Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
 

After several weeks of reparations and negotiation, we met Innocent at the café – he was a member of an organization that advocated for those victimized during the violence. Innocent made an amazing impression.  He was intense, soft spoken, present and skeptical.  Our conversation started as many did with translations of introductions, then it was revealed that he spoke English.  As many Rwandans, he did not think he spoke well enough and thus preferred not to but upon hearing him, it was clear he spoke better English than most Americans.

Innocent gave us “the” history lesson about how everything got to this point.  He discussed the structure of the ancient kingdom with their fluid conception of Handbags and Teabags, the degree of formalism introduced by the Belgians – essentially freezing the socio-ethnic divisions, the discrimination of the Teabag minority against the majority Handbag and then the violence as well as discrimination against the majority Handbags against the Teabag minority. This was done with alarming speed as if he had done this a hundred times – which of course he probably had.

All this was background.  His interest lay in telling us what happened after the killing stopped. 

What he described was the growth of a survivors network: first, the victims of one massacre came together in a church, others in a school, others in someone’s house – all began to come back together.  In these cells individuals attempted to recapture their lives: healing, talking, helping each other find food, shelter, information, peace, pieces. 

After a while (over the course of a year or so) an initiative was made to bring all of the cells together and the organization that was formed out of this effort was called Ibuka – a Non Governmental Organization which represented all of the Tutsi victims. 

The story of the organization was told matter-a-factly with no emotion or deviation.  Interrupted by a question or statement, Innocent just continued.  It was clear that we were meant to hear everything.  It was clear that he was meant to tell us this, in the way that he told it.  He assumed that we knew nothing about his country or that, if we did, we knew the wrong stuff. When he was finished, we sat there exhausted; yet, somewhat clearer for the journey.

Innocent’s position/role in the organization was complex.  He was a lawyer by training and wanted to bring justice to those who had suffered.  This was not some abstract thing for Innocent.  He knew who killed his wife, child and father.  The story he recounted for us was detailed but told in the same tone used to explain Rwandan history – factual, clear, direct from the soul but without affect.  I didn’t expect him to cry or anything.  I was probably teary-eyed enough for everyone in the bar.  I did expect something.  He gave nothing. 

He would make the guilty pay but he wanted to use the law to do it.  Al and I were from a society that would have respected this position but somehow we didn’t understand what Innocent had in mind.  Here, we rely upon the law and police because we generally don’t know who did the crime.  If we knew, I always thought, then we might be interested in/willing to address it ourselves.  Despite all of our differences, Al agreed. 

Innocent then went on to argue that if Rwandans took this path, they would never advance. Al and I sat humbled.  Rwandans constantly put you in your place; somewhere that was not quite where you thought it was but clearly not where they were.

Innocent was not quite done. He did not believe in the system that had been created to find, evaluate and judge the accused – this was especially the case for lower-level offenders who were being tried in informal community processes called Gacaca (“Justice in the Grass”).  He identified that the judges were trained for trials in a matter of weeks.  They were frequently part of the same group that did the killings.  There were no court recorders and thus people could lie; all things were done in the open – in the grass, and anonymity was absent.  There was little communication between courts and thus the fact-checking as well as inappropriate behavior was near impossible to catch. 

What was one to do in this situation?  Collect information, eat, sleep, try to find meaningful work, interact with the friends as well as family that remain and wait.  Wait for justice.  Wait for peace.  Wait for an opportunity.  The smallest things in life frequently provide the greatest clues for why to continue living it.

So, Dan Drezner put forward a cogent overview of the recent networking debate about whether or not as well as how political scientists should net work (in his Foreign Policy blog) and he made a few references to some things that merited some comment.  Here are the others in this series:
Posts: Dan Drezner, Dan Nexon, Erik Voeten
Counter-Posts: Laura Sjoberg, Me, Will Moore
Counter-Counter-Posts: Bear Braumoeller

I would argue that there is clearly a "good" approach to networking. I grew up around artists and entertainers. While this has not assisted me in many aspects of my academic career, I believe that it has assisted me with being comfortable talking with people and additionally being able to figure out what I should wear for the day. Dan (Drezner), who I was colleagues with and consider a friend, clearly has this ability as well (both meeting people and sartorialism).  Not everyone feels comfortable talking to strangers or even talking for that matter. Many in our profession also have some problems dressing themselves but that is the subject of another blog - the Academic Sartorialist?  

