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. 

I had seen bars on windows, houses with gates as well as armed guards, even a dog or two at an opening of a fence, but Rwanda was quite different.  For those that had and wanted to keep their stuff, there were armed guards with machine guns and bats with nails in them and the walls were eight to ten feet high, topped with pieces of broken glass as well as barbed wire.  Now, these were not ordinary pieces of glass; they were immense shards, jagged and multicolored of about two by three inches a piece.  They stretched upward from the wall like a thousand little knives, sharpened to pointed perfection. 

The combination of all the factors struck me as bizarre but especially the last.  Would not the barbed wire do so much damage that the glass really served no purpose, I thought?  Well, yes, probably but this was not the point.  Barbed wire was not part of the average Rwandan’s life whereas most would be familiar with what broken glass could do. 

On entering a wealthy Rwandan home, one would see immense lawns, the shadow cast over the remaining wall – moonlight bouncing off the shards in between the beams of light like a prism of (in)security.  The house was huge but sectioned off – more defensible spaces I suppose.  We were led to the living room, greeted by the Ms. (not the Misses – different house, different story) who was adorned in a stunning shock of color and excess.  While we could not see the rest of the house and were offered no tour, one could see eight doors on different sides of the room.  We were in the center of the maze, very fitting I thought.

The house was elegant, tastefully sparse, decorated with a few masks, fabrics, paintings and pottery from different parts of Africa.  Before sitting down, Mason, myself and Francis (another colleague from Maryland on the project) to see the different pieces of art a little closer.  At some point, the Ms. excused herself (she needed to check something in the kitchen), leaving through one of the doors.  We looked at the handmade crafts (the chairs, table and bowls) and then looked at each other.  By any standard, this place was amazing.  The Ms. blew in and out about five times in one door and out another.  By the time we turned around the table was filled with food of all kinds – the ripest of fruit, the tenderest of meat, the sweetest of smells, some potato-like dish and something else that I had never seen.  Very quickly, we knew that we were in for one hell of a meal.  The four of us started eating out of the handmade bowls, later being joined by others – emerging from the different doors.  Every now and then I glanced though the window and out to the wall, seeing someone with a machine gun walk past. 

The next day we walked through some street in Kigali (the capital and home to the hotel in the movie Hotel Rwanda), closely navigating near the restaurant fronts whose guards kept the hundreds of beggars and money-changers at bay. One could see several hundred more in the cracks of the city (between buildings, in alley ways, on the hills).  The street was a buzz with activity, as always.  There were a million and one colors, smells, accents, faces and outfits.  Some wore three-piece suits, some wore only an old piece of African cloth.  Interestingly none wore shorts, despite the ridiculous heat.  This was considered rude and left for Mizungus.  Given the heat, being viewed as an outsider essentially sucked on every dimension but this one.

As we walked, three cars blew down the street, moving faster than anything else.  One of them seemed to miss everyone by inches and then as quickly as it turned onto the street, it turned and moved toward the bank.  Never slowing down, the car came to a screeching halt.  Guards came up on either side and someone in a fabulous two-piece suit stepped out.  If I had to guess, I would say Armani - all black, well-tailored.  More guards showed up and now with about six people on either side the man walked toward the building.  After he was inside, more guards came out, opened the door to the car and then three more individuals came out – one looking more important than the next.  Greetings were made and then they all entered the building.

We asked our guide: who was that?  To this, he only responded: “there are many in Rwanda with a great deal of money. That was obviously one of them.”  We looked at each other and smiled.

