As I prepare for the 20th anniversary of the Rwandan political violence of 1994 (i.e., the genocide, the interstate war, the civil war and the other forms of activity that are not easily named), I am reminded of earlier correspondence and how the modern period conceives of communication as well as what researchers must/need not respond to. EJ: Cue Rocky theme. You don't need the link.  It's in your head already.

For example, out of the blue on June 2012, I received the following email:

Dear Professor Davenport,

In 2009 you co-authored an article with Professor Allan Stam, published in the Miller-McCune magazine. The article, “What Really Happened in Rwanda,” addressed the controversy that has surrounded your research on Rwanda since you presented your findings at a genocide conference in Kigali in 2003. In the Miller-McCune article you explain that, although your research was well intentioned and you never denied that a genocide took place, you and Mr. Stam have been labelled as genocide deniers.  

On your GenoDynamics website, you present some ‘highlights’ of the debate over your research. These include a 2004 press release containing some of your conclusions, as well as a Reuters article that you claim was inaccurate and responsible for the resulting controversy. In addition, you have posted what you say are more careful and accurate media reports on your research. You also offer some ‘reflections of others about the hornet’s nest that [you] stepped into.’

I was, however, quite shocked to find that you present Keith Harmon Snow’s article “Hotel Rwanda: Hollywood and the Holocaust in Central Africa” and Edward Herman’s article “Genocide Inflation is the Real Human Rights Threat” as ‘reflections.’ The work of Keith Harmon Snow and Edward Herman on Rwanda involves a brazen denial of the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi, and the articles that you refer to are emblematic of the denialist discourse these authors have propounded in various publications.

Harmon Snow, for example, has presented his virulent reading of what ‘really happened’ in Rwanda in numerous articles, such as “The US Sponsored ‘Rwandan Genocide’ and its Aftermath,” and “The Rwanda Hitlist: Revisionism, Denial and the Genocide Conspiracy.” According to Harmon Snow, the pre-planned genocide against the Tutsi is a myth; he further argues that “if anyone planned genocide in Rwanda, it was the RPF, and only the RPF.” Edward Herman’s book The Politics of Genocide, which was co-authored with David Peterson, presents a similar account of what happened. It essentially turns the victims of the genocide into perpetrators, making them responsible for their own annihilation. Herman and Peterson openly argue that there was no organized genocide of Tutsi. Instead they state that “the RPF was the only well-organized killing force within Rwanda in 1994.”

These accounts reject the overwhelming weight of scholarship on Rwanda, which concludes that Hutu extremists organized and perpetrated a genocide against the Tutsi population, including Hutu that were opposed to the “Hutu Power” regime. Not surprisingly, Keith Harmon Snow and Edward Herman have denounced such scholarship as mere propaganda that misrepresents what really happened in Rwanda, claiming it is one of the most widely misunderstood events in contemporary history.

In the wake of the genocide against Tutsi in Rwanda, those involved in organizing and implementing the genocide developed a sophisticated ideological discourse aimed at denying their genocidal actions. While not able to deny the occurrence of an episode of mass violence, their discourse aimed at effectively denying the genocide by reinterpreting the event and its essential reality. The narrative account of Keith Harmon Snow and Edward Herman on Rwanda is deeply dangerous, because it recycles much of this denialist discourse.

The fact that you present the accounts of Keith Harmon Snow and Edward Herman as ‘reflections’ raises significant questions about how to interpret your own research and findings. Although you point out that your research does not seek to deny the genocide against the Tutsi, the articles you cite as ‘reflections’ do involve a blatant denial of that genocide.

Given that Harmon Snow and Herman have cited your work in their own publications, I must ask: do you agree with the accounts they present? Or, do you consider that their analyses misrepresents your research and its findings? If so, why do you lend these figures credibility by posting their ‘reflections’, and why do you not decisively distance yourself from their denialist conclusions?

I would be grateful for any comments you could supply to me – on the record, as I am researching these issues for future publications.

Yours sincerely,
 
Some random law student I never met (not his real name)


Interesting read, huh?  Remind you of your recent emails?  Well, three things I immediately found interesting. 

First, Mr. random law student did not quite catch my use of the word "reflections".  On the webpage, we had 7 categories (the 5th is what he is referencing):

  1) What we said/what we wrote (“Rwandan Genocide, 10th Anniversary: Correcting 
        the Record ”)
    2) The poorly researched and inaccurate Reuters Article that started all the controversy 
         (“Rwanda Killings weren’t Genocide”)
    3) The more careful efforts that came closer to what we actually said (“Correcting the 
         Record”)
    4) The most careful examination of the topic offered in the print media (Genocide +  
         Politicide)
    5) Reflections of others about the Hornet’s nest that we stepped into:
    6) Emails received by GenoDynamics (Samples)
    7) A Continuation of the Controversy undertaken by others

By the use of the word "reflection", I was not suggesting anything about the work itself.  Indeed, I was simply collecting everything that referenced our research, putting it into categories regarding how the work was used.  Some simply quoted what we said, some discussed the controversies raised by our work, some "reflected" on the findings and thought about what they might have meant, none attempted to actually provide any systematic evaluations of their own of the data compiled and offered on our webpage.  