Despair not however. Individuals like Rom Harre have maintained that we each learn and communicate in slightly different ways. Some are best able to communicate/learn through words, some images, some equations, some sound. We now are beginning to live in an age where you can find your thing and use that as you exchange with others. In short, "everybody's got a little light under the sun".  You just need to find your spot. I do not envision an APSA or a political science where we just have small conversations going on in a large, poorly lit and frequently poorly designed room. This pushes and privileges a certain type of communication/interaction. Rather, I envision an APSA and political science where we have some conversation going on over there, some DJ over here, some 3D projection over here, some film over there, some performance art over here and some large lecture over there. 

Riffing off of Mos Def, people often speak of political science as if it some giant in the hillside or something, where we are just subject to what it does when it decides to come down from it's cave. But, we are political science! We can create what we want for/with this thing. Actually, Dan is a perfect example of this with blogging and Zombified-IR. I'm now working on/pushing for interactive data, film, archiving and animation work. What you wanna do? I think that many of us face a crisis of imagination regarding things like APSA and then get blocked on things like networking.  We don't send ourselves to professional meetings.  We send our representatives (props to [Erving] Goffman and [Chris] Rock). I think we need to start attending - if you get my meaning. Things need to be done to "feed the beast" as it were but we need to start making it our own and taking it where we want to go.

The idea I was trying to communicate in my initial blog is that our discipline is too internalized. We live largely in our heads and publishing venues but if we are to survive, thrive and indeed have any impact at all on our world (which I think we should), then we will need to change this. We begin by meeting and interacting with one another at places like APSA. Awkward it might be but we are much better off from the sense of community and contact that arises from this. For example, has anyone been to a Peace Science meeting? Anyone who has gone will attest to the fact that this is a much smaller meeting than APSA as well as one where you feel immediately accepted, appreciated and very much part of a family. APSA might be too big for this but we never interact with the whole meeting anyway. We stick to our primary interests, panels and people. Well, imagine the meeting in this way: APSA is simply an opportunity for communication, community and fellowship. We can shape it as we see fit.  We need to stop looking for this to emerge from the panels, workshops, business meetings and receptions put forward. There are an awful lot of hours in the day and many places in the cities that we are going to year after year. 

So, you might not be able to chat up the leading political scientists on the fly in some elevator for 30 seconds, but perhaps you have a short film in you that you place as your poster, in the hallway to catch people walking by, on your webpage or in a local bar - ever heard of Pechakucha presentations?  Perhaps you have a cool graphic that you can sport on your t-shirt or a musical composition that you play during your presentation or somewhere in the city where the conference is taking place - folks would come if you told them. Who wants to hang out in the lobby not knowing anyone when they could have some place to do.  Perhaps we should create a multi-media room: something like the old "paper rooms" where everyone deposited their papers for conferences but more allowing for creative diversity as well as more permanence than posters. 

Now, I am not just some extrovert who strangely became a political science or even an optimist - anyone who knows, meets and/or talks with me will readily communicate this to you. Rather, I believe that we have something to gain from interacting with one another at moments when "our people" congregate. Some of these things we have to gain are professional. Many, however, are not and this tends to get lost sometimes in our conversations. 

Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.

Image to left by Jean Michel Basquiat


Ever meet someone who in every aspect of their being exuded something regal, above but not with effort, prideful but not egotistical?  This describes Jasmine to a T (bag that is). 

We met through one of my research contacts: she was one of our local logistics people, who handled everything as well as everyone.  Her English was impeccable as were her demeanor and appearance.  Weekly she had a new haircut – dramatically shortened one time, amazingly braided and longer the next, Kid n’ Play another.  It was like having a one-woman BET (Black Entertainment Television) session or would it be AET cause she was African?  Daily her outfits were astonishing – linen was her thing which came in every color and every design you could imagine, pressed as if it has just come from the dry cleaners.  Nothing impressed you about Jasmine as much as her smile.  When her face would light up, clouds would part and somewhere music chimed, like a good soundtrack should.

