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.

My first exposure to Alison Des Forges (the human rights activist who worked for Human Rights Watch) was through her book – a sweeping account of political violence in Rwanda during 1994.  The book was extensively well researched – her command of the history, personalities and the care with which she took to address the topic was evident on every page. As she spoke, you heard the voice of keen insight, meticulous detail and immense sorrow.

You could not help but be moved by Alison.  With her lovely face and soulful blue eyes, mane of white hair, joints and bones that appeared to be turning inward onto her being (perhaps for protection, perhaps for rest); she was quite something to interact with.  She was as much alive and as variable as the sky itself – constantly moving, shifting and contorting clouds, shapeful, then shapeless, bright, then overcast, thunder, break and clear (again).  She was in, around and under Rwanda.  She admitted so upon the second hour of our first long conversation (the sun peaks through a cloud for but a second before being covered again). 

Perhaps our last conversation however was the most memorable.  I had moved around a table to ask her something.  Up until that point, we had had only brief conversations.  First factual (how did you x, how many people did z kind of stuff).  Then probing (what is your opinion about r or q). Her answers shifted by the hour.  Always intense and pointed; always careful (a cloud moves in from the west).  She entertained me essentially – not really knowing what to do.  Through Al (Stam), I discovered that she did not immediately care for our work on Rwanda but over the two days that we interacted I believe that she began to accept at least us as humans if not the work that we produced.  “I think that you are right,” she said at one point, “but I will never say so publicly.  There is too much for me to lose.  I love this place.  I needed to come back to it.  At least, for a while.  Coming out in favor of your work would hinder that.”

This time, I was shifting the focus.  I was no longer interested with Rwanda but with her in/and Rwanda.  “How have you been able to do this,” I asked.  “This place seems to take it toll on you.  (The sun moved over a large cloud and diffuse beams of light cast downward).  “It was not easy,” she replied.  “I initially had bouts of depression, loneliness, thoughts of suicide.”

Almost imperceptively, she hunched into the conversation, taking me downward with her.  “This place is hard,” she said.  “Luckily, I have this ability to live in/through something and afterward look back and think - boy was I lucky.”

There was no luck in Alison though. At least, none that I could see.  Over the last two days, seeing her, hearing her, it was clear that she was passionate, determined, weathered, stubborn, a force – luck seemed to have nothing to do with her.

We spoke of murder but more we spoke of those who lived around us as we dealt with the horror that makes up our mutual obsession (the sun sits at the middle of some cloud rising now as if it lies at the middle of an explosion of light).  “My husband and I used to share everything,” she continued.  “When he went to China, I was with him as were the kids, but when I started this…. I could not take him with me.  In a sense, it seemed unfair (clouds again moved over the sun).  He had his life but it should not have to involve this.”

She recounted an incident of being surrounded by dogs and carrying babies (some alive, some dead) away from a killing site.  The former (the dogs) seemed more frightening, the latter (the carrying) reflected her uncanny ability to act, to save, to move, to be in action – regardless of the context. 

“You all here know more about what I do and who I am, than those at home,” she lamented.  In part, welcoming me into her world and at the same time revealing that there was a part of her world that was far removed from the current setting of approximately 10 genocide scholars, eating pizza, drinking beer and looking over Kigali in the dusk. 

I told her that she had touched me with her work, with her being and I thanked her for what she did and how she did it.  It was one of the moments you have thousands of miles away from home where the honesty of the moment is upon you and you go with it.  I may not see Alison again, I thought, and as much as she struggled, as much as we all struggled with Rwandaness, it seemed only fitting that I let her know how I felt. 

I do not really know what strength of character exists within me.  I have not yet moved that high or low, I believe.  If I could but muster a fraction of the conviction of this woman I thought, however, then I would consider myself lucky.  At that moment, unlike most, I felt understood and understanding.  (As the intensity of the conversation diminished, I saw the last flickers of light and clouds moving backwards as if retreating in the distance).

(Alison passed on February 13, 2009; one can donate to her scholarship fund at the following link)

From 2003-2011 I was engaged in a research project that took me back and forth to diverse parts of Gujarat, India.  These are some of my stories from those days.

When learning about untouchability from those subject to it, I wondered how anyone knew what caste you were.  Everyone looked kind of broke – tattered clothing and skinny (inversion into the body, kate moss on crack, heroin and diet pills skinny).  The poor represented every hue you could possibly imagine: from Wesley Snipes to Yellowman and some even beyond that.  Only the tribals stood out because of the type of fabrics that they wore and tattoos that adorned their bodies.  Otherwise, though, everyone looked a like. 

Now, initially, I thought that maybe it was an acquired taste.  Put black folk from around the US in the same room and many would just conclude: they all black folk.  For someone who was aware and familiar, however, they would be able to tell urban from rural, north from south from west from Midwest.  The differences are subtle but you could get some of them.  I was told that this was not the case in India and I did not see it.

In answer to my question about how someone knew what caste you were from, I was told that people told you.  It was part of the introduction: my name is x from the bla bla bla in z.

Now, I immediately though that was crazy.  I mentioned that this was different from the states.  I was under the impression that if a black person during the early 1900s (the best comparison to the situation of the rural Dalit) could have gotten away with it, they would frequently try to "pass" – pretend to be someone that was not likely to get their ass kicked.  Why would you opt into oppression, I wondered.

The answer I received was simple: it would not occur to someone to say that they are something other than what they are.  This was because: 1) identities were much more strongly fixed in Indian culture – you are born and die into castes, 2) they acknowledge that there is nothing wrong with who we are but it is the system of oppression and repression that is in need of change. Now, I readily admit that this might just be a function of who I was interacting with. The commonality of the opinion was significant though.