Second, this piece was like many others.  They acknowledge that we did not deny the genocide, the author nevertheless wishes to push us to distance ourselves from those that do - although of course we never actually support or acknowledge the work.  We just reference who mentioned it.

Third, I found the email a bit…. well…. rude.  I was kind of used to that after the controversy sparked by disclosures of research at the 10th anniversary as well as growing up in New York city. Nevertheless, I thought that I did not want to respond to the individual for they seemed a lot less interested in discussing facts than attacking.  Why try to engage in a civil conversation with such a person?

Nevertheless, I responded on June 11th of that same year:

Mr. Random Student (not my actual greeting),

I am in the process (with Prof. Stam) of clarifying our position relative to the others you have mentioned in your email.  In brief, the webpage that you reference (which is currently being revised) listed articles largely in simplistic categories: those that outright attacked us without considering anything that was compiled/analyzed and those that appeared to "reflect" on what we said at least to some extent.  As much of this discussion has not been scholarly (i.e., based on the rigorous compilation and evaluation of evidence) we have tended to avoid most of it and proceeded to finish the book which should be done next year.  As we complete the manuscript, then we will turn to addressing the issues you raise.

Sincerely

Christian Davenport


To this, Mr. random student responded on June 22nd:

Dear Professor Davenport,
 
My reply comes somewhat belatedly, but the nature of your response has set me thinking. Although I am grateful for your quick reaction to my letter, I have to admit that I am deeply disappointed by the cursory nature of your reply, which does not in any way answer the questions that I have posed.

In your reaction to my letter, you explain that you are in the process (with Prof. Stam) of writing a book that clarifies your position relative to the others I have mentioned in my letter. You furthermore make clear that you will address my questions sometime next year once the manuscript has been finished. I however cannot understand why you do not directly answer the questions that I have posed. The questions address a serious issue, which is related to your research and therefore call for an immediate answer.

It may well be the case that your website is ‘under revision’, but in one of your ‘simplistic categories’ you do mention the work of Keith Harmon Snow and Edward S. Herman as ‘reflections.’ Their work on Rwanda entails some of the most brazen denial of the genocide against the Tutsi I have ever seen. As a scholar, in what way could you possibly ‘clarify your position’ relative to them other than by denouncing their genocide denial and by distancing yourself from their denialist endeavour?

In your reaction, you state that “as much of this discussion has not been scholarly (i.e., based on the rigorous compilation and evaluation of evidence) we have tended to avoid most of it.” I think that instead of ignoring such ‘discussion’ on what happened in Rwanda, you should have acted, because these authors do draw on your work to present a very questionable alternative version of history. Genocide denial is an intrinsic part of the genocidal process and genocide scholars have the responsibility to critically address such denial, especially if it makes use of one’s scholarly work. 

I therefore ask you again: do you agree with the accounts that Keith Harmon Snow and Edward S. Herman present? Or do you consider that their analyses misrepresent your research and its findings? If so, why do you lend them credibility by posting their ‘reflections’, and why do you not decisively distance yourself from their denialist conclusions?

I kindly urge you to answer the abovementioned questions – on the record, as I am researching these issues for future publications. Note that I too have a pressing deadline for publication and I cannot wait another year for an answer to these questions. I do, however, hope that it is not my deadline but the seriousness of the issue at hand which calls for a clear response that motivates you to answer the questions posed.

Yours sincerely,

random law student


As I was traveling at the time and without access to an internet connection, I did not see this original email until some time later. Indeed, I did not see it until returning after the summer (in late August) when I received the following:

Dear Professor Davenport,
 
A few weeks ago, on the 22nd of June to be precise, I replied to your email (see letter posted below). However, to date, I have not received an answer from you and I therefore want to confirm with you whether you received my email/letter in good order.
 
Yours sincerely,
 
random law student


Now, this series of emails raised a few issues for me:  

1) I was busily trying to work through a book manuscript, some articles, teaching and advising and did not really have the time to stop, carefully read the email as well as the work that it was referencing and respond.  

2) The initial email was sent during the summer (when I was not "working") and thus I was not as diligent as I normally would be going through my email. At that time, I was receiving somewhere between 50-100 emails a day and frankly I was not able to get through them all.  This is when I started to include the following under my email signature:

Email Rules of Engagement

- I receive between 75-100 emails per day and thus I might miss an individual email; if you have not heard from me in 3-5 days, resend (no offense taken or intended);
- I prefer direct human engagement and thus my emails are probably shorter than you expect or perhaps desire; and,
- Please use the Subject line to assist me in understanding how I can assist you (recall the 75-100 msgs)

3) I had not read Herman and Peterson or Snow's research and did not want to respond to something I had not read.  At that time, I only saw the short references that they made to the work in news articles and on the internet.  I still have not finished this book but plan on doing so by the end of March. The idea that I would stop what I was doing and read a non-university press book that I had not previously heard of before I finished my academic case load to help this person emailing me to do their research for them was a bit odd, I thought. In fact, if I were to assist them, I would be doing them a favor and why would I do someone a favor who approached me in this manner? I usually go by my mother's conception of etiquette (discussed another time) and this person was way off the mark.  But, what would Budha do?  Charles Tilly?  KRS-One?  You?  