As the Rwandans we generally met were closed, reclusive and quietly hostile, Jasmine was engaging, open, helpful, charming, kind, commanding and pleasant.  The difference could be explained in part because she was brought up abroad – like many who had recently returned.  The local culture had not gotten to her yet. 

Now, this said, Jasmine was not overly any of these things.  She would explain but never give too much detail.  She would assist us but never fully deliver.  She would take us somewhere but never quite all the way and when things got tight/tense she would dismiss us from the room, leaving us with glimpses of the secret world she occupied but little understanding.  It was like we were Diane Keaton in the Godfather when the door closed, except they weren’t Italian and this was no movie. 

The regality of which I speak was revealed clearly one day in seemingly the smallest of instances. Jasmine would hold a pen as if she never held one.  Not the award way that Bush Jr. tried to check out at a supermarket but rather the way that one imagined a great writer would hold an instrument. She would walk as if she was nailed to a board – perfectly straight like 6 o’clock.  She seemingly knew everyone or, at least, everyone that we needed to know and equally as important they seemed to know her. 

We went to lunch one time – a new Rwandan place and invariably she would be stared at and someone would approach her.  It was not quite as over the top as the scene in Coming to America with Eddie Murphy when a former subject bows and stuff but it was clear that something was going on and that they were not socio-political equals.  The conversation was short, the head slightly tilted below Jasmine, eyes cast downward.  Something was up, but what? We could never quite figure it out and banana beer was not helping.

Another time, in front of the Milles Collines, I saw her get out of an automobile that made a Hummer look like a Volkswagen Beetle.  The man in the front seat played for the Pittsburgh Steelers (I believe); not just one player but the whole defensive front line.  I saw him/it/them walk around and open the door for Jasmine, who delicately stepped out.  As she left, you saw the window go down, some face peered through smoke (which filled the inside) and then it pulled back.  The window then went up and the truck/tank/airbus pulled off, dragging the surface of the earth with it. Now, because of my family I have seen a bunch of celebrities in a wide variety of settings. Met the late Michael Jackson before all the cosmetic changes and again later after he transformed. Met En Vogue, the late Whitney Houston. Heck, I even met Robert Flack, Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick, Barry Manilow as well as a host of Hip Hop artists you have never, ever heard of, but this was some next level blingy type $h@t.

Yet another time, some man approached Jasmine in a restaurant when she had left our table to go to the counter and order.  She seemed to be somewhat familiar with the guy but did not really acknowledge his presence.  The guy’s look was priceless.  Remember when the character in the Bugs Bunny cartoon looked at his friend like a hot dog?  That was the look.  In response, we saw an amazing switch; Jasmine turned from her normally pleasant and engaging self to some off-putting, curt and rude person.  To this, the man appeared to move in close and say something. 

Responding, I thought in a natural and somewhat chivalrous manner, I stood up to assist our host who appeared to be in distress.  My traveling companion and friend, Al (Stam) immediately grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down.  “Do you really want to get into something here?”  He continued, “Do you have any idea what is going on and who is involved?”  He was, of course, correct. I had no idea.  We rarely did.  Who was this guy?  What was the nature of his relationship with Jasmine?  How many guys did he have with him (we later counted 5). 

Part of the strangeness of the situation was derived from my knowledge of what happened during 1994.  Another part of this was Rwandan culture.  It was eerily quiet there – too quiet.  Everyone walked around, worked (usually hacking or pulling something in a field), talked and/or scowled at passersby.  Think of a Brit, add in some Scandinavia and then multiply. Actually, the only time you heard a loud Rwandan was when banana beer and music were involved – a combination that was quite unsettling on more than one dimension.  I always found myself simultaneously more relaxed at seeing Rwandans finally unwind and more fearful at the same sight; did I really want to be present when they let loose?  Nope, is the answer.  Once was enough. 

At the same time, I was frustrated by Rwandan unity and their us-nosity; juxtaposed against my otherness and outsider status. Indeed, I don’t think that I was ever in a situation where I felt that if you called someone out that a whole bunch of people would show up to kick your ass.  This was far, far worse than the time I got off the wrong stop in South Boston (in the 1980s), making it look more like Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.  Heck, it even made New York’s Alphabet City where Hell’s Angels used to hang out (again in the 1980s) look like a lil bike club. Just something in the way they moved…

I supposed this is the reason that Jasmine stood out.  She was one of them but not.  And every one seemed to know it.

