Thursday, August 23, 2007

Cry Freedom

Last night we rented the movie Cry Freedom, based on the story of Steve Biko, founder of the Black Consciousness Movement in South Africa during apartheid and who died a suspicious death in the hands of the Afrikaan police. I found the dialogue in this film provocative as it concentrated on language to convey the struggle of the black people in South Africa (or anywhere colonialism existed) against their foreign oppressors. During the film Steve Biko asks the white reporter Donald Wood, who becomes his comrade in the struggle, whether or not he has black domestic workers. This question comes moments after we have given our Rwandan house guard a cup of coffee and a monthly salary that is the equivalent of four meals, six taxi rides to work, or one of the “antique” masks I bought in the market.

We were yet again reminded of the privilege our birthplace has provided when going to the bank this morning. Each time we enter the bank we pass a guard with a scanner (for weapons)….we pass the guard….all of the local people, men, women, and children are stopped and their bodies scanned. This morning I wanted to stop directly in front of the guard and force him conduct the same service me…but of course I didn’t…how far have we really come?


"Apartheid — both petty and grand — is obviously evil. Nothing can justify the arrogant assumption that a clique of foreigners has the right to decide on the lives of a majority" — Woods.

The Question of Faith

There are a few men in my office who declare themselves “saved” Christians. They came to our party on Friday night, sitting quietly sipping their Fanta’s. However; one boy came up to me at the end of the evening and asked for a glass of red wine – these men do not drink… Sometime later in the evening he “declared” his love. Since then we have engaged in discussions about marriage, during which time he stated that it was time someone (meaning him) put a proper ring on my finger. Later this week we discussed how ‘relationships’ work in North America. I was asked if people in North American “play sex” before marriage (this man is 28), and I felt ridden with guilt that I have either corrupted this person or that he thinks I am going to suffer terribly in my afterlife. The latter thought was confirmed when, as I was walking down the main street of Butare last night, I heard my name being called. It was my friend who wanted to take me to his Zionist Evangelistic Church. We sat quietly in the church that overlooks a beautiful valley – a testament to the existence of something great – and listened to the choir rehearse. Eventually my friend leaned over to ask me THE question, “why are you not a Christian?” This has become a common theme of my time here and no matter how well try to I articulate my beliefs, they are rarely understood. I explained about my travels and experiences with different faiths, all of which allow my soul to choose a path that brings comfort, peace, and encouragment to be true to myself. Afterward my friend shook his head and sucked on his teeth – the typical response. The discussion continued about the purpose of faith and as I attempted to draw parallels between faith systems, it yet again became obvious that because I do not believe in the one and only GOD – I did not have true faith.

The reason I chose to journal about these, specifically this, interaction is because the conclusion of this repeating conversation always leaves me anxious. Very few of the Christians I have met here acknowledge the goodness that can come from other faiths (even other forms of Christianity – my friend stated last night that Catholics “lie”) nor allow themselves to question anything about the faith to which they prescribe. It terrifies me because it demonstrates just HOW the genocide could have happened. When you have a country/culture of people who are not taught/encouraged/permitted to think critically about ANYTHING they have been told or to accept the beliefs of others – propaganda can be a VERY powerful tool. I am not saying that they should not be faithful to their religion. However, that faith should come after one has qusetioned how/why they believe. Many of the people I have met here enter their faith blindly and the intolerance of other faiths is something that could have detrimental effects to a community. I do understand a country that has embraced their faith after suffering such trauma; however, it is like a cyclical process...the unquestioning belief in yet another set of values. Yes their beliefs might focus on 'goodness'- but the behaviour of following the word of someone without challenging or determining exactly WHY or HOW that code fits with your values results from the same unquestioning faith that lead to genocide.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Chasing the Mice

We finally had the housewarming party we had been promising our friends since moving a month ago. We were informed that we needed to have a party in order to chase the mice from the new house (apparently a joke here in Rwanda). After finally discovering where (and how) to buy beer, ordering food to be catered, and getting a dj we felt quite proud of our accomplishments as nothing here is a small feat. Despite the torrential rains, we had a full-house. It took no time for furniture to be moved and a dance floor created...Late into the night we moved onto the club where the dancing continued until the early hours of the morning. In the end there was about 50 people - we were amazed at how many people have come into our lives in such a short time.