4) I found the person emailing me a bit aggressive and reflected (yeah I am using the word again) on how the exchange would have gone if they were in my face.  Needless to say, I don't believe that they would be quite as forthright.  E-exchanges are very different from real ones. This was also just a bad email.  According to the article "Writing Effective Emails", one should use the subject line informatively, ask clearly for one thing and be clear on what response you would like. The subject line was "Questions Concerning Research on Rwanda", which is informative but does not conform to the more reasonable one topic at a time principle as I would have to read material that I had not previously read as well as write something that I had not intended to write.  Now, I acknowledge that the authors of the effective email piece also note that one should "go through your inbox regularly and respond as appropriate" but this is just not realistic.  We just receive far too much email now and with the constant stream something is always likely to be missed.  But I need not go on.  I have already addressed my opinions about email elsewhere.

5) I thought about if I had a responsibility to respond and I thought that no, I did not - either to the person emailing me or Herman and Peterson's work for that matter.  In the first case, the individual was somewhat rude and I thought that if someone emailing you had violated some general sense of respect and decency, then they were no longer someone that you needed to communicate with.  It was like, just because I send you an email, you need to respond to me.  And I was like: actually, no I don't.  In the second case, I felt that as a researcher, I had a responsibility to produce the best possible scholarship that I could and then release it to the world so that they can check my work, use it or not check it or use it.  I put it into the marketplace of ideas and the market decides what to do with it.  I am no longer responsible for how it is used any more than the makers of hammers are responsible for what people build with their tools.  Indeed, after it is sold in the store, the hammer no longer belongs to the manufacturer. The individual who "owns it" is responsible.  Now, I am not punting here. If the hammer is defective, then the manufacturer is responsible. But, if my hammer/dataset is sound, then that is where my role is done.  

I may still respond to Herman and Peterson as well as the scholars that have attacked their work referencing mine in passing (e.g., Adam Jones). From what I have read thus far, Herman and Peterson are not empirically-oriented and thus did not complete understand what we did in creating the data that was discussed. In their defense, however, they were not interested in understanding data collection, conflict/casualty estimation, causal inference or social science. They seemed interested in trying to validate particular, politically-charged causal relationships - something that we did not do because the data did not allow it. What we did was use all information available to create a reasonable estimation of casualties as well as battle fronts and draw a reasonable conclusion regarding the relationship between the two: i.e., that increases in the violence corresponded to movements forward of the Rwandan Patriotic Front's troops.  We did not speculate on why this correlation existed or the broader point of what it meant.  Herman and Peterson did speculate on the meaning - as they are free to do in a democracy and generally free society. Others (like Adam Jones) speculate on the meaning as well - as they are also free to do.  Unfortunately, these others are also non-empirically oriented scholars that do not properly understand the intricacies of data collection, conflict/casualty estimation, causal inference or diverse aspects of social science. Again, in their/his defense, they were not interested in doing this.  

Accordingly, as neither party seemed to be interested in the business of collecting evidence, rigorously assessing theoretically derived hypotheses in as transparent a fashion as possible and drawing reasonable conclusions, which was my objective, I felt no responsibility to respond to them (until now I suppose). Similar to the random student, I felt no necessity to communicate for we were not engaged in the same enterprise or sometimes on the same planet.  Sticks and stones (Jones) should have the same impact as flowers and candy (Herman and Peterson).

Now, this said, I do feel a responsibility to communicate with and have a genuine interest in communicating with those that wish to collect evidence in a rigorous, valid and reliable manner, test this evidence with an appropriate technique, discuss the findings of said evaluations and then think about the implications of these results. Individuals that are interested in these topics, will always find a timely, thorough and civil response when they contact me.  EJ: Cue some Sade...

With about a month to go, it will be interesting to see what the future brings in terms of discussion regarding Rwanda, research and responsiveness in communication.   But, as I am not actually sending this email myself but through some proxy who is doing this through my account as I attend to some related research matters in preparation for April, I think that I have learned a little something from the past and look forward to what is about to happen as the 20th anniversary of Rwanda 1994 approaches.  EJ: Cue up the appropriate Jay-Z…  

It is coming: the 20th anniversary of the Rwandan violence of 1994 (i.e., the interstate war, the civil war, the genocide, the sexual violence and some random wilding or, the genocide and civil war - depending upon who you are listening to).  Yes, it has been 20 years
and yes it is going to be quite something.  Much has happened over the last 20 years and much has happened over the last 10 as it relates to what we have come to understand about what happened. Some of it is consistent but much of it is not. We will get to more of that as the event approaches.  Look for the relaunch of www.genodynamics.com - your one-stop research site for the rigorous study of Rwandan political violence of 1994.

For now, I wanted to set forth some things that you should consider whenever anyone (including me) starts to talk about the topic. View them as the 12 things to help you understand Rwandan Political Violence as you read/see anything over the next few weeks on the internet, in newspapers, on tv, in magazines, on blogs as well as tweets:

1) What type of violence is being discussed: e.g., interstate war, civil war, genocide, sexual violence, random violence?  These have different definitions (e.g., see Meredith Sarkees and Frank Wayman and the late David Singer, Doug Lemke and David Cunningham, the late Charles Tilly or this cool special issue relevant to the topic), different causes and different implications.