Sitting down for lunch across the street from the bank, behind an open fence, three guards, two machine guns and a big stick, I tried to pinpoint my feelings.  I had felt all this before but could not find the moment.  Then I remembered.  On one street in New York city, a homeless woman walked up to a bank deposit drawer, opened it, pulled down her pants, leaned back and furrowed her brow as she took a dump.  At the same time, some guy with an equally beautiful suit and amazing briefcase under his arm walked out of the bank and into a limousine.  The two most likely did not see one another but through me they occupied the same space and that cohesion as well as tension was tremendously unsettling.  How could the two exist in the same space?  What was I supposed to do with that information?  How was I supposed to ignore it?  Why was I allowed/guided to see it?  How could such stark differences exist?  Did they?  How could the car pass through the crowd like a ghost?  Which one was dreaming – the one or the other?  Did it run through the crowd or over it and I just was not able to see the poorer victimized?  What would happen if the bars were not there or the guards or the glass?  Would there be some Hobbesian “free for all”?  Was I not seeing one already? 

Too much thinking.  Where the hell is my tea?

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.

The hotel in Butare (the college town of Rwanda and second largest city) was sparkling white and it seemed the staff was bent on keeping it that way – literally.  They seemed to constantly be on their knees.  Every day they washed the floors, the walls and windows. As I walked down the hallway, porters and cleaners busily went about their business.  One needed sunglasses to walk by so as not to be blinded.

Breakfast was always the same.  Upon reaching the dining room, I made eye contact with the host, found a seat and within seconds was brought a pot of tea, milk as well as a bowl of white and brown sugar on a tray.  Now, interestingly, in this hotel you could never just get a cup with no milk and no sugar.  This was how they served it and there was no deviation.  If there were two of you, then you would each receive the same tray: a pot of tea, milk as well as a bowl of white and brown sugar.  There was no sharing: one pot, two cups.  I tried several times to modify the practice: identifying that the two different people could share the milk, the sugar and even the pot; noting that they could save their resources.  All this was to no avail, however; the exact same trays kept on coming.

The breakfast itself was pretty simple.  Pretty bland as well: white bread, jam, sweet bananas and some kind of peach-like fruit were available on a table in the center.  One could also order some pancake-like substance or some eggs – as long as they were boiled, you were ok.

The other guests seemed to arrive in shifts.  If you were an early bird you caught the older crowd: businessmen, military personnel and seasoned travelers getting a jump on the day.  The Rwandan work day is pretty short.  Also, if one wanted to get anywhere in Rwanda (avoiding the perilous high-speed journeys by moonlight), then they had to get started as soon as possible.  Later birds caught the younger crowd: tourists, idealistic anglo do-gooders from the far corners of the Western world.  After a relatively late night with some bizarre drink from Uganda, this morning I was sitting with the latter.  Alas, I have identified a third group: those who are recovering.

This day, I immediately noticed a new group of young people – they sat at a table in the middle of the room.  I sat at my usual corner table, started to pour my tea before getting some bananas.  Several glared in my direction – trying to ascertain my background but they were thrown off by my Kinyarwandan greeting to the host.

At that moment, Prof. Robert Bates (from Harvard) entered the room.  Now, in many respects Bob defines the stereotypical Africanist scholar to a tee: white hat, white suit, white person, upright, astonishingly aware of history – specific parts of it, people – certain classes and policies – most of them.  In other respects, he was about as different as it comes: he was kind, engaging, personable and interested in understanding the world around him.  Despite sticking out like a single grain of rice on a sea of black beans, it was clear that he was comfortable here.  It was also clear he was totally different from everything I had seen in Rwanda up to that time. 

Indeed, after leaving Kigali one rarely saw the color white at all – in any of its forms: skin or clothing.  At the Milles Collines (the hotel in the Hotel Rwanda and main spot in the capital), it was almost as if a white suit was the official costume (as if communicating that regardless of location, I will still be unsullied/untouched by the dirtiness of the place).  Bob seemed very untouched, floating into the room and toward his group of students.  We caught a glimpse of each other quickly and immediately he gave me the warmest of greetings.  He then turned, introduced me to the students and we all sat down.