It was a beautiful night of celebrating, laughing, eating, dancing, drinking, and just being. I've just attached some pictures of our friends - I assume it helps paint a picture of how we live and with whom we are sharing this experience.
The last ones at home before leaving for the club - Claudine, myself, Yvonne, and Caroline - both of whom have been very good to us.Myself and Steven (our neighbour and head of security at the University). Friends - Juniour and Felix in the background - both students.
Lambert (shares and office with Claudine), Media and Sam (both in my office)

Jean Pierre (medical student who invited us to work with the Former Prostitute Group) dancing with Melissa (fellow Canadian lecturing in the School of Journalism and a fantastic woman).

My dear friend Innocent, future PhD holder (currently doing a sandwich program at a school in Belgium - he is here in Rwanda fulfilling his teaching requirements). Innocent spent many years living in Canada (Ottawa specifically) when completing his Masters. He works on a computer in my office as he does not have one of his own - which has lead to long discussions...he has been invaluable in "filling me in" on local cultural values.

Jennifer and Melissa (both also Canadians teaching in the School of Journalism), Englebert (the chief of our village and the man who got us our house), Felix, Steven (a student working as an intern in my office), and Claudine (the dear woman who cleans our office and makes coffee).

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Murambi

I have been neglecting the blog for about a week now. Each time I tried to bring myself to write, the content seemed so trivial in comparison to my experience last week at Murambi - a genocide memorial where 45, 000 people were said to have been killed. However, I have also not been able to bring myself to write about Murambi as it was truly horrifying and deeply disturbed my soul.

I have struggled as to whether or not I would write about Murambi; however, having decided that this would be my last genocide memorial visit in Rwanda, I have chosen to write a personal account of the visit…mostly because I want to be able to remember my impressions and reflections many years from now. I will attempt to articulate my memories of the site in a way that brings dignity to the dead yet, reiterates the horror of what happened here – a difficult feat given the reality of genocide.

Murambi was a polytechnic school located in the town of Gikongoro. Claudine, Joel and I hired a driver to take us to the village as it is 28 km away from Butare. I felt awkward as we drove through the town, it being obvious to the local villagers who stared at the car of Muzungo’s, that we were going to gawk at their tragic history.

We were greeted by a man who bore the scar of genocide, not only in the bullet wound on his forehead, but in his eyes, his heart, his soul. He was one of four survivors at Murambi.

One of four survivors out of 45, 000.

After the President was killed in the plane accident, the radio told the local Tutsi to seek refuge at the polytechnic school – that they would be safe at the school. The school’s Rector was a moderate Hutu who had, for years, spoken out against ethnic cleansing in Rwanda. He was married to a Tutsi and had two young children who also sought refuge in the school’s walls. However, as the Rector provided protection for the Tutsi, he was also providing a service for the Hutu powers – collecting the Tutsi in one area so that the killing could be more efficient. After some time in the school, the soldiers came and continued their methodical killing within the walls of the school. The Rector’s wife and children were killed. The Rector was shortly thereafter whisked away to safety in the former Zaire by the French military for “protection”.

We were brought by our guide, to the rows of classrooms that overlook the breathtaking valleys of Gikongoro. He very deliberately opened the first door and I took a deep breath before entering, trying to mentally prepare myself. I couldn’t have…nothing could have prepared me.

Many of the bodies were exhumed shortly after the genocide and they now reside in the classrooms of Murambi. Most of the bodies are covered in limestone and lay quietly beside each other; row upon row, classroom upon classroom, as a clear reminder to the quote that appears at the top of my blog….”never again”.

These bodies are frozen in time, personalizing their final moments of genocide. The men, women, children, and babies – although silent –echo the horror of their final moments. Women lay in positions that suggest a dehumanizing death, fathers still clutch babies in their arms, hands were pulled up to the face for protection, skulls were crushed by machetes, limbs broken and missing, and jaws lay open as they express the final moments of torture. The smell of death hung in the air and handprints in blood and gunpowder stained the walls.

I cried. Not at the site. I couldn’t bring myself to shed a tear in the presence of our guide. What right did I have to express pain when he had suffered so much?  His watery eyes made it evading that he continued to suffer each time he unlocked one of those classroom doors for the foreigners to gaze upon his family, friends, and People.

Afterwards I cried deeply…unable to find any comfort. In the evening I came across a group of University students in prayer (incidentally they had been at the memorial that day for a field trip). As I walked past the group of ten students who bowed their heads and shared their grief, I wanted to join them. I wanted to experience the feelings of forgiveness and solace they received in their relationship with God.

I cannot imagine the pain this country has endured and the amount of forgiveness it has bestowed. I only hope that the display of the individual victims of genocide at Murambi can provide some type of comfort to those who survived and provide lessons to those who did not experience.