2) When did the violence of interest start and how far back should one look for an origin - what date specifically?  One could start looking in April 1994, 1990, 1959, the early 1900s or during the formation of Rwanda-Burundi (they were lumped together in the beginning).

3) Who was involved in the conflict and who participated in the different forms of violence?  People tend to just combine actors together glossing over important differences: All Hutus, all Tutsis, Northern Hutus, Central Hutus, Tutsi that were in Rwanda prior to 1994, Tutsi that were outside of Rwanda after 1960.

4) Where were these people in the beginning of april and why?  In Kigali, in Washington DC, in Paris, in Detroit, in Uganda, in Butare, in Kibuye, etc.

5) Who benefitted the most from conflict and violence?  Strange to think about it but people do not engage in violence unless they get something out of it.  What did people get though: e.g., money, safety, territory/property, friendship, psychological satisfaction, banana beer or a combination of factors?  Did motives/benefits shift over time?

6) Who acted from positions of "strength" (i.e., they had choices, were conscious of what they were deciding, had resources and tactical advantage via weaponry/training) and positions of "weakness"?  Some actors might have been coaxed/conned/intimidated into acting.  Some might have known precisely what they were up to.

7) What evidence is one using to answer the questions above and where does it come from?  Researchers could use surveys, a census, newspapers, human rights records, government reports, satellite, forensic records, interviews and focus groups. Remember, stating is not the same as proving, all methods have advantages/ disadvantages. A good piece will tell you what they did, how they did it, what is good about what was done and what is deficient.  This is important because almost all people know as well as any avid viewer of the tv show Law and Order: Special Victims will attest: eyewitness testimony is highly problematic. This is the principle source of information regarding most events in Rwanda.  There must be discussion about what efforts were taken to assure that this human testimony was validated in some way.

8) Is there an alternative account of relevant events and was this considered in any way shape or form?  We must all be careful about being led down a particular pathway as a function of what source we choose to believe.  Ian Lustick warns us about this problem in his: "History, Historiography, and Political Science: Multiple Historical Records and the Problem of Selection Bias".  

9) What is the perspective, position and potential bias of the author/speaker (connection to perpetrators, victims, rebels, governments).  I talk about this in my book "Media Bias, Perspective and State Repression" but Akira Kurosowa does a much better illustration in his brilliant film Rashomon.

10) What was done (specifically) and against whom?  Now, you figure that this would be the first thing I would mention but part of the difficulty in prior research and discussion is that we did not seriously address the issues mentioned above. One cannot address this question until they have addressed the ones above and you should not trust anyone who does not address them.

11) How did violence progress and move throughout the country?  This helps us better understand who did what to whom and why but it also helps us understand where help is/was needed as well as who got services.
 
12) Does the relevant piece mention what has transpired in and around rwanda since 1994 in terms of prosecutions for crimes, other violent behavior (e.g., invasions, purges, assassinations, questionable deaths), political development, democratization/ autocratization, asylum and migration? If they do, please remember to ask the first 9 questions of this work as well.

More on Rwanda coming coon.  

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.


Karinne (as usual not her real name) appeared to be into everything.  She was in three educational programs in five different countries.  She was co-Director of two centers.  She was writing several articles for journals and generals alike on women, democracy, civil society, new media, public spheres, genocide, women and genocide, democracy and women, civil society and genocide, truth and reconciliation, reconciliation and genocide – you get the point.  Unfortunately for Karinne, she did all this poorly.  Stretched too thin, all efforts seemed to be half-hearted. 

Now, this is not to say that Karinne was incapable of learning or alternatively teaching.  Rather, she had no interest in learning how to do anything correctly because that would just slow her down and cut into her profit margin.  All Karinne had to do was a little of everything regardless of quality because in Rwanda at the time there was a lot of nothing - not nothing nothing for there were a great number of initiatives underway; just nothing completed or completely working.  In addition to this, there was a lot of people, sympathy as well as money coming to the country in order to help get something, anything started.  And it came from all corners of the globe, it came – almost daily via envelopes, packages, Western Union, UPS, Fedex, Horses and Buggies. 

The desire to send was clear.  Individuals felt guilty about not doing anything. Collectively we had failed to do anything about the violence. We could not sit back and not do anything about the aftermath. Individuals also wanted to be part of the redevelopment.  But where should their support go - I mean where exactly do you send the check?  Rwanda was still a mystery to most of the world.  They knew killing fields but nothing about survivors and their institutions.  As a result, two areas became focal points of attention: governments and universities.  The reason was simple: both had webpages and could easily be found.  In a vacuum of misunderstanding, guilt and ignorance, those with these resources COULD clean up.  Karinne was one of them.  

Hers was a no limited enterprise.  Indeed, her reach was global.  She pimped all masterfully and in the most fabulously adorned outfits imaginable – day in and day out.  “Need an interpreter for your survey?”  “No problem,” in Yellow.  “Need some researchers to do some archival work?”  “No problem,” in Green.  “Need a little essay on women?”  “No Problem,” in Purple and Red.  “Need a little lecture to be given in Norway or Belgium or Toronto?”  “No Problem,” in Pink.  It just kept coming. I have seen some deep closets in my day.  My childhood friend Kadeem Hardison's mom ran a modeling agency so you got to see all types of clothes - on models, in designer's studios, in draft form, on the floor - everywhere.