The group was nothing short of amazing.  Evidently, Bob had been talking to his class about the Rwandan truth and reconciliation effort – Gacaca.  The students had decided that they wanted to help, they had contacted Rwandan authorities, generated some cash, got Bob’s assistance (who admitted to doing very little) and they traveled to Rwanda to assist in the process.  The group was diverse – I mean, they were all white and seemingly with means but there was some diversity among them (kinda).  One had lived in numerous African countries, another had never been to Africa before.  Most spoke English, French and a few other languages.  All had engaged in some kind of activism/advocacy before.  Compared to most of the kids I taught at the University of Maryland - where I has a Professor at the time (many of whom had never been out of the country and who engaged in little to no activism), I could hardly believe my ears.  The upper-crust arranged field trips to Africa.  The working-class slept in my political film class and haggled about when assignments were due. 

Now, clearly this is a simplification: I think all students haggle and I know for a fact that many of my students at Maryland upon hearing about Rwanda wanted to do something, anything.  They just did not take it to the level that these students did to find out what could be done and then make it happen.  They also did not/could not tap the resources of the school, parents, friends, multinational corporations in their family/circle or the Harvard alums to bank roll it.

I just sat there hating and admiring Bob's students while at the same time hating as well as loving my students.  As they rattled on about what they were doing and what they saw, I could only see and hear my kids – wondering how they would respond if they had the same opportunity, what they would see, what they would tell the others at home.

Now, exactly what the Harvard group would do to be helpful was unclear.  Hell, at that point, the Rwandans themselves were still trying to figure out what they were doing with Gacaca.  But all the students believed in it (some intensely), and their attitude was at once refreshing and alarming; Refreshing because the exuberance they showed made me happy to be alive and an American, which was rare; Alarming because, despite seeing many flaws, no guarantees of honesty or protection of witnesses, no investigation into anyone’s testimony, no coordination between sessions, the lack of evidence necessary to bring someone to court, their optimism seemed unqualified. 

I then thought that my students would not have been duped like this.  Their conception of the world was somehow more realistic about such matters.  Perhaps the water is clearer from the bottom of the pool. 

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.

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.

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.

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.


I had admired a honey pot in innocent’s house which she quickly gave to me as a gift (I learned later to watch what I admired openly as it would be taken as an opportunity to [a] graciously provide the guest with a nice present and [b] serve as an excuse to get some new stuff).  When inquiring into where it was made, innocent smiled and said that we would stop there on the way back to Kigali. 

On that trip, we took the usual rocky, roller-coaster from hell that is the Rwandan interstate.  Traveling is always memorable.  You bolt along at untold speeds - the speedometer’s broke, with untold amounts of gas - the gas gauge broke too but the driver’s spend so much time with the car that they just know when its time.  Cars approach, you flash the lights to acknowledge them. Cars wish to pass (for the interstate is two-way), you wave them along when it is safe – i.e., when they can squeak in front of you with at least five inches before they hit the oncoming automobile. 

While Death Race 2003 is taking place along the roadside you see people trying to get a ride (signaled by holding the right hand upward as if to say – “well”).  There are cows being led by children with sticks.  Elders follow behind.  There are people hacking trees, selling tomatoes, selling clothes, baskets, gum, soda – everything.  People carry gas cans filled with water.  People carry buckets filled with metal, rocks and plastic.  People carry each other on skooters, wheel barrels and bicycles.  Then one passes a hill with several huts making the sharpest of turns seemingly at full speed.  I am told that we are almost there. (I'm always told that we are almost there.) 

Expecting to see some kind of storefront, I look out the window.  All I see are rows of mud houses.  We turn up a steep hill (the kind where you are sure that you will have to get out and push).  Then the hill leveled off but the paved road went back to the highway, leaving us to our own devices.  At this point, I saw something quite shocking. 

I saw three handicapped people (two with missing legs crawling and one with a missing arm walking with the other two).  They had just come out of an open area which contained hundreds more individuals with missing limbs.  This site was shocking not because of who was there.  I have obviously seen people with missing limbs.  It was shocking because it occurred to me that I had not seen any handicapped people anywhere else.  It was as if all had been brought to this spot.  Just as quickly as I saw this, the truck rumbled off still further.

