safely. There’s something about Ugandan men that drives them to almost immediately to fall in love with women, at least the women I spend my time with. So the next day, unannounced, Bobi Wine’s friends showed up at our house in two trucks, driving furiously into our compound. They wanted us to go with them on their boat, where we later found out that they had shot bats and most likely drank a lot of waragi (Ugandan gin). It’s too bad that we didn’t go. I’ve always been interested in hunting bats on Lake Victoria. Now it’s etched in pen on my bucket list.

By and by, my time in Uganda was well spent. We went to class; we went out to eat; we went out to various night venues; we went into the city. It was hot and exhausting and completely full of life. I’ve never seen a city that was so vibrant. Nevertheless, I feel a sense of regret about my time there. I don’t know if it’s unwarranted, or legitimate. I don’t feel as if I did enough “important” or “meaningful” things. It took work for me to think about the issues. It was easy for me to distract myself with the pleasures of globalization. When I really reflect on my time there, however, I realize that this is the problem with studying abroad in such an environment, especially with development work. I had it in my head that I was there to do something, to make some sort of difference, to make things better. And I wasn’t. I couldn’t have. The only difference to be made was in myself. And I did make that difference. I think the time I spent in Uganda gave me a very different image of the African experience than I had previously. For Americans, it’s easy to think of Africa has the destitute, sick continent across the Atlantic, with no running water, and shanty towns that spring out of the savannah. Those places do exist. I’ve been to them. But Kampala… Kampala is a capital city; with many of the luxuries we find in the U.S., it’s easy to get lost, to lose sight of your goals. I wish that I could show everyone reading this the images and memories that I have in my head of the middle of Kampala- the smell of exhaust and the body odor of the bustling crowd, the crunch of a plastic bottle covered in mud as I step into the dense and apathetic traffic, or the street vendors that take up half the sidewalk with their random wares. It all seems so disgusting when I put it into words, but there’s a hidden beauty. Looking back, I reminisce, and I feel nostalgic. I came and went and now I’m gone without much of a trace. But I take with me something more than souvenirs and a few good stories. I’m not sure quite yet what that is, but I think that it’s something good.

After leaving Kampala, we embarked on a long and tortuous bus ride through the Ugandan countryside. One minute I remember being on the rolling hills outside of Kampala, and the next we were surrounded by the towering mountains of the east, covered in banana plantations, with baboons coming out of the forest to cross the street. We went on a two-day long safari. At the safari camp we stayed in dorm-style housing, and ate in the sub-par restaurant that ended up giving one of the other students food poisoning that lasted the rest of the trip. But the safari itself was absolutely fantastic. The first day, we went on a boat tour to see innumerable hippos, water buffalo, and the full spectrum of African birds. Near the end of the tour, we past by a small lakeside village where dozens canoes had pulled up onto the bank. In their midst, a hippo, dead from a masculine brawl floated limply on its side. I took a picture of one of the canoes. It had “Manchester United” painted on the side. Later, we went on a game drive and were lucky enough to see a pair of adolescent male lions lounging at the edge of the bumpy dirt road that our bus managed to meander its way down. At dusk we started for home. With the sun setting, we could see the Rwenzori mountains in the distance (Africa’s 3^rd largest mountain range) painted purple and blue by the equatorial sunset.

We have been back in Kigali for two weeks now. My first week was mostly spent in bed because I was running a high fever and there were suspicions of malaria. I went to an austere Asian doctor after the first night of my sickness, he ran a blood test and an hour later told me that I had neither malaria nor typhoid fever. I spent another two nights with a fever before I went to the eccentric Belgian doctor working out of the Belgian embassy. So, as it turns out, my sickness wasn’t all bad. I got to go to Belgium. The Belgian doctor also told me that I didn’t have malaria. Instead, I just had a virus and would have to wait it out. The next day, I continued to take my Tylenol regularly, and by that night I was well again. I hadn’t pooped for three days, and I drank so much water that my stomach felt like it was going to explode. Sickness in Africa is better than I thought it would be, but maybe that’s just because I wasn’t really that sick.