Now, this all stood out prominently for slowly emerging from the ravages of civil war, genocide, regime change and chronic underdevelopment, Rwandans were generally broke.  Actually "dead broke" would be the more appropriate but less sensitive phrase.  The average Rwandan was partially clothed, shoeless and struggling to survive.  If they did not have clothes, they were either obtained from the local market which carried a limited assortment of designs, materials and colors or from a group swap-meet which offered a slightly greater variety.  In context, the clothing and general attitude made sense and it was also quite reasonable that folks kinda did what they had to do in order to do what they had to do.  Much respect.

Karinne was one of the better-off returnees however – representing a completely different Rwandan entirely.  She had some education, some life experience outside the country, some travel, some languages (more than the two or three that indigenous Rwandans had).  She also came with a West African sensibility: loud, colorful, boisterous, energetic and busy.  In contrast, indigenous Rwandans were generally mellow, subdued, noble, quiet – traumatized a little or just shy (not many have come this far into the continent).  It was almost my sixth trip to Rwanda before I heard a loud noise (that is the source of another story).  

Now the disjuncture between Rwandans did not go unnoticed. Because of the obvious gaming (playing all against all) and general inefficiency of Karinne, she developed quite an international reputation.  In airports in Amsterdam, cafes in Belgium and conferences in Maryland, stories abound about the colorful woman running the center and a private fiefdom at the University.  To the new and the men, she was inept but charming.  To the women, she was aggressive, dismissive but with flawless skin.  I heard of grant projects that were simultaneously being submitted to and funded by different organizations.  The same work with different funds.  We all just shook it off, acknowledging our naiveté, the price of doing business and figuring that sooner or later she would get hers.  She did this, consistently however – that is get hers.  There were no come-uppins though just go-downins to the endless pit that was her perfectly matching purse.  

In post-genocide Rwanda, there was always another NGO, another aid agency, another academic ready to pay for some information, another journalist wanting to do an expose on the striving Rwandan, another student, another intrepid soul seeking forgiveness for having stood by when the horror struck this little country. Karinne was able to suck all of them up like some empathetic vortex.  Out of the other end, we came out simultaneously warmed that we had attempted something, pissed that we did not achieve what we wanted, confused at where all the money went, relaxed that more time, resources as well as energy was not spent and frustrated that we were not able to complain to any one – accept those at the bar in Kenya who recently escaped Karinne’s grasp. 

All this for me was very familiar.  Karinne reminded me of every kid back on the block in New York city in the 1980s.  Afrika Bambatta said it best: 

• Looking for the perfect beat (Searching for the perfect beat)
  
• Looking for the perfect beat (Seeking for the perfect beat)
  
• I must get mine (I'm out to get it)
  
• I must get mine (I'm out to get it)
  

Or, you could go the New Jack City route.  Same vibe.  Different medium.

It was all home to me though.  As one looked out into the city - a fierce creature that waited either to reveal some wondrous vision and/or to rob you blind, one got very adept at looking for the vulnerable, the confused, the lost.  This made "transactions" a little easier.  I recalled one of my cousins rolling up on me at one point in the Bowery where I was not used to hanging out (I went for a pair of jeans around Canal Street but ventured to far in).  He stepped in front of me while two of his "associates" pulled up on the side and back of me. Given my height, I was completely hidden.  He looked me up and down and asked me for my watch.  I thought that I would get my ass handed to me by my father if I gave it up, as it had just been given to me and although scared to death, I would rather take the ass whipping from them. While they searched for their next move, I looked up and thought that the person looked familiar.  I then said his name and the two associates immediately walked away.  I was like, it's me, your cousin - your mom's sister's son.  

After that, it was as if the weather changed.  His face turned into a bright smile of acknowledgment and then he told me to watch out because there were folks who would take advantage.  He then pulled me over to the side of the street just in time to observe his associates helping a lost soul return their wallet to the "rightful owner".  For the next few hours, he schooled me on why he chose me and how I was walking through the street.

Karinne must have had the same sensibility of my cousin.  She smelled us coming off the plane, walking into the cafe and popping up at the University.  Fresh meat.  Mark.  You had to admire her though.  Game respects game as it were and she had plenty.  Of course after a long day of coding something or having an interview with someone that massacred their family, I wondered who would have come out victorious if Karinne were to meet my cousin, kind of like some non-celebrity death match show.  An international Hustlers ball.  I think she would take him.  H-U-S-T-L-E-R…..

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.

As one leaves an establishment in Rwanda (a restaurant or a hotel) one must invariably prepare themselves for the onslaught of thin, hungry, dirty, scantily dressed but completely adorable children who ask for food or a few francs.  The culture at that time was still essentially Francophone – this would change quickly as the Rwanda Patriotic Front presence increased.  There is little variation however: there are no fat children, none who look healthy, none who appear clean and none of them is fully dressed.  Now, being from New York, I have been approached a million different ways by people in the street: “hey buddy, got a quarter,” “got a light,” “got busfare,” “got my rent in yo pocket,” or “blow for a meal”?  You hear everything.  I have even been approached by kids who just pull your heart strings.  Literally.  They just open you up, pull out veins and start playing.