Despite our pleasantries, however, Jasmine and I had one repeated tension.  Because of how she carried herself and interacted with folks, I would constantly call her Princess.  Poking fun, I would go out of my way to open doors, stand up when she left a room and all the rest of the chivalrous package (cue Hugh Jackman in that movie with Meg Ryan, which no one but me seemed to see).  Whenever I did this, Jasmine would get serious and would tell me not to “do such things.”  As it seemed to bother her in an odd way, I continued to push the issue and did it continuously.  I’m just kind of like that (as you have gathered by this time).

One day, Jasmine had come over to remind us about bringing our water bottles – one must continually hydrate when in country.  After she left to check on where our driver was, some person sat down next to us and mentioned that we were lucky to receive such treatment.  Thinking he uttered a sexist remark (with the woman bringing the men some beverage) but unsure, I said “yes, she is very nice.”  Pushing the issue, the gentlemen repeated “no, you are very lucky to receive such treatment from her.  Royalty in Rwanda never performed such duties (pause) historically.”

At that last remark, Al and I looked at each other and I said, “Excuse me?”  The man went on to explain that Jasmine was part of the old Tutsi (my bad - Teabag) royal family who because of the current context kept a low profile.  Some in the country wanted the monarchy to return to power.  At the time, the deposed king was hiding in the Northeast of the U.S. 

But, I digress.  When told that Jasmine was royalty, we couldn’t believe it.  At the same time, it made perfect sense.  Al immediately started laughing and repeatedly did so during the trip because of how many times I put my foot in my mouth. 

Upon being confronted with our new information and asked why she never told us, Jasmine blushed and said that she thought we knew.  I said that I did not and apologized for any discomfort/danger we put her in.  As she said, “it was alright”, she tried to put a happy face on the whole thing.  Al continued to laugh and in fact he did this for months, unable to believe how incredibly stupid I had been and how simply hilarious the situation was.  We literally got the royal treatment and in many ways at once.

Why do we do what we do?  Why do we study political science?  There are many reasons but I joined for three reasons: 1) to get paid to think about things and tell people about what I came up with, 2) to have 4 months off during the year as well as much control over how I spent my days as possible and 3) to try to change the world.  I admit that I over reached a bit on the last one but what the hell: I was young.  

Now, I mention this because although I was clear on what I wanted to do and be my junior year in college, I made the mistake of going to Binghamton University.  No offense to the school intended.  They covered me completely for 4 years with no greater responsibility than maintaining an A average and after figuring things out a little, I managed to get a very good beginning to my education.  Things have continued since this time.

So, Binghamton was a mistake not because of the school itself but because of how people in the profession viewed the University and because I could have gone to a better ranked school but did not. I didn't know it mattered. I thought that I just needed to pursue my interests and the rest would work itself out.  How naive I was.

Binghamton trained me to get a job but at every turn on the job market and frankly for years afterward, I got questioned like it was comps.  Now, I have been around long enough now to understand how interviews go when you want the candidate and believe that they will be a major addition.  This I did not get.  In fact, I would argue that I got second guessed a great deal.  There was the lunch with Charles Franklin and Andy Sobel at my Washington University interview when I barely had a chance to eat as they asked me questions about analyzing time series data. John Sprague continued grillings over coffee and seemingly every other passing in the hall. I don’t think that I would have gotten this grilling had I been from Princeton or Yale as this is where everyone there seemed to have their degree from. This is all just speculation of course but the second guessing because of affiliation thing is not just a thing of the past however. One faculty member at the University of California at San Diego a year ago (when I was considering a job there) asked me “so, I have been meaning to ask: why Binghamton University?”  This is twenty years after I graduated from the place. Who cares where I went to school?  Well, evidently this faculty member cared and I think there are many out there that share the opinion.

My point. In the past day or so a handful of prominent bloggers, who happen to hold degrees from political science programs ranked more highly than Binghamton's have been talking about networking at meetings (see here, here, and here).  Well, in my experience good work does not just speak for itself, so I thought I'd offer my thoughts.