I have decided this will be my last memorial visitation as I realize I will never understand what happened and how this country has moved forward. I have grieved for those lost and now I need to celebrate with those who survived or returned to rebuild Rwanda.

Akagera

Last weekend we went to the east part of Rwanda to Akagara National Park. On Saturday we drove to a small town outside Akagera to stay for the night. We awoke at 4:00 am for a quick breakfast (the hotel manager had his poor staff awake at 3:30 am to serve us coffee and bread – the poor girl bundled in a winter jacket as we donned our t-shirts) and then made the hour drive into the National Park. Our guide was very knowledgeable on the park wildlife and had a very keen eye for spotting the various animals as we drove through. He had been sent by the park to train in Cameroon for two years on wildlife. We were able to get out of the jeep and trek for giraffes through the thorn bush – which was like trying to walk through barb-wire fence – our clothes were shred to pieces….we were much less agile than our experienced guide. It was surreal to take your eyes off the ground, as you watched for animal patties below your feet, to look up to see your childhood visions of Africa sprawled out in all directions.

We were able to see giraffe, water buffalo, impala, water buck, eagles, monkeys, baboons, and hippo’s. Apparently there are elephants in the park but we did not come across any. Upon return to school I was asked by my colleagues if I had seen the “crazy elephant”. Apparently one elephant had been shot during the genocide and since has not been ‘quite right’. It roams alone through the park and a few years ago when the University’s Faculty of Agriculture students went to the park, the elephant attacked the bus, making significant damage to the vehicle and terrifying the poor students.

This is definitely one of the many elements of Africa that will forever warm my heart.

Below a. hunting down some giraffe through the thorn bush, b. the tail end of some water buffalo, and c. the "Game Lodge" perched at the top of the hills overlooking the park. We chose not to stay here for the 65-100 American a night but stopped in for a drink after our "safari-ing".

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Kibuye

On Saturday, we decided to head North to Lake Kivu, staying in Kibuye. Our original intention had been to head down to Burundi for the weekend; however, bus availability left us having to find an alternative. This region is absolutely beautiful and reminded us of northern Ontario - without the noisy water vehicles. Unfortunately, due to a truck in the ditch that blocked traffic on Saturday, we did not get to Kibuye until Sunday morning. The hotel was incredible; very clean, cheap, rustic in a cottagy way, balconies right on the lake, and a decent restaurant.
Incidentally, on Friday, a colleague of mine disclosed his very tragic story of genocide survival; a story that illuminates the strength and kindness of the human spirit. I have not yet decided whether or not I am going to publish his story as it is quite personal (obviously). However, his story took place in Kibuye, which was the hardest hit region during the genocide as 9 out of 10 Tutsi were killed. It was interesting to be in Kibuye two days after hearing my friend's story. It certainly brought the genocide to life as we visited another church were 4, 000 people died.
Hotel Bethanie (where we stayed)
Enjoying pre-dinner drinks from my balcony
View from my balcony. The D R Congo in the distance.

Thursday, August 2, 2007

Imbabazi

Last weekend we went back to Kigali to spend some time with friends who were returning home this week. The time in Kigali was difficult as we spent time at two memorial sites and “Hotel Rwanda”.

On Saturday we drove for an hour into a village 30 km outside of Kigali called Nyamata. Within this village is a church where it is estimated 5,000 people who were seeking God’s shelter were killed in April, 1994. Upon arriving at the church, we were met by a gentle woman whose eyes told of the horror she has witnessed and sorrow she has experienced (genocide memorials generally employ survivors as guides). She spoke no English and very little French, but with the assistance of laminated guide cards in English, body language, and facial expressions she told a story that has deeply touched my soul. I forewarn that this entry contains descriptions that some might find difficult to read, but I don’t believe any part of this story should be censored.

Since being at Nyamata, I have come across some narrated accounts of individuals who had survived this particular assault. These accounts are entwined with my observations at the memorials.

In April 1994, within hours of the President’s plane being shot down, the Hutu powers launched a fastidious crusade against the Tutsi of Rwanda. Upon hearing propaganda calling for their demise, hundreds of thousands of Tutsi sought shelter in God’s homes all over the country hoping that the Hutu would not bring themselves to commit such violent crimes against humanity in the presence of the Lord. This was not the case. One boy’s testimony spoke about arriving at the church in Nyamata to find it packed wall to wall with people. The white priest in Nyamata made feeble attempts to feed the refugees, stating that it was futile to try and meet their physical needs as they would “be dead tomorrow”. The next day, the white priest drove away to catch his flight home; leaving the refugees behind to face their perpetrators, knowing that death was inevitable.