The situation here is compounded by the sheer volume of the issue.  There is no isolated child like in New York but rather there is a veritable sea of youth.  The onslaught is held back by armed guards, making the place safe for foreigners and those with resources, but once you leave the safety of the establishment – unless you have guards with you or manage to sneak to your vehicle – you have to deal with the kids.

After a while, I could take it, which I was both grateful for and troubled by.  After the umteenth child solicitation, a certain degree of callousness overcomes you in Rwanda.  I really could not function in any other way because there were simply too many children.  The problem was too daunting to contemplate.  My colleague Candace could not take it either but she decided that she was going to cave in completely – albeit reacting to only one at a time. 

Something that became obvious upon closer observation was that there was a system to the solicitation.  While you were approached by a barrage of individuals, if you interacted with one or gave something to one of the children, you were thereafter “owned” by them.  If after marking, another kid interacted with the marked outsider, then it appeared that you could be sanctioned by some regulator with a stone, stick or some harsh words.

Candace was marked by a spry little kid with eyes like midnight, a smile like sunlight and a face like the sky (vast, full of potential and haunting).  He was named Innocent like many people in Rwanda.  You could not help but want to help him.

It was absolutely amazing to see.  Upon coming out of any store on the Butare strip, @’s Innocent would find her.  “Madaam…  Madaam…”  He would start, tilt his head to the side and smile – hand out.  Initially, Candace would give him a franc or two but then she came up with a mini-development strategy.  First, she would work on his nutrition: a sandwich instead of a franc, a power bar or a vitamin or two.  Second, she would take him for a visit to a doctor – after the buy in purchased with a meal.  Then she would talk about school, over a bottle of water or coke. 

Candace was all into his life and he lapped it up.  How could he not?   They both seemed to need each other and you were warmed by the connection. Amidst all the horrible things one saw in Rwanda, if just one life could be improved, things would be just a little more tolerable.  That was the idea at least.  The reality was more complex. 

You see, the children were also marked.  They did not run amok as we thought.  Over a few weeks, I managed to sneak in the back of the Made Niggaz Hair Saloon and sat in the front with some people I had met before.  This allowed me to watch where the kids were hanging out as well as where Candace was coming from.

Watching the street, I could see that there were clics/groups of youth – a gaggle of little capitalistic entrepreneurs.  There were older kids as well – between 15 and 20 who seemed to run the pack.  The leader would gather the youth at the beginning of the day and pass out assignments.  Innocent’s job was seemingly Candace.  He would trail her everywhere – walking, running, hiding, waiting – always placing himself where he could be seen (which after you have been marked becomes easy somehow – it’s like there are no longer a hundred kids in a crowd, just yours). 

At the end of the day, the kids met again to hand over their goodies to their handlers, from the days catch.  There is no joyful enjoyment of the goodies.  There is no gracious handover of the piece of bread to grandma back at the old house in the bush.  Rather, grandma is dead and there is no house but there is a somber handover and reallocation.  After Candace’s giving, all Innocent does is cross the street, turn the corner into an alley and hand over everything he got.  On the way back to the street, he might take a nibble but not too much or else he might get caught.

Why give up the goodies?  Protection.  Fear.  Survival.  Numbers are the only thing that seem to keep you alive on the streets of Rwanda.  You give up to get set up and you get set up to live (not die). 

Seeing this whole process once, by mistake, Candace later mentioned to me that “oh, that’s so cute.  He’s sharing.”  I just looked at her.  She missed his submissive demeanor (it looked like someone waiting to get punished), the look on the older kid’s face of anticipation (it looked like some drug addicted fiend waiting for their fix), the eight or so kids that stood around waiting their turn (reminiscent of the first).  She even missed Innocent’s look on his face after he gave over this prize (like his lunch money was taken that day, like everyone before it – this was actually pretty accurate but the money was not just for lunch). 

At that moment, I realized that we were and were not from the same place.  Later, I realized that she needed to see Innocent share.  To see anything else would be too hard.  I, on the other hand, didn’t need anything but to see what was in front of me.  Both of us were likely wrong.  I needed more of a filter for all this stuff lest I be overcome by it and Candace needed less of one lest she be underwhelmed.  

I have been around gay men my whole life.  Specifically, gay black men.  The reason: my family was and is in the arts: e.g., dance, TV and film (my mother was respectively in things like Alvin Ailey, the Ed Sullivan Show as well as The Wiz) and music (my stepmother ran a record company or two). And, yes, in line with the stereotype, there is an abundance of gay males in general and gay black males in particular within the arts (luckily, in my opinion).  We all benefit from their light, talent and energy. 

Now, because of my upbringing, very early I developed what is referred to popularly as “Gaydar” -- the ability to detect a gay man.  I am not as gifted with detecting gay or bi-women, which would have been helpful while clubbing in New York City in my younger days but with a guy: give me about a minute and I'll tell you what the deal is (or not).