Good ideas and good work go far in this business and this is basically the baseline from which everything happens.  At the same time, if you have that but no quality mentorship (people telling you whats up and down to your face) or, more importantly, sponsorship (people acting on your behalf with you not having a clue), then there is only but so far you can go.  These people are advisors, mentors, sounding boards but also letter writers, people who recommend you to funders and publishers.  These people are your lifeblood.  As the saying goes: it takes a village and, folks, these are your villagers. Treat them well.

So, should you go to APSA to “network”?  F yeah!!  Coming out of Binghamton I did not have access to heavy hitters in my chosen area – a more comparative take on conflict and contentious politics, like Ted Gurr and Charles Tilly (my interview at the University of Houston explicitly revealed that they wanted someone that did “Ted Gurr like stuff”).  I had to meet these people on my own and I did this at conferences as well as workshops.

Gurr I met at one APSA meeting following a session on the LA riots.  Yes, I went to the meeting specifically for this purpose.  I sat the whole panel nervously debating whether I should approach him or Doug Mcadam (another important scholar in the area). I came to the session ready.  I had a cover letter, my vitae, and three unpublished papers.  After the session, I “bumrushed” him: introduced myself, said something clever and then handed him my packet.  It was not brief.  We talked for long enough that Will Moore (who I would meet later and who was accompanying Gurr) sat down, realizing that this could take a while.

The connection was essential.  Gurr helped me get an interview and probably job at the University of Maryland, he allowed me to briefly run Minorities at Risk, he introduced me to individuals at the Political Instability Task Force (who later offered me a job to run their project on genocide) and he served as a letter writer, advisor and probably reviewer more times then I know.  

I met Charles Tilly more or less the same way.  To meet Chuck I traveled to New York from Washington DC every other week and bumrushed a workshop that he ran out of Columbia.  I just started showing up and engaging. This has been suggested by others as part of the “do good work” suggestion. I also started meeting with him for coffees and conversation which helped me grow tremendously. Not only did Chuck give amazing advice but he sent people my way as an "expert", he wrote letters, he read everything as well as everybody and he inspired me to not only continue to follow the party I had chosen but to do my best to be the best scholar I could.  Perhaps the smartest human being I met personally suggested that I was not an idiot and that I should continue.  This might not sound like much but this always meant a great deal to me.

Later I became a bit more strategic with my networking.  I picked 5 people whose work I admired and invited them to coffee or a drink.  These folks were not all heavy hitters.  I looked for kin, fellows, my peeps. Never start with a meal, I thought. We would talk about what they were working on and for a few minutes I would discuss what I was doing.  I would later hand them a paper or later a cd (remember them?) or later a digicard (sleep on this innovation?) or later still a flashdrive or invitation to a dropbox folder.  Sometimes it worked out and I got some important feedback. Sometimes it did not. Sometimes I just got to share with someone that I really enjoyed their work and got to hear how they thought as well as get a sense of how they did what they did. Sometimes I made a new friend. Sometimes I didn’t.  All good though. The contact with other scholars, other humans similarly engaged, brought the vocation/calling back to life for me.  I am now renewed by every experience, every conversation.  This is something else I got from Tilly.  A love for the interaction that accompanies what we do. We might be geeks but geeks need some love and some communion as well (wasn’t this the point of those movies in the 1980s and 1990s about nerds?).

Now, perhaps the gripe against networking is that it makes us sound careerist and overly-strategic, but so what.  The academic market is not a nice place and tenure-track jobs are not falling from the trees – at least not for those who are not from the elite institutions in the US (which is the majority of the population). This is especially the case now. You might be able to tweet, skype, email, instagram and viber with folks all over the planet but when it comes down to it three to four people in a room are going to make a decision about you that could influence several years to the rest of your life. Every little bit of information they can get about you could help your case – especially when you are not from a top institution. And one piece of information that might turn the tide is contained in that little interaction you had with someone at some panel, some reception or some small conversation after a business meeting.  

Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.
 
The meeting was set. We were picked up by Innocent and a rather well-built gentleman driving the car also named Innocent – I mentioned that this was a common name, no?  Greetings were exchanged which took about 15 to 20 minutes and then we were off. 