While respecting the nobility of the latter position and difficulty of the first, I was still not able to get my head around this.  My own family (on my mother's side), was still divided on the color line – the lighter part of the klan (who had interestingly all achieved higher levels of education and income – as cops, exporters and teachers) were quite distinct from the darker skin part of the klan (who were laborers, domestics and prisoners).  I even noticed that the more education I got, the more invitations I started receiving from the lighter side.  This was until the great “Why do Niggers bite the hand the feeds them incident” set against Whitney Houston singing to the troops after the Gulf conflict – another story for another time.

The paradox was not lost on me.  One individual at DSK had come from another part of India.  In his home state he was an untouchable.  In that space/place he was subject to a wide variety of discriminatory activities as were his friends, family and neighbors.  In Gujarat though, his caste was not considered untouchable.  Here, he was above the fray, receiving a small degree of respect and access.  This was astounding to me thinking that in one locale one would be a nigger and in another they would be a regular civilian.  "Why would one ever go back home," I thought.  "Do you want to stay?  What are you going to do?"  I hit him with a barrage of questions, thinking about what my relatives would have done had they had the choice.  

To all of my inquiries he said: “on this point, I am very much perplexed.”  Every now and then he would elaborate.  “I wish to help change my situation at home,” he would sometimes say.  “I do like not feeling like I do not exist,” he would add another.  Always though, he would come back to “on this point, I am very much perplexed.”  

After about three weeks of hearing this, he asked me: “what do you think I should do?”  The question struck me.  I could either advance a revolution or stick him back in chains.  I should not interfere, I thought, like the prime directive used by those in Star Trek regarding the non-interference with diverse civilizations.  But he asked me.  I would be remiss if I did not tell him what I thought.  I asked for some time to think about it and after about two weeks I had something for him.

After some thought, I came to think of his question to me as something less of a question than a test.  I remembered where I was and who came to DSK.  The next time I saw him, I said that "it was not perplexing.  Of course, he had to return.  That said, he should come back to DSK when he could to remember what he was doing this for."  Upon hearing this, he smiled at me and said that he knew I would come to understand.  He then flipped the script on me and asked, "why African Americans did try to pass" - historically (we talked about more modern forms of passing as well but that is also for another time).  Why would they seemingly accept the legitimacy of the system and get by as an individual leaving the collective.  Immediately defensive, I started to respond.  How dare he diss the brothers and sisters that did the best they could. I caught myself though and reflected.  The only thing that came to mind was one phrase and I gave it to him with a bit of a grin: “on this point, I am very much perplexed.”  He smiled. As was frequently the case, we had some tea and then we left each other – off to our respective parts of the planet to comprehend, to reflect and of course to struggle. 

He never left me though. The idea of passing has come back to me repeatedly. What does it mean to be African American? What would passing look like?  What would not passing look like?  Who gets to validate blackness?  Is the time of passing over or has it just reached a new phase?  Hmmmmmmmmmm

Recently, an old friend passed.  HIs name was Gil Scott Heron.  According to Gil's obituary in the New York Times, he was "the poet and recording artist whose syncopated spoken style and mordant critiques of politics, racism and mass media in pieces like “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” made him a notable voice of black protest culture in the 1970s and an important early influence on hip-hop, died on Friday at a hospital in Manhattan. He was 62 and had been a longtime resident of Harlem."

Well, this is kind of correct.  Gil is also the person who first "hipped" me to the realities of the world and politics of every situation.  Sitting around between his recording or getting his cover art worked on, he would break things down to me.  It was hear that I first learned about repression, oppression, discrimination and Apartheid.  I had some of the words before these conversations but I did not have the concepts.  

Gil and I would see each other every now and then but the last few were kind of painful because of his problem with drugs.  In fact, this seemed to make it hard for him to talk to me.  I must have just reminded him of something different.  I know that he did to me.  

My last good memory with Gil concerned some time when we were both in London.  I think I was there to hang out for a summer.  He was there for a concert.  Walking down the street, I saw some sign for an upcoming show.  I went to theater and stood outside for him.  Inevitably, he walked by and I stepped up: "Gil, how are you doing?"  He looked at me and said, "fine, little brother" and began to walk away.  I was like, "Gil, it's me - Christian".  He looked at me quizzically.  I then said, "Christian... Christian Davenport - you know connected with Arista Records."  He then smiled and quickly stated: "sorry brother - get over here" (he hugged me). He then continued, "I was going through my mental rolodex of negroes I knew in London and your name didn't come up.  Tell me what you're up too."  

Like so many times before, we spent the next 5-8 hours talking about the world, his career, my going to school and everything he expected me to do and be.  In between he did a show and then we went to go chill in some house somewhere where he did his best to steer me away from what I did not need to be involved with.  


These things Gil could not stay away from and this is partly what did him in. Indeed, my last bad memory of Gil was catching him at the Blue Note or one of those random clubs on the lower east side of Manhattan.  Same deal, I saw some sign that Gil was playing and I went to see him. This time, I figured I would just catch him after the show as I showed up late. I didn't end up waiting however because the show was kind of bad and Gil just did not sound right. I think he saw me at one point and then moved to the other side of the stage (I could be projecting here). At that point, I realized that it was probably not a good thing to check him out after: I did anyway and it was so awkward that I just excused myself. I think we were both embarrassed. I kind of lost him then but kept my memories of all that he did to/for me in my heart.  Indeed, any time I pick up something about politics (which is daily now), I think of Gil.