Now, I go into this because there are many brothers within Rwanda that are ummmmmm…. "closeted" (in the shade/shaded), in my opinion. These brothers are not "in the jungle" or "in the bush", to be clear - suggesting some crass primitivism. The logic of this position is straightforward: the continent is not the best place for homosexuals and, in my opinion, in Rwanda there is a whole country that's trying to keep the reality of gay Rwanda hidden.  Indeed, I have heard and seen denial before but the degree of resistance to even the possibility of homosexuality in Rwanda during my travels there was astounding.

When asked about the idea of a gay black man in Rwanda, I was told “no, we don't have THEM here” and “no, they’re are NONE in Rwanda.”  Yes, like it was the plague or something.  Direct quote.  Hand to the universe. On my travels, I constantly heard this.  Pushed to the edge of reason and thinking about what every gay, black, male friend of mine would have said to such an assertion, I pushed and finally had one person admit that there might be at least one or two homosexuals in the whole country but that was a major admission after some alcohol. Right after my colleague said this though he added: they had better not to get caught.  Seriously.  Truth be told, the conversation caused my colleague to get mad at me, like I was calling him a "barbarian" or "underdeveloped" or something because of how they (he and his country) were handling their homosexuality issue.  It was like he was Archie Bunker on crack with a side arm, walkie-talkie, explosive, machete (of course), a german shepherd and access to more of the same.

The evidence for the possibility of a few homosexuals in Rwanda was clear - at least to me.

First, men and women do not generally show affection to one another -- especially in the rural context. No hugging, holding of hands or kissing.  Men and women however can show affection within their respective groups.  Men, in particular, can and do walk hand-in-hand as well as arm in arm with each other down the road in the center of town without anyone caring. This practice was particularly problematic when Rwandans traveled abroad. For example, in America (where the last Tutsi king lives), I am told that he is often seen walking arm in arm with one of his “friends.”  Of course to those in the US, it was simply assumed that they were a couple.  Not that there's anything wrong with that but this is how it looked to neighbors. This was also problematic when someone I considered a friend, naturally swooped their hand to mine and started walking down the street.  Now, while I agree that we were friends and appreciated the Rwandan acknowledgment of such, I still was a bit uncomfortable about what it meant in my context and what it meant to the other mizungus.  This was not an issue of being homophobic (which because of my upbringing I am not).  Rather, it was an issue of being seen as having “gone native” – something especially frowned upon by non-anthropologists.  To have an air of legitimacy in the academia and as a researcher in the field, one had to have an air of empathy, sympathy but also a little distance.  But, I digress. 

My second piece of evidence for the gay Rwandan is that there was an observation of the occasional male prostitute hanging out with the female ones, eyeing the male mizungus. How did I know he was gay?  Well, I mentioned my Gaydar was pretty good but, aside from this, the mascara, swishing of the hips, slicked back hair, crotch-hugging jeans and glossy lips were a big hint.  Leaving with the gay white mizungu was another one.  The gay mizungu was even easier to identify.  Also, on this one particular occasion, there was a straight male prostitute standing right next to the gay one and the comparison was pretty simple to make.  Presumably, if there's at least one gay prostitute for mizungus, there must be at least one gay man in Rwanda.  Just saying.

Third, men hang out with one another all the time and are quite comfortable with one another, everywhere and at occasionally high levels of intimacy.  It does make sense as far as I'm concerned that relationships would emerge.  For example, men chill in saunas buck naked and real close.  Men constantly rubbed oil on each other at the pool and dancing with each other at nightclubs where women would never go unless they were prostitutes. Now, I do not believe that every woman is a prostitute but mizungus are a constant draw for this type of woman and they always appeared to be wherever they congregated.  In addition to that, single women never seemed to go to such places, leaving the environment all male, all the time.  Now, I am also not saying that every man dancing together in a Rwandan nightclub is gay.  Heck, by that category everyone dancing at Danceteria, Area and the Paladium back in New York when I grew up would be gay - which actually might be possible (except for me as well as my club buddy at the time - Parnell) and thus that is a bad example but hopefully you get my point. 

The epitome of the comfort/familiarity/intimacy phenomenon of which I speak is observable by watching men occasionally sit on each others laps in a bar.  Again, this in and of itself does not suggest homosexuality but the response to such familiarity and comfort did suggest homophobia, which I took as an indication that homosexuality was possible. How can you be homophobic is there is no homosexuality? See what hoops one has to go through in order to address the topic.  For example, one evening I pointed out to my Rwandan host two men at some bar and asked him if sitting like that was common.  To this question, it was first denied that the man was sitting on his associate’s lap - at all.  This, however, was clear to everybody. There was no other place that would be as proximate to the individual's chest and groin that did not involve the lap. Now, you say: "of course, non-gay men could be sitting on each other's laps and hanging out".  Well, as I mentioned, my gaydar works pretty well and I could just tell: those brothers were GAY and fabulously so!  Upon acknowledging that my observation was legitimate, and this one guy was indeed sitting on his friend’s lap in a slightly gay-like manner, my Rwandan associate stood up, walked over to the host and complained. Several minutes later, there was no more lap sitting.  Shortly after the initial complaint, the two gentlemen were approached by the host (who whispered something to them) and they left the bar entirely.  After they left and my associate seemed to beam with a little tyrannical, homophobic pride, I wondered about whether or not and how badly I'd put the two guys at risk with my little observation. I had merely attempted to learn a bit more about Rwandan society, but quickly realized that there were just certain things that Rwandans did not want to know themselves or have visitors probe. At that point, I realized that "outing" in Africa was both possible as well as potentially dangerous. 