We then pulled up into a seemingly empty courtyard. Everyone got out and the driver went to a huge metal door – banging on it like in some old horror film.  Some Kinyarwandan was spoken and the huge doors were opened.

As we walked in, we were immediately sized up by a group covered with black dust who were taking a break.  Next to them were huge, unfinished pots.  We passed small buildings no bigger than eight feet by eight feet, each containing something different – plates, mugs, sculptures – in between the building children and women began to observe us. 

Upon a small clearing, we were led up to a series of buildings, the doors were open and our guide stepped back.  It was like the King Solomon’s mine of pottery.  They’re were pieces all over the place, in all corners of the room: mugs, statues, plates, bowls, pots for honey as well as stews, vases of all sizes and fishes – in room after room. 

The prices were unreal; it was essentially free.  Indeed, the only restriction on how many purchases that we were going to make was the weight of what your luggage would be or the security of the items from being crushed or stolen. Now, the former issue was problematic because each piece weighed a ton.  The pottery was formidable with an interesting glaze placed over a wide variety of colors.  The latter was problematic because it was clear looking behind the doors and in between the guards moving back and forth that the luggage going through the Rwandan system would not be treated delicately or with much concern for anything.  If you put it through the system, the system was going to go through it.  The key was to select something that the system didn’t really like.  Alternatively, one could through an old timex in the bag to distract the baggage handler (these are a dime a dozen in the states but a Rwandan piece of pottery;.

As my associates wandered around, looking at different pieces, I looked at how the pieces were made.  Huge open areas on top of fiery bricks were used to heat the pottery.  You could feel the heat from 15 feet away.  The pots cooled in the open air – steaming, unglazed, unfinished.  At all points along the process, one saw the same faces – we toil for you mizungu being the message. 

Stepping in between two buildings I realized that the village we saw earlier was only part of a larger structure.  A series of houses moved along down a path coming from the hill top.  One could see people moving up and down the walkway – children playing, children working, women carrying children, women working, occasionally a man would be seen – drinking (I never saw a woman drinking in Rwanda in eight years of traveling there).

The houses at the bottom of the hill were not nearly as nice as those which displayed the pottery.  The whole scene reminded me of Mullet Bay in St. Martens – an old spot where my father used to take the family to fish, gamble and frolic (I was allowed the first and the third) as eviction notices awaited our return.  Mullet Bay was an amazing resort – new buildings, immaculate beaches, pristine dining and excellent service. On the plantation, all was good. 

One trip however (after leaving the Playboy club with my friend Adam), we ran across the cropier that had befriended us.  He would throw a game our way now and then so we had some extra dollars for lap dances.  Being kind, he invited us to his home for a drink.  Upon reflection, the whole thing was a small form of rebellion to show us how things really were in his country. 

As we walked, we saw the dramatic shift in just about everything: road quality, the disappearance of the color white and lights, the reversal of smiles that were seemingly plastered on everyone’s face to frowns (a natural response to what we saw around us), an increase in the number of people sitting outside, the size of houses, the volume of the music increased.  I felt like the girl in Dirty Dancing who was shown the underside of the Catskill resort scene.  What we saw in no way shape or form was comparable to where we stayed on the island.  At the sight of his home, meeting his daughter (who couldn’t wait to work in the hotel) and wife (who already worked their as a waitress), all I could think about was burning down the hotel.

At the strong smell of a cow washed over me, I was brought back to Rwanda.  It was not actually one cow but a small procession of several emaciated ones.  They let the cows go through the middle of the pottery barn.  I thought of the phrase regarding a bull in a glass shop but there seemed to be no problem as the cows seemed to know where they were going as well as how to get there. Here, there was a connection between the community and business unlike that seen on St. Martens.  Both were built by outsiders but the distance (physically, socially and economically) was negligible.  The two worlds were always a few yards away, traversed by voices, children and cows – repeatedly. 