Friday of last week there were two grenade attacks in Kigali, one of which being no more than a 20 minute walk from our house. There aren’t really any grand schemes or opposition parties in Rwanda that would take credit for such an attack. The country is remarkably stable. Elections are coming up in August though. As they get closer, there are more stories of repressed opposition. After the genocide, political parties based on ethnicity were outlawed, preventing many activists from forming parties outside the RPF (the ruling party, mainly associated as being the Tutsi military force that helped to end the genocide). As elections ensue, more and more parties have been formed, and there have been more and more conflicts over the legal legitimacy of said parties. In my opinion, this is an attempt by the RPF to maintain political power and influence. There have been news stories about the members of opposition parties being beaten in the streets by mobs with ambiguous motives. Leaders of opposition parties are called genocidaires, and their parties are dismembered and ridiculed. Therefore, it seems as though these grenade attacks are an attempt by the people who oppose the RPF and Kagame to tarnish the record of safety and stability that has become synonymous with the name of the Rwandan president. I don’t know if it will happen again, the grenade attacks, or if the RPF has successfully stifled their opposition. This is simply my point-of-view as an American living in the capital.

Regardless of the political implications of all of this, the grenade attacks have severely limited my exposure to the city during the past few weeks. We can no longer take public transportation after five o’clock or on the weekends. Seeing as our classes end at 3, and it takes 30 minutes or more to get into the city from our house, I haven’t been able to do much exploring. We take private transport to and from class, and we walk around the 10 minute radius of our neighborhood. There are some good finds around here. We live near the large blue, white, and yellow stadium where Peace Corps volunteers host benefit concerts and they have an aerobics class on weeknights. Ndoli’s is nearby, where we get junk food and cigarettes. Behind Ndoli’s are the Star Café and La Nouvelle Planete, restaurants and supposed tearooms. We went to La Nouvelle Planete a few days ago hoping for some good African tea (milk steeped with tea and ginger), but all we walked away with was warm milk with a hint of ginger and the largest avocado I’ve ever eaten for a dollar. Also close by is Sole Luna, an Italian restaurant with delicious pizzas and a delightful atmosphere. The only English the owner knows is “I don’t speak English,” but luckily he speaks French so I get to practice. From under the ivy laden terracing, I can see the lights of Kigali at night while I snack on the giant caprese salads that they serve with pillipilli olive oil.

I would like to think, though, that I’ve done more than walk around my neighborhood and eat. And that’s because I have. Although our classes aren’t particularly challenging, we do get to go on meaningful field trips. Yesterday we went to the genocide memorials at Ntarama and Nyamata. I had already been to Nyamata, and I’ve written about it in this blog. Ntarama was a similar concept, but completely different. After I went to Nyamata the last time, I thought my days of genocide memorials were over. It’s so emotionally draining to visit these sites and to experience just a small part of what the genocide means to the people who were affected. Ntarama was much older than Nyamata when it was the site of the killing of 5,000 people, it was much more fragile, and unlike Nyamata, the memorial is much more in your face. As I walked through the gate, I saw that they had constructed metal roofing over the original building, sort of like a large tin carport. The memorial consists of a few building, each of which has a different story, and different significance. The first building was the sanctuary, and immediately upon entering you have to edge your way around a large metal shelf, like something you would see in someone’s garage with power tools and gardening gloves. Instead, the shelf was unabashedly covered with skeletons, skulls, femurs, etc. There is no glass separating you from the bones; it’s simply the shelf, purple and white ribbons, and human remains. Like Nyamata, the rest of the sanctuary is scattered with all of the clothes of the victims, and the smell of mold and death is heavy. At the front of the church, to the right of the altar, are the personal effects of the people who were killed there. It’s mainly shoes and thermoses, but there are also rosaries, a sign of the faith that people maintained until the end, until they were ruthlessly slaughtered in the house of God.

The other significant part of this memorial was the children’s Sunday school room, a building by itself. It wasn’t much to look at, a few concrete pews, tiny enough so short legs would dangle. A grenade had blown out the window; the doorway had caved in. Inside though, it was peaceful, serene. The floor was clean, and a solid beam of light shone into the darkness. On the back wall the was a large brown, dripping stain where the genocidaires had killed the small children by throwing them against the wall.