To be honest, I found all of this completely fascinating except for the two guys being asked to leave, which I found a bit horrifying.  (Note: I actually looked for them over the course of the next month to make sure that they were ok but never saw them again). The identification of Rwandan gayness as well as the denial was in large part interesting because it revealed important differences to the United States. The image of old-school, hyper-masculine aggressive youth with weapons, military fatigues, attempting to mount every female in sight still existed in the US but it is also countered by an equally open, flamboyant, bold, triumphant gayness which no one (at least not openly) would label as anything but male. One sees this in the amazing celebrations during gay pride celebrations in New York and San Francisco - perhaps some of the best parades and parties offered in America.  In Rwanda, however, gay men were not even allowed as an idea, let alone reality. There are no parades there but only charades. On this dimension (and perhaps a few others), the country wears the mask that grins and lies. Indeed, the strength with which they were denied their existence was perhaps as indicative of the tenuousness of control over the society as the openly, hyper masculine aggressive young men with weapons and military fatigues attempting to mount every female in sight which was not only clearly observable in Rwanda but largely celebrated.  Just as I could not imagine an America without its fabulous gayness, I could not imagine a Rwanda with one. 

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.
 
Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of traveling around Rwanda is the ghost of the genocide.  One might not know the particulars of what took place in a particular place back in 1990-1994 but one quickly gets a sense.  Before going to the country, I read all the books, articles and memoirs I could find.  I also saw a tremendous number of pictures of dead bodies – partially buried or floating.  I even saw the brief video made by Belgians traveling with the Rwandan Patriotic Front or RPF (the Tutsi rebel organization invading from Uganda) which showed the chaotic, sporadic and highly communicative behavior of those involved in the violence.Individuals came out of the jungle, would say something to one another (likely chiding each other on), a person would hack on a body for a while, walk off, have another screaming match and someone else would hack.  They would then walk away and you could see that the body was still alive.  What the hell were they saying?  Why didn’t they just kill the person?  Why did they do it at all?  What kind of sick f@%er hacks someone?  Who films it, and why didn’t the RPF have some snipers?  How can you hack someone? [Note:  Like so many artifacts, this video now appears to be lost.  If you know where it is posted, please let me know.]  

While the genocidal and non-genocidal violence is yet to be explained, part of the explanation needs to be that Rwandans practiced all the time: machetes were everywhere.  They were used to hack fruit from trees, to hack limbs for firewood, to hack meat (no butcher, just a blood-red wooden stub); they were used on the side of the road, on the side of a building, in markets, at restaurants, in bars (for lemons – for real), in hospitals, in schools.  In fact, I cannot think of one place where I went and did not see a machete. 

This reality made one feel surrounded by 8 million potential axe murderers.  Sorry to say it but that's the deal.  Now, I knew that I did not know who specifically had hacked anyone: even if someone was in jail, had confessed to the crime and sat there in a pink prison outfit (given to those involved in the genocide to embarrass and emasculate), you never quite knew which end was up. People were just arrested because their neighbor wanted their property, because they owed someone money, because someone wanted their spouse or because they had challenged the government.  You never knew.

Why confess?  You seen Law and Order.  Well add machetes.  I’m surprised they didn’t have more confessions just to escape the random machete carrier.  I suppose there were plenty of shivs in the prison but still.

As a result of this situation, it just seemed easier to me to assume that everyone was guilty – to err on the side of safety.  Now, this is no way to interact with folks, thinking everyone is a murderer.  In some strange way, however, growing up in New York was good preparation for Rwanda.  In the city (well, the one I knew in the 1970s and 1980s, not the new Disney thing on 42nd Street), you thought everyone was trying to "jack you up" – I wasn’t even in a bad neighborhood and this was the opinion.

Still, it is different navigating Rwanda because every time you hear a distant chop or thump, you shudder and wonder.  Every hand you shake, you reflect on how hard the callouses are, how strong the grip is.  Chop.  Then, you wonder if they could have done it.  Every pair of eyes you look into, you wonder what they see; what they saw.  Chop.  Every chicken or goat you see beheaded, you reflect.  Chop.  Every child you saw, old woman, young man, old man, young woman, you wonder.  Chop.  How can you have peace when the mechanism of piece creation is around you constantly?  People do not seem to check their machetes when they go places, like a hat.  They carry them like Handbags, or is it Teabags?  Casually, matter-a-factly, constantly, urgently. 

In this context, your eyes move constantly.  Checking out the most proximate hackers, machine guns, bands of children.  You do this at the same time you try not to move your head and body, which would communicate far too much uneasiness, marking one for the taking.

The result: you get physically and psychologically exhausted after being in Rwanda for a while and resolve yourself to your fate and/or faith.  Yet another thunderous hack is heard in the distance. 

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.