There was little chatter on the ride. All eyes moved in different directions but our minds were clear. We were going to meet one of the leaders of the largest Tutsi survivor organization: Ibuka. The group that formed shortly after the violence was completed -- bridging makeshift support groups, church organizations, NGOs and politically oriented individuals across Rwanda. Given the significance of the victimized group -- has told, they were the primary targets of violence in their numbers dwindled to basically nothing in the short time of it because they were killed but they had to flee.

After driving for quite a while we pulled up to a wall. The driver signaled to some guy with a machine gun, who in turn signaled to another individual in the metal gate retracted -- slowly and loudly. Once the door was open enough, the car pulled in -- revealing about 5 to 6 armed guards, several trucks and about a dozen people mulling about. No one pays any attention.

Out of the car, we walked up some stairs, through a door, down the corridor and up into another area. Here the guard stopped. Innocent, the first one, walked in with us and he then sent down -- gesturing that we should join them. The anticipation was immense: what is the leader of a Tutsi survivor organization like? What was he before the killing? What is he now?

I don't know who I expected to walk in but it was not the man who came through the door. He was small, old, meek and with a set of front teeth that could best be described as a free-for-all. Catching myself it occurred to me that perhaps America warps one's sense of leadership. The men had no suit, no manicure, no hairdo, seemingly no charisma at all - at least by my as yet unidentified but evidently existing standards. That said, he was one of the leaders of the organization so there must have been something there. Perhaps I just couldn't see it. After lightly shaking our hands, he sat down, the back of the chair seemingly swallowing him as he crouched into it.

Jumping right in, he told us of the beginning of his organization. There were hundreds of small groups all over he said. One by one we started bringing them together, giving us our voice. He then spoke of the current government. Smiling devilishly he said, “we disagree on a great many things but they have made great strides.” All the while Innocent, the first one, sat there obedient, quiet -- I've not seen him this way previously. Normally he had such a commanding, powerful presence. In front of us. However, now he was a different individual entirely. It made me think of some of the ministers of the Nation of Islam on their own as opposed to being in front of Farrakhan or some other leader. No smiles, no bow ties, no side conversation, just nods of approval and looks of seriousness.  Every now and then a guy with a machine gun would show up to inquire about beverages and refills. We always said no. No need to bring him back too much, I thought.

The leader then spoke of the government efforts at truth and reconciliation – Gacaca.  “These are flawed, very naïve strategies” he began. “There were not even created with such grave activities in mind -- historically. They were community level courts that address small grievances like theft or property violations. How do you go from one to the next? How do you go from stealing a chicken to killing family?  Very poorly,” he said.  “Very poorly. We watch all of these things. But quantum. Talk to the government about our concerns. Write about them. We have hope that there is a way to go.”

“And what is it that you wish to do,” he said to me, almost shocking me with his return to a two-way conversation. I started to explain but shortly into our conversation he began to say that “it is important -- your work.  The truth must be known. If we can help, we are more than willing to do so.” He gestured to Innocent, the first one, identifying him as a useful collaborator. We then chimed in that we would like to take the study that they conducted in Kibuye (a house by house survey of who was left and how individuals died) and replicate that throughout the country. He had clearly been told about our interest and smiled, crookedly. “Yes, that would be nice.” Quickly he added, “but be careful though.” At saying this, he stood, walked to a bookshelf, pulled out a book and put it in front of us. “This person sought the truth. They provide one of the most thorough investigations of what happened in the relevant commune. Very good. Very good work.”  Looking at his watch and beginning to move toward the door, he said both quickly and directly, “the author died – unfortunately.  Be careful.”

With that, innocence stood (the concept not the man), the door opened, we were escorted out and driven back to the Milles Collines by a different driver – we did not get his name either.  Sitting down in the car, Al (Stam) and I looked at one another and looked out the window. We did not speak. After we got out and wave goodbye, we went in to get a drink but ended up having about three. We were not exactly sure why we needed one know what happened at the meeting but we felt that after meeting the godfather of survival one needed to toast one’s own.

Note: Between 1999-2004 I traveled around Rwanda during research. Many things happened on my trips and it is only now that I start to share them.