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)

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. Names have been changed to protect the innocent (and those less so).

One day Mason, the Rector, and I were having a meeting regarding equipment that was needed to build a computer lab at the National University of Rwanda in Butare.  It was actually not my meeting; I was just there while Mason and the Rector hashed it out.  Money from US AID had already been obtained to facilitate the effort and thus this was not a problem.  All they had to do was come up with the list. Mason outlined the options.

The facility could go for a large number of slightly used computers (an opportunity facilitated by some computer company in the States who could no longer sell them to the crowd who wanted next year’s technology).  Alternatively, the facility could go for a smaller number of new machines: flat screens with rewritable dvds, crazy ram, video-conferencing and the whole shabangabang.  The choice to me seemed obvious but the Rector was clear: “I want the newest ones.” 

On the one hand, I understood his point – let’s get up to speed with the commonly identified best technology of the day.  They did not want to be further behind than they already were.  On the other hand, this made no sense at all. The effort they put forward was amazing but limited.  The best of the best that the government put forward were wonderful kids, bright, dedicated and with life experiences that put most humans to shame. However, the majority of the students at the school were barely logging in and when they did get on they spent most of their time looking at porn (like the rest of the world).  These kids did not need the newest version of Word or Photoshop.  Naively, I thought the best move would have been to go for more bang for the buck but I was not aware of the target, the size of the unit or the overall objective of the banging.  If the used-computer route were taken, almost everyone at the school would have gotten access.  If they went with the new computers, then there would be a line around the campus as people waited their turn.  It was not desired that all the students have access, however.  Just some.

A similar strategy was taken by the Rector personally.  When asked what type of palm pilot he would like (the local tech craze – remember those), he asked me what I had.  At that time, I had just acquired the Palm VII with wireless.  I reminded him there was no wireless connection in Rwanda (thus rendering the system inoperative) and none seemed to be coming any time soon.  I also mentioned that I found the older Palm V battery, charger and size superior but, again, he replied: “no, I want the newest one.” 

Now, once you understood a bit more about Rwandan society, post-genocide-civil war-regime change, The Rector’s strategy made sense.  It wasn’t just anyone who was going to lead this society, it was only a few.  So you didn’t need a huge number of computers – just enough for the best of the best.

The ability to pull off growth was clearly within the government’s grasp.  I had never seen a country as well organized; it was a little Germany in East Africa but without trains to be kept on time.  For every 10 households, there was a representative of the government – a Nyumba Kumi.  This individual collected/distributed information, gave out work as well as political assignments and most importantly informed on individuals for the state.  Above them, for every 100 households there was another leader.  Above them, at the commune (approximately 1000 households), was someone else.  It went on like this until the president.  The country was hardwired with a million different rules, customs and officials to follow but with one aspiration – recovery and advancement “by any means necessary” (said as ominously as Malcolm X ever said it or, in this context, Innocent X).

The idea of giving everyone a pc, pda or cell phone was about as insane as giving Rwandan citizens the right to bear arms or blacks the right to vote in the 1920s.  It just wasn’t going to happen.  I didn’t see this at first.  I thought that Rwandan growth meant improving the lives of the most people.  I was so young then.  This was never the point. 

That anything could be even attempted was a miracle.  How could the country develop soon when the civil war and genocide blew them back to the stone age?  They had two roads (built by foreigners), no records (they were destroyed by the outgoing mass-murderers), no administration (no government), no legal system (lawyers and judges are dead or in exile), no politicians, no journalists, no police, no mail, no taxes, no telephone, no hospitals.  It was like Lord of the Flies with no Lord, just flies. 

In this context, a limited, focused and fast-track approach to change made sense, I guess. This would leave the majority of Rwandans at home with a mud hut, wooden mugs and a machete, but this was actually part of the government’s plan.  It was the plan of their predecessors and those before them as well.  Aid money was still rolling in at the time and everyone struggled to figure out how to get more of it:  Quality pcs, pants, pens, penicillin, parachutes, palm pilots, paper, pampers – all flew into the country with only a few knowing what to do with it. 

