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.