Today, we went to a gacaca trial. The gacaca system was developed 10 years ago when the court system could no longer prosecute all of the cases from the genocide. The gacaca system relies on communities. Gacaca means “grass-roots.” People are nominated from the community to serve as judges, and to oversee each trial in the community. The courts have the authority to sentence offenders to lengthy prison sentences, or to forgive them completely. The main goal of these courts is so that the community is able to confront the perpetrators and uncover the truth behind the events of 1994. The courts serve as a forum for forgiveness. Today I was able to witness these proceedings first hand (and by first hand, I mean through a translator). We drove 2 hours into the Rwandan countryside. On the typical, African dirt road we were on, we stopped several times to ask for directions to the town where we knew the trial was occurring today. We received that dreaded wave that means “you have a long way to go.” Once we arrived, I realized that the trial wouldn’t actually be outside, on the grass. The building was relatively new. It was simply a large concrete room, filled with wooden benches. Several policemen surrounded the building. A large group of observers waited outside. Several people followed us in. There were sixteen of us, so we took up quite a bit of space. I was wedged between our translator and an elderly woman who walked in with her stick and the colorful fabric wrap that is typical of her age group. There were three cases on the docket. The first was a man who had been sentenced to 15 years in prison and was appealing his case. At his first trial, he had not admitted to all of his offenses, and had not asked for forgiveness. Today, after much prodding from the crowd, he admitted to all his offenses, which included the killing of over 15 people. Through my translator I understood that he was made to recount his part in the genocide, beating his neighbors with a large club and leaving them in a latrine to die. The strange part of this experience was how I viewed this man. When I came in, I was sure I was going to hear a land dispute or something dry, and potentially boring. This man didn’t look like a perpetrator, whatever that looks like. He was wearing a prison pink short-sleeved button-up shirt with matching shorts. The judges, four women, had to keep telling him to speak louder. As members of the community raised questions about his story, he looked at them with deep sorrow, and I could sense his fear.

The second man was much less apologetic. He wore matching prison pink as well. Same as the first man, he was appealing an earlier sentence where he had received 15 years in prison. He spoke much clearer than the first man, and he raised his hand when he felt over-powered by the judges. He was much less straightforward when asked about his offenses. At first his story was innocence. In fact, he had hidden a Tutsi in his home. After an uproar in the crowd (including the elderly woman who sat next to me) his story changed. Now it was that he had only been going to get a beer, and had been caught up in a group that was wandering around the neighborhood and killing children. Another uproar came from the crowd. The argument surrounded this man’s involvement with a mass killing at one of the nearby churches. He said he lived next to the church, and so that is why he was seen close-by. The woman next to me, frail yet powerful, stood up to say that his house was nowhere near the church. Then his story became something like he had just been killing people outside of the church. There was another tangent about the man being seen dumping bodies in a latrine near the church. From what I gathered overall, this man was a part of a group of men who perpetrated the genocide. The days in question he had assisted in the killing of several children, and eventually had involved himself in the mass killings at the church. Our professor told us later that he would most likely receive a higher sentence. Looking back, I wonder. Why would he attempt to skew the truth? These courts are a venue to admit wrongdoing, and to gain forgiveness. From what I have seen and heard, the Rwandan people are very forgiving, almost unbelievably so. So why lie?

I am still attempting to understand the genocide, and why these memorials are such an integral part of the Rwandan experience. I see them now as small, indistinguishable puzzle pieces, like when you have to put together the sky on a 1,000 piece. Alone, they reveal nothing, or very little. Together, there’s not much more than a cloud. I’ve spent a total of one month, non-consecutively, in Rwanda. I’ve been to three memorials. I’ve seen a survivor talk to a perpetrator. I’ve been to a gacaca court. I read every article I can find on BBC and I’ve been skimming through innumerable books about the history and future of this country. Still though, I feel as if I only have two or three clouds to hold onto, not even dense cumulonimbus clouds, but whispy cirrus clouds. What I know, or think I know, seems so fleeting, so temporary. Things are changing everyday. I have all of these tiny, blurry puzzle pieces, and I don’t know how to put them together.