There were also diamonds and Coltan (the stuff of cell phones as well as computers) to be had in the Congo.  Initially, Rwanda went in to get those responsible for the genocide, but a funny thing happened on the way to retribution: the military overshot the genocidaires, found themselves further inland and near some rare valuables.  While there they did the only reasonable thing: they removed them.  Again, the masses of Rwandans would not see these activities nor the goodies they generated.  Later on, I’m sure the rifles, hummers, helicopters and tear gas provided by these activities and goodies will be familiar. 

The strategy of acquisition and extraction was probably as old as anything else in Rwanda.  The tribal battles of the ancient kingdom were fought like this.  The Germans and later the Belgiums acted in the same way.  This time was slightly different though.  This time, the acquiring and extracting was done with the whole world watching (kinda, it was more like we had our hands over our eyes, which were already partially closed).

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.

I wish to free the rural women of India and take them to the Indian version of Amazonia – a world occupied by women, for women, of women.  The reason is simple: they are locked down beyond belief.  From birth they are seemingly prepared for marriage.  They work, then work some more, then work again without adequate compensation. They do everything inhumanly imaginable, in flip flops and a sari (not an apology, which I will offer them now but a flimsy piece of fabric that stretches beyond belief). 

Any man appears to have more rights than they do – frequently able to exert them directly. There is no divorce without major stigma; no jobs and no apartments for the husbandless.

What is the key or, rather, one of the keys to their freedom?  Well...  African American women.  As I came across different situations and heard different stories, at different points I kept thinking about different relatives as something of a mental experiment.  None of the schemes worked completely but it did provide some insights, albeit for a minute.

Option 1 – The Freedom Ride (from my Aunt Pat who often served as a delivery truck for the family taking anyone and anything to anybody):

The freedom ride would be a black bus with a huge flag held at 15-20 feet high so that it could be seen from a distance;
            
There would be no doors and the windows would be blackened;

It would always drive at the same speed to facilitate getting on or off; 

There would be no questions – any woman could just step on it and be brought to Indiamazonia

Problems:

How would folks find out?  Word of mouth wouldn’t work because if men found out they would either take out the bus or follow the bus and extract their property.

One could send a witch into a village who threatens all the men. After they leave there could be a meeting to tell the women what is up.  This is problematic as well because one informant takes down the whole idea.


Option 2 – Witchin Woman (My Aunt Annabelle – the closest to our geechee roots in south Carolina who with her multi-colored wigs, babble-speak, tribal markings otherwise known as makeup and individualized incantations to deliver death to ex-husbands, liquor by the bottle and magic numbers put fear into all of us)

This solution was simple: use witches to threaten abusive men, identified by women to local stringers at the well.

Problem:

It is not clear how new witches are brought into communities.  They all appear to be locally-developed and thus the only solution would be to turn them to the cause.


Option 3 – Micro-Mace (One of my aunt's on Mother’s side who gave out advice, weapons and training to all women in the family).

Similar to giving poor people access to credit, I thought that there could be some allocation of mace given to women at watering holes so that they could protect themselves

Problem:

Men might get a hold of them and use them on the women and each other


Option 4 – The Woman’s Protection Program (This one was inspired by Nana – my mother’s mother, who would take in anyone for a while and would lie left and right to keep them protected while in her care).

Essentially this would be an organization whose job it would be to extract oppressed women, relocate them to a new locale (like a city) and create a back-story that explained their legitimate departure.  They would provide a new identity card, new family history and a new village complete with a false history to provide cover.

Problem:

Almost regardless of location, single women are stigmatized and thus it is unclear if any legitimate excuse could be found.  An alternative would be to pair them with men who seek to escape oppression, creating a back story as well as separate living quarters for the couple.  

There has gotta be a better way.