The first evidence at the church was damaged concrete under the steel grate door that had been bombed with grenades to force entry into the church. Immediately inside the church there was a small room where clothes belonging to the deceased were piled to the ceiling. The church had been built with many openings in the brickwork to allow for a breeze to cool the congregation during services. In personal accounts, people described how these openings gave way for bullets to enter and kill many inside the church walls. The tin roof of the church is riddled with bullet holes.

Once the civilian soldiers fought into the church, they moved swiftly through the Tutsi refugees with machetes. The guide showed us blood stains on the walls, making specific reference to places where babies had been intentially slammed against the walls. When at the Kigali Genocide Memorial a few weeks ago we walked through a room dedicated to the children who perished in the genocide. This gallery had photos of some children with a brief biography that included favourite food and drink, pastimes, last words, and how they died. There had been a few pictures which stated they had died by being slammed against a wall in a church. These images haunted me for days after leaving the Kigali memorial; however, flashed back to memory with vengeance when the blood stains were pointed out on the wall of the church in Nyamata. In a book I am now reading, one Hutu who was a member of the interahamwe explains how he taught his army to kill the children because thirty years ago, one small Tutsi child was missed during an attack. (as an aside – the ‘genocide’ started in 1959 when Rwanda gained independence from Belgium – this country has suffered many years of violence) He fled to Uganda and came back to lead the RPF against the Hutu’s, referring to the current President.
This picture was taken inside the church….I think of how many looked up at this Virgin Mary, praying to be salvaged from a brutal death. During the genocide, people would pay large sums of money to their killers to die quickly by bullet, instead of the slow tortuous death many victims suffered.

In the basement of the church is a glass case which houses many skulls. Our guide pointed out the cracked skulls where the machete had come down. Below the glass case is a coffin, occupied by a sole women (many coffins used to lay victims to rest contain more than one body due to the sheer number and dismemberment of bodies) who was pregnant when she suffered her humiliating and painful death.

Outside of the church are three more mass graves. Two had been constructed post-genocide to house bones found throughout the region. Both graves are approximately twelve feet deep and thirty six feet long with shelves that run floor to ceiling. One of the graves held coffins and the second, hundreds of skulls and bones lined perfectly on their wooden shelves in the damp coldness of the underground (picture below). The third grave was made during the assault at Nyamata. The victims had been told to dig a hole in the back of the church which would be used as a toilet. They were then told to get into the hole and were killed, left exposed in their own graves.

We went to a second church in the region which was also the site of thousands of Tutsi deaths. This church was much smaller and the evidence of a genocide was much more subtle (aside from the skulls). As a part of the memorial, they have left all of the belongings brought and worn by the refugees. I think that this was the most difficult part of the visit; seeing the books, toys and clothing of the children – packed with the hope that they would be safe in the church, to return to their lives once this ‘episode’ was over.


On Sunday we went to the infamous “Milles Collines Hotel” aka, Hotel Rwandaas a friend was staying there. The hotel was not as I had pictured; however, it was fascinating to sit in the grounds and imagine the hundreds of refugees who remained on the lawn for days on end, using the swimming pool as their source of water for cooking, washing, and drinking.

Joel has been going to the Gacaca ceremonies on Wednesday morning with local research interns working at the Center of Conflict Management. Yesterday morning there was a doctor ‘on trial’. A nurse gave testimony that the doctor had killed many people in the hospital by putting chemicals in their drips, removing their drips, and basically leaving people in dire need of medical attention to die. There is currently a case against a professor at the University whom I spoke about in a previous entry. Joel was told that because she is an “intellectual” they are taking their time with her case. Apparently those who are considered ‘lower class’ have very fast trials, being sentenced quickly without a lot of deliberation over their guilt or innocence. However, because intellectuals are considered intelligent, it is assumed that they can poke holes in the testimonies of witnesses and therefore, the elected judges take their time to ensure that they build a solid case. Gacaca is founded on the notion of restorative justice; however, as an oustider it seems void of due process or guarantee of a fair trial. Those accused are held at the mercy of the audience and if this individual is not well liked by the community, their fate can be pre-determined.

As an end note, Imbabazi means "have compasssion", a Rwandan name given to me by my Rwandan colleagues which is funny because Carissa is also a Rwandan name...for men it is spelled Kalisa (l's are pronounced as r's). However, I have seen a couple of women with the name spelled Carisa pronounced the same as mine.